by SL Figuhr
As the duchess crossed the courtyard, many people from both the town and the villages called out her name, begging and pleading for even a moment of her time.
“Celebrating with a group orgy instead of more bloodshed?”
“I have not ruled out the latter.” She nodded and smiled to those kept outside the box formed by guards, but did not stop her pace. “Present yourselves at my home in two hours and I shall hear your pleas,” was the only response Illyria gave to them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a few of her household standing in a group, observing everything. Because she turned her head slightly in their direction, she noticed Jenfry and Priester Joseph lurking not too far away. Once the noble party entered the palace corridors, the duchess dismissed the guards to perform the duties she had temporarily assigned them. She and Eron continued to the harem’s quarters.
“Men are not allowed in.” One of the eunuch guards spoke at their approach.
“Understood. He shall wait outside—if that is acceptable?” Illyria looked each man in the eyes, using her power. The man is pacing the corridor, waiting for me to emerge.
They bowed in reply, opening the doors, and she beckoned him in. Eron made haste, barely making it inside before the guards shut the heavy wooden doors behind them. An antechamber held four more guards, whom they disabled and left unconscious before passing into the hallway beyond. The long corridor was lined with many curtained openings. Farther down could be heard the chatter of female voices and children.
Eron took the left side, the duchess the right. Moving swiftly and silently, they yanked the fabric down. Most of the rooms were empty as they made their way down the hall. Only a few were occupied, mostly with sleeping younger children whom they left to their dreams.
The two burst into the central living chamber, evoking a number of screams.
“Silence!” the duchess’s power roiled throughout the room. One by one the noise abruptly cut off.
The plaster walls were painted to resemble lush gardens. Wooden lattice work covered fenestrae openings framed by heavy green wool drapery. Braziers dotted the room, to help provide heat and light along with two fireplaces, around which were groupings of chairs, couches, and large pillows. The far right corner held a large loom, and across sat a group of women whom had been playing stringed or wind instruments. Most of the women, or youngsters, looked toward the intruders with wide, frightened eyes, except for a few who knew themselves to be held in higher esteem by the king.
“If you haven’t heard by now, the king has suffered a seizure. Whether he will awaken and recover, or not, is unknown.”
“He is not allowed inside. When the king learns of—” spoke a dusky beauty.
“I said silence.” Her Grace cut the woman’s words off. “The kingdom can no longer support the burden of such a large harem. Therefore, most of you will be leaving.”
“You can’t!”
“You bitch!”
A chorus of protests broke out only to be unnaturally silenced, many eyes now wide in fright at the unseen and unknown power which prevented them from talking.
“Much better,” Illyria purred as she stood surveying them. “As I was saying, your services are no longer required. Despite the rumors, I am not insensitive to the harsh fate which will await many of you at being thrust from your home. Those with children, gather them to you now and stand to the left of the room. Those without, to the right, and those who are pregnant and haven’t birthed, in the center.”
She clapped her hands twice to get them to move, releasing her hold over the women. A scramble ensued, and after a few minutes, the women and children stood as told. Eron walked back to stand by the duchess, after helping some of the more recalcitrant choose a side.
“I have a list of jobs in and around the town and its environs which need filled. We will start with those better suited for you who don’t have children. If you want the position, raise your hand.” Illyria turned her head and nodded to Eron.
He, in the meantime, had taken a tightly wound scroll out of a case tied to his belt, along with quills and ink pot. The immortal swept a small table clear of its fripperies and used it for a writing surface. Eron called out the first job and what it entailed.
“Don’t any of you bitches dare speak up.” The angry command came from a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She stepped in front of everyone, fists clenched at her sides. “You do, and I will see His Majesty hang you as traitors.” She leaned forward and spit on the carpet before the duchess. “That is what I think of you, and your attempts to usurp our king.”
A few of the women gasped, while a slow murmur of agreement started to ripple about the room. Illyria appeared before the dissenter, a quick glimpse of silver flashed, then she was back to standing calmly in the same spot she had been. The rising noise abruptly ended as the woman crumpled to the floor. A dark spot of blood appeared on the front of her dress, which slowly grew and ran down the side of the body to make a growing puddle.
“Now then, who wants the offered job?” the duchess continued, not a shred of remorse on her features, her bloody sword held in her right hand, tip resting and dripping blood onto the rug.
It took longer than the hour’s time she had allotted for the job, as many of the women had to be constantly prodded to pack up their possessions. Even her torching of clothes, and confiscating jewels, didn’t help much. The women knew their lives of ease and luxury were over.
“I won’t!” A beauty stomped her foot as reality impressed itself fully upon her. “We shouldn’t have to work! Not after all we have endured, being ripped from our families and homelands, forced to service a selfish king. I won’t become less than a peasant. I won’t!”
She stared defiantly at her fellow harem women, using her words to try and rouse them to rebellion.
The advisor’s voice silenced the growing babble of dissent. “Very well; you do not wish to work, nor be slaves, then I release you from your burdens.”
The protesting women eyed her and each other. The original starter of the fracas smirked, and looked smugly at her fellow supporters. The rest of the women had paused, and they stood uneasily around the edges of the common room. The duchess gave a single nod to Eron, and the two of them moved forward. It took mere moments for all the bodies of the rebels to fall down, blood flowing to soak the rugs.
“Does anyone else care to be relieved of their burdens?” the advisor asked, a cold honey fire glow to her eyes.
A long moment of silence ensued, then the survivors began to pack what personal items remained to them with no more voiced complaints.
The eunuch guards had long since recovered, and been cowed by Her Grace when they tried to protest. After seeing her kill several of the more enthusiastic guards who attacked her, the others happily decided it was far better to help. Eron spent his time briefly speaking with, and separating out, those slaves he felt couldn’t be trusted to properly care for and look after the royal bastards. The eldest child was six years old, yet the sight of his mother leaving him behind brought on shrill cries.
His tears and screams caused the other children and infants to follow suit. Illyria and Eron had never been more relieved to leave the noise behind them. The eunuchs stayed to guard the wing, which had now been repurposed as an orphan’s home.
The advisor and Eron herded the remaining women outside, many sullen and resentful. Large wagons awaited them, along with half the royal guard. With their task done, the eunuchs trudged back inside the harem wing. A pile of bodies needed to be burned, and the rooms cleaned.
Baen, a large, ruddy-cheeked man, boomed out instructions. “Right then, those of you heading outside of town will go in these two carts.” He pointed to his left. “Those of you staying in town, go in that one,” he again pointed, but this time to his right.
His men helped the travelers up; most sank down on the layer of straw covering the rough boards. They clutched bundles, sobbing or numb of all emotion.
“’Tis a bo
ld move you make, Your Grace,” Baen rumbled to her, his version of a whisper. “When His Majesty finds out . . .”
“He will no doubt have fun choosing new women to service his needs.”
The man scratched beneath the knitted, wool cap he wore. “Eh, not to be presumptuous, but, uh . . .” He searched for how to make his question less offensive. “You wouldn’t by any chance be reviewing the guards, would ye?”
“Is there a need for me to do so?”
“Mmmm, ye might wanna. Not to go behind me commander’s back ‘n all, but there are some who aren’t happy the old advisor’s gone. They keep their opinions mainly to themselves or others of like thought, and away from Mathias’s ears, but I wouldn’t trust it to last long.”
“Thank you, Baen. I will take your suggestion into consideration.”
He bowed, seeing the carts were loaded and ready. “Most of ‘em are part of the night watch, Your Grace.” He turned smartly and called out to the drivers, “Get ‘em moving! Night’ll be falling soon.” He accepted the lists of where the women were to be delivered before walking over to mount his horse.
As the cavalcade slowly rolled out the side courtyard, a black and silver coach was revealed to be waiting. Two liveried footmen jumped off the back rumble seat, opening the door and extending the steps.
“Come along, then.” The duchess gestured to the small group which hadn’t boarded either wagon.
The three women and four children followed obediently. They handed over their bundles, which a footman secured to the top of the coach while the other handed them inside. Domiano rode up, leading Gray Ghost and Striker.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The elegant turnout stopped at an intersection in the poor part of town.
“Your Grace, it's too narrow for me to risk taking the coach down,” Harbo called out.
“Remain here; I’ll send Eron back for the occupants in a moment.” She slipped off her mount.
The immortal followed, handing the reins of Striker over to Domiano.
The coachman inclined his head, trying to huddle farther inside his cloak as the duchess and the man with her walked down the side street.
Nighttime was fast falling, all the crofts were shut tight against the cold. Scents of burning wood or peat, along with food, dimly masked the strong odor of manure, animals, and close living quarters. As they approached a croft halfway down, Eron broke away, swiftly moving along a narrow footpath which would lead him behind the row of cottages. He snuck through the dirt yard of Priester Joseph’s place, hearing the sleepy cluck of chickens. Eron placed his back against the outside wall near the kitchen door and waited.
* * *
Illyria pounded on the cottage door with enough force to make it rattle in its frame. She could hear stirrings inside, and grumbling from Joseph. She repeated her summons, and finally the door swung inward. Thomas’s greeting, along with his smile of welcome, abruptly cut off at sight of the woman.
“A-advisor,” he stuttered in shock.
The duchess pushed her way inside, causing the brother to stumble backward and lose his grip on the door. She let it slam shut behind her. From the kitchen came the priest’s crotchety voice.
“Who calls at this hour?”
An ice-cold finger pressed against Brother Thomas’s lips before he could sound a warning.
“Choose your words carefully,” she whispered to him before removing her finger.
“’Tis the advisor,” the man blurted out.
Joseph hurtled into the room. “How dare you befoul my temple with your evil presence!” Any further words the duchess expeditiously cut off by grabbing the priest by the throat and slamming him against the partition.
“The kingdom has no need for the hate and bigotry you spew. Brother Thomas, you may gather your things and leave, or stay and share the priest’s fate.” She turned her head away from the struggling man, gazing at the acolyte.
The young man looked between Joseph, whose face was rapidly turning purple while he futilely clawed at the hand choking him, to the golden honey fire of Her Grace’s eyes.
“You can’t. The king—”
“—supports my decisions. Life or death, Thomas, which shall you choose?”
The oppressive air weighed heavy on the man. His eyes rapidly shifted from Joseph to the woman. “You can’t; you just can’t,” he repeated. “It’s wrong. You . . . you’re no better than Nicky.”
In an unseen movement, Priester Joseph lay dead on the dirt floor, his head and neck at an odd angle. A man appeared in the doorway between front and back rooms. He barely glanced at the corpse. One hand rested on his sword pommel. His dark eyes bored into the trembling figure before the duchess.
Will she let me leave? Will he? Where would I go? The people must know of the murders committed here.
Thomas swallowed, hands smoothing down his brown robe, fiddling with the rope tied around his waist. “I-I have no other home.”
The duchess’s companion suddenly moved, causing the brother to flinch backward in alarm. The man ignored the movement, opening the front door and letting it close behind him as he exited. Her Grace remained silent, regarding the trembling form before her. The two remained such. After a bit, the front door opened, bringing a blast of icy wind and a small crowd.
“Ladies,” Her Grace greeted the newcomers without taking her eyes off the man before her. “Sleeping rooms are upstairs, access is through the kitchen. There is a hen coop out back, a well, and a small plot of land to grow food when spring returns.”
A few low voiced murmurs of, “Yes, Your Grace; thank you,” came from the women as they carried small children past and found the curtained doorway.
Two footmen followed a short while behind with the new residents’ meager belongings, setting them down in a pile by the middle of the front wall before leaving.
“What? You can’t. Who?”
“Herbalists. I doubt they will care to share their new home with a man just yet. They seem to have had enough of that with the king.”
“Wha-what do you mean? The king? Are you suggesting they are-are whores?” Brother Thomas’s incredulousness caused his voice to squeak at the end.
“They are former harem women, forced to submit themselves to His Majesty’s appetites or face death or worse. What shall your decision be, Thomas?”
“But they are whores! Their very presence defiles this place. I have no other home.” His plaintive wail trailed off as his eyes flicked toward the body discarded on the floor.
“You bore me, a state I do not care for.” Illyria’s voice held dark warnings.
“What did you wish to become before Priester Joseph took you in?” The unexpected question came from the dark-eyed man.
Thomas’s eyes swung toward the man, confusion creasing his features. “I don’t understand.”
“Did you throw your brains out along with your ability to reason once you became a religious man?” The insult made the young man blink. “What other job did you want for yourself?”
“I . . . oh . . .” He paused to think, hands continuing their circuit of smoothing and fiddling with his robes. “I wanted to help others.”
“Generally speaking, it works better if you try feeding, clothing, and housing the less fortunate instead of spouting platitudes about some nebulous god,” Eron drily replied.
Confusion briefly creased Thomas’s forehead. “But their souls . . .” He jumped in fright as the duchess appeared before him, her shadow looming large over him.
“You care for the wrong parts of them. I am tired of your mewling.”
Behind her, Eron silently cursed and spoke. “Either stay and help the women, without your preaching unless they specifically ask for it, or die and experience the afterlife.”
The brother’s breaths came short and fast, while a strange buzzing started inside his head, and the edges of his vision began to darken. “I-I . . .” He couldn't take his eyes off the honey-golden fire consuming what remained of his sight.
>
“I will stay and be a servant to those-those . . . women,” Thomas finally gasped out, clutching at his chest through the robe as he fell back against the flimsy partition.
The duchess’s cold gaze raked him, and he shuddered in fear at her departing words: “Do not think to mouth empty promises and get away with them. Understand I shall always know what you think, whether you will it or not.”
The man with her grabbed the corpse by its legs and dragged the body outside. He left it sitting against the wall as a warning, before catching up to Illyria, her long coat train smoothing out the snow behind her.
“Harbo, you may take the others back with you, and stable the horses. I shall not need the coach for the rest of my rounds.” Illyria commanded while mounting Gray Ghost.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The man touched the brim of his tall hat and clucked to the horses while popping the whip near their heads to get the conveyance moving.
The iron-rimmed wheels squeaked over the packed snow, accompanied by the thudding of hooves as the outriders and guards moved off.
“Bloodbath time?” Eron’s breath steamed in the air as he nudged his mount to follow hers.
“I have fleas to squash,” she replied.
* * *
Light and sound from the Bloody Knuckles greeted the riders on an otherwise dark street. Illyria noted the human rats who scuttled away from the half-burnt building, believing themselves to be invisible in the shadows. She was not here for them, not tonight, and they never realized the reprieve they were granted. Boldly, she rode her horse forward, past the charred posts which denoted the front of the building. Slowly, all noise and activity ceased as she used her mount to push people out of her way. Once in the relative center of the half-burned tavern, she called out:
“Jenfry Bartender! I command you to heed me now.” The invisible compulsion flowed past patrons and into the kitchen, where the owner fumed.
Jenfry tried to resist the strange pull, but her efforts made it stronger. “Damn that whore to the Death Lands,” she muttered. “You lot, keep working.” The woman stomped out to the eerily quiet bar area. Her patrons, the worst kind of men and women, sent silent signals to each other. Why they hadn’t pulled that damn advisor and the man with her off their horses and killed them, she didn’t know.