by Tony Roberts
Evas put his head in his hands and wailed. “I’ll be hung for this. Prelek! You’ve betrayed me!”
Prelek swallowed. “We needed to balance the budget…”
“Yes by cutting overheads, you said.” Vosgaris moved round the desk, looked at the window that overlooked the square, and opened it. He turned round and faced Prelek. “Now you have a choice. Either your written resignation on this desk now, or I cut overheads by ejecting you out of this window. Your choice.”
“This man has no jurisdiction in civil matters, you heard him say so from the emperor’s mouth himself! He cannot interfere in your practices if it does not involve military matters!”
“But it does, when you cut troop numbers.” Vosgaris took hold of Prelek by the front of his jacket and bunched it in his fist. “You thieving scum. I utterly detest bloodsuckers like you, hangers-on who ingratiate themselves into positions of authority or power and then proceed to rob the empire for their own personal gain. You have endangered the security of this city by your gross act of embezzlement.” He dragged the squirming man over to the window.
Evas stood up, horror on his face. “Commander – you cannot!”
“Can’t I?” Vosgaris countered. His frustration and anger boiled over. With one convulsive heave he sent a shrieking Prelek out, the man’s cry fading as he plunged to the ground.
Evas was halfway towards the window and Vosgaris put a hand on his chest. “Sit down.”
Demtro ambled over to the window and looked out. People had come running towards the railings that separated the governor’s residence from the square. Guards converged on the impact point. “Well, Commander,” the merchant said drawing in a deep breath, “congratulations. You managed to land him neatly in the biggest bush in the grounds. Prelek looks a little dazed but none the worse for his ordeal. How did you know that was down there?”
“I didn’t,” Vosgaris said. He glared at an intimidated Evas. “Now, correct the abuses and we shall leave it at that. Otherwise, next time I’ll change the angle and miss the bush. Your choice of advisors leaves plenty to be desired. Get that man arrested and strip him of all his ill-found wealth and put it into the provincial treasury – and do not even think about taking any for yourself!”
Evas nodded heavily. Demtro patted the slumped man on the shoulder in a fatherly way, tutting loudly, then moved towards the door. Vosgaris looked round as the door opened and two men came struggling in with his equipment. “Sir, where shall we put these?”
“Governor?” Vosgaris asked mildly. “My quarters?”
“Ah – Prelek’s quarters,” Evas said, suddenly eager to ingratiate himself to the new warlord. “He won’t be needing them anymore. He’s to be put under arrest. If you approve of them, of course, Commander.”
Vosgaris slapped his thigh with his gauntlets. “Very well, take them to former advisor Prelek’s quarters.”
The two men struggled off and Vosgaris followed. “I’ll take my leave of you for the moment, but Governor, I shall be back. Demtro, a pleasure to meet you.”
Demtro bowed once, smiling. Evas waited until the door closed and then threw his head onto the desk top. Demtro chuckled. “Oh are you going to jump to his wishes. The easy life is over, Governor. Clearly the Koros want to keep a closer eye on you from now on. You’d best behave yourself.”
Evas felt as if he had just escaped the noose.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Metila arrived in Zofela by equine, escorted by two of Thetos’ personal guards. They had made good time, but by then news of the emperor’s incapacitation had been sent to all parts and consternation had gripped the empire. Was it a bad sign? Were the gods displeased with the empire? The other Houses began to negotiate with one another forming alliances and pacts, ready to make their bid for the throne if and when the need arose.
Isbel was aware of this, of course. She had written to Vosgaris and Demtro separately, mostly to get their appraisal of the situation in Bathenia and Niake, and to cross-check each of their stories. It never hurt to ensure her contacts and trusted ones spoke the truth to her, for if they suddenly stopped that, then there was something wrong. The intrigue from the other Houses was a more serious matter, but it would take time for any proper challenge to arise, given the numbers needed to form a power bloc. They would have to get used to one another and trust each other, not something guaranteed.
Astiras was still incoherent; his waking time was spent raging at his imprisonment, vowing vile retribution on all, especially Isbel. She ignored him. Clearly he was either out of his mind or under the influence of whatever he had taken. Either way, he would not regain the throne if the situation continued.
Metila came up the stairs, followed closely by her two guards. Isbel came to meet her outside the emperor’s room. They met, they eyes locked together. An initial icy glare from Isbel was replaced by one of entreaty. “Metila; if you can save my husband, then I shall forgive what you have done. I ask you, please, do what you can.”
The Bragalese woman bowed. “I need to see Landwaster. I must know what did it.”
Isbel turned to the two guards. “You are from Governor Olskan?”
The men bowed.
“Then have refreshment – the canteen is on the ground floor. Follow this man,” she waved to one of her own guards who had come with her. To the other she gestured to Metila. “Fetch the apothecary – bring the vinefruit the emperor had at the meal.”
She then opened the door. “Allow only the apothecary in,” she ordered the two guards standing by the door. Metila followed her in and looked at the sleeping form of the emperor tied to his bed. The lighting was low, subdued, reflecting the mood in the castle. The witch knelt and ran her hands over him. “You wish stay?”
“I must – whatever you do, I have to witness.”
Metila stood. She placed her small bag that she had brought with her on a small table. “He is not good. Powerful spell. Mind prisoner. I will fight it.”
“Can you save him, Metila?”
The Bragalese woman went up to Isbel. “I know when I see drink. I know then.”
The apothecary came in, hesitantly. He handed over the flask and was dismissed on Metila’s brusque orders. Isbel nodded and the door closed once again. Metila looked at the flask, then sniffed it. She tipped it and allowed two drops to coat her fingers, then she rubbed them together and looked at it in the flickering light of the candles. “Hmm.”
“Poison?”
Metila shook her head. “Potion. Strong Bragalese. Witch make. You have Okloka here in castle. I find. I know when I see.”
“What – another witch here?”
Metila nodded absently. Her curiosity was aroused; a rival Okloka to defeat. This was good. Long time since she had combatted a rival. She smiled. This was going to be interesting. She threw off her brief tunic, revealing her naked form apart from a brief loin piece. Isbel gasped in surprise. Metila turned her head over her shoulder. “I work like this. I no need clothing – it gets in way.”
She then began assembling some of the contents of her bag, discarding some items and picking others, sniffing each, tasting one or two others. Finally she nodded to herself. “We have water, yes?”
Isbel opened the door a crack and called for a large glass of water, which arrived and Isbel shut the door quickly and passed it to Metila. The witch brought a candle over and planted it firmly on the tabletop. “I make potion. Landwaster will wake and be angry. I use potion on him. I need make him think it you on him.”
“What? How?”
“Mind tricked by potion. I need taste of you, Lady Landwaster.”
“In what way?” Isbel was faintly alarmed.
“I show in moment. First, potion for Landwaster.” She mixed a few leaves and a small, crumbling piece of tree bark into a small bowl and added a little water, then heated it over the candle. After testing it twice with her forefinger and rejecting it, the third time she was satisfied. She came over to Isbel. “Please know this needed to save
Landwaster. You do, yes?”
“If it means saving Astiras, yes…but...”
She got no further. Metila’s lips were upon hers, and shockingly, her tongue darted into her mouth, seeking hers and entwining. Isbel fought for a moment, then relaxed, trying to keep her head together. Metila’s kiss was deep, passionate and overwhelmingly powerful, something Isbel had not expected.
Then as sudden as it had begun, it was gone, and Isbel had a brief pang of regret, then thrust it out of her mind, trying to ignore the tingling of her body. The witch was allowing the mixture to drop into her mouth, pouring it in from above, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. She did not swallow the mixture.
Then she climbed onto Astiras, and clamped her mouth onto his, clearly transferring the potion. Astiras mumbled in his sedated sleep, and thrashed about. Metila forced the potion into him, then continued to kiss him, her tongue seeking out every part of his mouth.
Isbel slowly approached the scene, her eyes wide. Metila was writhing in a very sensual manner, and her husband was beginning to struggle.
Astiras was walking in a fog – he could see little save the billowing clouds. Then, before him, a vague shape began to form out of the mist. “Who are you?” he seemed to say, although he was not aware that he had actually spoken the words.
The shape seemed to coalesce in front of him, into the form of Isbel, but somehow sensual and lithe. She pulled him towards her and locked herself to him, and he could not move. Her mouth was fastened to his, kissing him in one long loving sensual embrace. His mind whirled. Isbel? Isbel…….
The moment passed. He slipped once more into darkness.
Metila pulled away and stood up, breathing heavily. “He no longer angry with you. Now I fight that,” she pointed at the flask.
“Wait – what…?”
Metila smiled and faced the empress. “I know he angry with you. Now he not. Spell to make him love you again. Now, big magic.”
Isbel put her hand to her head. “You mean, all that was just to make us together again?”
Metila nodded, busying herself with more leaves. “I know trouble between you and Landwaster, some because of me. So I fix. Now…. You want stay?”
Isbel nodded, her mind whirling. There was a chair and the empress took it and sat down, looking at the concentrating Metila closely. “What is wrong with Astiras?”
“Strong potion, make him….tchah!” she clucked her tongue in irritation. “I know not Kastanian word… think everyone hate him.”
“Paranoid?”
“Yes, paranoid. Will destroy mind eventually.”
“So that’s what it was… no wonder he was mad as he was.” Isbel shook her head. This other witch would have to be found.
“Now, I use potion – very strong, Landwaster will be angry. Do not speak; do not move. You will be scared. I will shout. I will speak Bragalese. You not understand. Yes?”
Isbel’s heart began to pound. “Very well – go ahead.” She watched as Metila drank a new potion, grimaced, then poured more into the same cup and forced it into Astiras, holding his nose so he had to drink. Then, incredibly, Metila was cutting the ropes holding the emperor with a knife that she had somehow got hold of.
Metila was then astride the unbound emperor. She took one last look at Isbel, smiled, and her eyes closed and her head tilted back, opening her mouth in a long, almost orgasmic groan. The empress sat with her eyes wide in disbelief.
Metila’s consciousness whirled. The roaring in her ears swirled round and round, and she planted both hands on Astiras’ chest. She swayed, her head making almost complete circles, and she began muttering in her native tongue. “Come show yourself, coward,” she said. “You hide, yet you are there – I can feel you. Are you afraid of one like me? Reveal yourself to me.”
What she could feel was the bed and Astiras. There was nothing else. The world around it was a nebulous, shifting vague set of shadows. A hissing sound came to her and she looked to one side. Rising up was a dark shape, in the form of a woman, but with no definite features. “Begone, this is my domain.”
Metila bared her teeth, long and jagged. “I am Okloka. I challenge you.”
The other snarled, revealing similar teeth. “So, you risk all? So be it, you know the penalty.” The other rolled onto Astiras, gripping his head. “This one is mine. I am his bride, he will obey me.”
“No – you are not his. He is already mine. I have joined with him. I have issue.”
The other screamed and lunged, talons growing from fingers into hooks. They tore at Metila’s face, who slashed with talons of her own, and sank her teeth into the neck of her opponent. Locked, both writhed atop Astiras who was lying there, his eyes wide open in horror. Something was burning through his body and he couldn’t fight it. There was something holding him down and he felt an overwhelming sense of suffocation.
Metila took a full blow to the upper torso, talons digging deep channels into her flesh, rending it apart. The Bragalese witch screamed in pain, then struck back, her own hooked and black nails ripping into the throat of the other witch. Her opponent jerked back, eyes wide and bulging, and black blood fountained out, coating Metila.
Metila fell off Astiras, striking the floor and Isbel gasped, half-rising. Metila saw the movement and shook her head, getting to her feet again. Astiras was rolling onto his side, suddenly free of his restriction. He looked about himself, but the room was spinning. His head hurt and threatened to explode. “What in the name of Kastan is happening?”
The other witch rose up, dripping black ichor, and lunged for the emperor, pulling him back. Metila sent out a chilling cry and sprang back onto the bed like a powerful feline, slapping the other aside with a full swing of her right hand, pulling the emperor up. Astiras was being tugged this way and that and his head swam.
Metila sensed the emperor was falling back, so switched targets. Gathering herself with one last effort, she leaped for the other witch, her razor-like teeth finding and biting deep into her enemy’s throat. Metila was raked mercilessly but she refused to budge, forcing her jaws to close, clamping on the cartilage in her opponent’s throat. Metila felt the body tremble and with a shriek, it evaporated. She fell forward onto the bed, her legs entangled with Astiras.
“What is going on?” Astiras demanded in a whisper. His tongue was swollen, his body ached, his head felt like he’d been on the mother of all drinking sprees. He could not see properly, yet there were female forms about.
Isbel wanted to get up, but waited until Metila crawled backward off the bed and fell to her knees. “He is yours, Lady Landwaster,” she gasped.
Isbel was at Astiras’ side in an instant. “Astiras – Astiras!”
His eyes swung and met hers. “Isbel? What’s going on?”
She held him close and his arms gently squeezed her in reflex. “It’s alright, my love,” she said, fighting back tears of relief. “You’re safe.”
“I feel terrible. I’m so tired, I need to sleep.” He mumbled something more but she couldn’t work out what it was and then he was asleep.
Isbel looked at him for a moment, then turned to look at Metila. She put her hand to her mouth. Metila was bleeding all down her chest. “Oh by the gods! Metila!”
“You have Landwaster back,” the witch said softly, a tired smile on her lips.
“Metila! Oh no…we must stop this!”
The blood was profuse, and it was clear she would bleed to death unless it was stopped. Isbel called for help, and the two guards came in. They stared in horror. “Ma’am?”
“Get the apothecary now! Water, cloth, healing leaves.”
Healing leaves were well used around Kastania. They were big leaves that would be clamped to wounds and left to stop bleeding. This, though, was something different. Oh let the woman live! She cradled the hideously injured witch in her arms. “Help me, Metila, what can I do?”
“Potion – two parts blood blade, one part sting plant, five parts water. Put on wounds….” Her eye
s slowly closed and her head rested against Isbel.
The apothecary came in. He knelt by the wounded woman. “We must stop the bleeding now, ma’am. Let me.”
As Isbel stood, she repeated Metila’s last words. The apothecary frowned. “Unusual concoction. What does that do?”
“I don’t know but she told me to apply it to her wounds. Do it.”
“But ma’am….”
“I order it, now!”
The apothecary shrugged and nodded, putting the bleeding woman down. He looked at the leaves on the table. “We have them here. She must have expected something like this…how did she get injured? It looks like a wild beast has savaged her.”
“Worry about that later, just save her life now.” Isbel held Metila’s hand. “Stay with me, Metila.” There was no answer from the bleeding woman but her hand tightened momentarily. “Hold my hand, think about that. Hold on.” Another gentle squeeze.
The plants were mixed hurriedly and water added. The apothecary turned in relief as the door opened and a servant came in with a pile of cloths and a bag full of the castle’s supply of healing leaves. More water came in behind with a second servant carrying a metal pail.
“Good, good,” the healer said almost to himself. He washed one cloth in the water and wiped the worst of the blood away, then placed a second cloth over the deep, straight scored wounds. He hissed as it came away red. The leaves were smeared with the mixture and placed over the wounds and pressed.
Metila cried out and her eyes opened. They found Isbel and she pulled the empress closer to her. “Hold leaves to me.” Isbel frowned but did so, pushing the leaves against her body. “Keep there….” the Bragalese woman croaked.
The apothecary did likewise with the ones Isbel couldn’t press, and Metila sighed and lay back, relaxing. Isbel became aware of a heat building up underneath the leaves, and the expression of the apothecary told her he was feeling the same. They looked at one another. Nothing was said but wonder filled both of them.