by Damien Black
The women who had fallen victims to the Wadwos were an awful sight. They had been freed, but looking on their sooty faces, streaked with tears and blood, he knew they would never be truly free again.
And that was just the ones who had not been violated. Those had more pressing problems than their future wellbeing.
‘I will not preside over the slaughter of innocent women,’ said Sir Torgun hotly. ‘No matter how foully they have been used.’ A dangerous light was in the young knight’s eyes as he faced the others. Adelko didn’t need his sixth sense to tell him more violence could be pending if matters did not go well.
‘There’s no choice, sir knight,’ said Madogan, his arm in a sling. His face looked pale and drawn and sorrow clouded his eyes. ‘They wilna survive childbirth if we leave ‘em as is. Least we can do now is give ‘em a clean death.’
A chorus of throats echoed that sentiment, the woodfolk who weren’t busy seeing to the dead.
‘We cannot and will not put blameless women to the sword!’ cried Torgun. ‘It would be an act of gross dishonour!’
‘Aye, and an act o’ mercy too,’ put in Madogan. ‘We care not fer knightly honour – we’ll do it, save ye gettin’ yer lily white noble hands dirty.’ He fixed the knight with a pointed stare.
‘Show respect to a nobleman!’ snarled Sir Aronn. ‘Especially one who’s just saved your lives.’
Madogan met the angry knight’s stare, but said nothing.
‘There is another way.’
All eyes turned to the noblewoman they had just rescued. She was sat apart from the others, her lady-in-waiting’s head cradled in her lap.
‘We’re all ears, Lady Dulsinor,’ said Horskram courteously. Brief introductions had been made.
‘My things were rescued by Anupe,’ she said. ‘Among my valuables is a pouch of medicine.’
‘Beggin’ yer lordly pardon,’ said Madogan. ‘But what medicines can help these poor wenches?’
‘I have Abaddon’s Root,’ replied the noblewoman. ‘When distilled, it can be used to make a concoction that induces abortion.’
Now it was Horskram’s turn to get angry. ‘Use of such herbs spurns the Almighty’s gift of life,’ he said sternly.
‘Then why did He create them in the first place?’ replied Adhelina, meeting his gaze with her cool green eyes. Though her travelling clothes were torn and her face was scratched, she still looked every inch the noblewoman. Adelko could see she was very beautiful, but truth to tell after all these years he still didn’t see what all the fuss was about where women were concerned.
Others in his party felt very differently. He could sense a surge of passion course through Sir Torgun as he stared at her. Likewise Sir Braxus was gazing at her with no uncommon interest.
‘I don’t think Reus would mind if we… put such abominations out of their misery,’ Adelko found himself saying. ‘After all, He didn’t create the Wadwos did he?’
Or did He, indirectly? he wondered just then. His conversation with the Earth Witch still lingered in his mind. But he gave no voice to that thought as Horskram rounded on him.
‘I’ll thank you to keep your peace, Adelko of Narvik,’ he snapped. ‘Just because you’ve proved yourself once again against yon air spirits doesn’t give you the right to twist the words of Scripture! Our Prophet himself said to kill life in the womb is an act of murder. Do you dare deny this?’
‘No,’ replied the novice, surprised at his firmness of tone. ‘I deny that the Prophet had inhuman monsters in mind when he said those words.’
Horskram held his gaze, then turned away with a disgusted gesture. He could feel their souls conflicting. It was just the opposite of the feeling he’d had on the rock when they had banished the Aethi together.
‘I’m no perfect,’ said Kyra, ‘but I say yon monk is right. We should give Her Ladyship the chance to save our wummen.’
‘Aye,’ said Madogan, hope returning to him. ‘If she can save their lives, who cares what happens to Wadwos in the womb?’
The woodfolk nodded their assent. No one in their group barring Horskram seemed to disagree.
‘Very well,’ said the adept darkly. ‘But let it be noted that I did not condone the use of such a baleful herb. It was one of Abaddon’s creations when he had a hand in making the world.’
‘That was before he fell into darkness,’ pointed out Adhelina. ‘And the Author of All Evil created many things that live upon the face of the earth – even goats! Do we spurn their milk for the same reason?’
Horskram shook his head and stalked off. Adelko stared after him, nonplussed. He had just watched as they threw burning pitch into the secret cellar, burning the infant Woses before they could grow to full size. What was so different about killing them in the womb? If anything Adhelina’s way seemed more humane – and it might save dozens of mortal lives too.
‘Your teacher seems not to like difficult students who have ideas of their own,’ said Anupe, tightening the straps on her pack next to him. The Harijan was in cheerful spirits. He had watched as Adhelina handed over several fistfuls of gold and silver jewellery, much of it studded with gems.
‘I see you got your pay then,’ said Adelko sullenly. He didn’t care for levity right now.
‘Yes, finally,’ replied the mercenary, ignoring his tone. ‘Anupe the Harijan gets her reward for all her hard work.’
‘I’d like to talk to you, about where you come from,’ said the novice, keen to change the subject. ‘I’ve read about the Harijans, but the books I looked at date from Ancient Thalamy and didn’t say much.’
‘That is because we keep ourselves as secret as we can,’ replied the warrior woman. ‘But I like a man who speaks up for women, as you did just now. So perhaps before I go, I will tell you some things about our people.’
‘Go?’
The Harijan shrugged. ‘My services are at an end. What the Lady Dulsinor does from now on is her business. Tomorrow I will journey east, to take ship for the Empire.’ She patted her money pouch, now stuffed with precious rings and other valuable trinkets. ‘I should be able to fetch enough coin for a horse and other things.’
Adelko sensed relations between employer and hireling had been a tad strained of late.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay?’ he asked. ‘I think we’re going to need fighting men… and women of course.’
Anupe chuckled. ‘Oh ho! I think I have had enough adventures in the Free Kingdoms for a lifetime! I thank you for your offer, Adelko of Narvik, but I want to get back to a country that is less strange than this one!’
Adelko was about to ask her what she meant by that when Kyra approached them. ‘We’ll set up camp here and make some food, will ya help me gather some firewood?’ she asked the Harijan. Adelko was shocked when his sixth sense registered the same kind of feelings he had detected in Torgun and Braxus whenever they looked at Adhelina.
Anupe favoured Kyra with a vulpine grin. ‘For you, anything!’ she beamed. Kyra smiled back shyly and the two of them strode off together. Adelko suddenly realised he was blushing. If his sixth sense was right, he knew what his mentor would have to say about that blossoming friendship.
The sun had long set behind the looming mountains when they sat down to supper. Another funeral pyre had been built and more Last Rites had been said. The Woses had been burned too, if only to get rid of the stink of them. Despite their losses the woodfolk were in high spirits – a great victory had been won and Madogan was confident of using it to increase recruits and flush the remaining Woses out of the Argael for good.
Of all this Sir Torgun was but peripherally aware. As he sat by the cooking fire watching the meat roast and running his whetstone up and down his blade – badly blunted after striking through the chains that had bound the women captives – he found his eyes flicking towards Lady Adhelina of Dulsinor time and again. She looked a little less sad and drawn now that her lady-in-waiting had recovered, though that poor damsel could barely utter a word and was obviously still
overcome by all the horrors she had lived through.
Sir Torgun felt sure that he had never seen anyone so ravishingly beautiful in all his life. And the way she had spoken to Horskram, so proud and defiant and caring… Beautiful on the outside and inside, she could have walked straight out of a Pangonian romance: surely not even the age of King Vasirius had produced such a perfect maiden!
He longed to speak with her, but knew that now probably wasn’t the right time – she was busy tending her friend, and had just finished administering to the poor women whose lives she had saved. Best to leave her to recuperate and make an introduction later, she’d earned some rest.
As he gazed upon her strawberry blonde tresses that seemed to mirror the firelight, Sir Torgun realised that Princess Hjala no longer mattered to him as she once had. That revelation shocked him. Almost.
Sir Braxus idly plucked his lyre and stole glances at the Vorstlending stunner that the archangel Ushira had happily put in his way. The woodlanders had broken out some ale, and spirits were rising. It wasn’t nearly as tasty as Thraxian mead, but it warmed his belly just the same. Passing the skin to Vaskrian he glanced over at the Lady Markward and wondered how he could woo her. Now obviously wasn’t the time to strike: she’d been through too much and his suit would quickly turn cold if ill-timed.
But woo her he would, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. For here was a damsel to drive out thought of all others. Taking in her supple curves, which even her baggy riding clothes barely hid, Sir Braxus inhaled sharply. Every wench he’d ever bedded, high-born and low, receded into the back of his mind; once-treasured memories now assuming the run of ordinary recollections.
It would be a wooing of wooings, one he’d write a song about: a song that would be sung in halls long after they were both gone. It wasn’t only her looks that had him hooked, it was her spiritedness too… how he’d loved it when she’d spoken up against the pompous monk, beating him at his own games of logic and scholastics. Why she’d even had his timorous novice rebelling against the crusty old adept! Here at last, he was sure, was something he’d never yet found: a match of equals, someone worth keeping in his bed for longer than a few weeks.
Brushing his fingers across the lyre strings, he acquiesced gladly as one of the woodlanders asked him to play. He hoped she was paying attention as he struck up his best tune.
Andragorix watched the mortal chaff celebrating around the fire with hatred in his heart. That did not bother him: hatred was always in his heart and he enjoyed the feeling. But now it was mixed with the feeling of having been beaten. And that he did not relish at all.
At the edge of the silver mirror he caught his dearest foe staring glumly into the fire. He had expected the wily Argolian to get past his fortress of course, but not by razing it to the ground. But then that was Horskram of Vilno: a constant thorn in his side, hell-sent by the King of Gehenna to test him.
‘Oh Horskram, why so glum?’ he asked the mirror. ‘I’ll give thee plenty to be sad about once I’m done!’
He murmured the words of the closing spell and the mirror went dark. There was no starlight: he had not thought to order the Wadwos to pull aside the great sheet of stone he used to block out the sun when he needed to scry by day.
And a long day it had been. He felt exhausted. Marshalling the Wadwos and summoning the Aethi had drained his elan, not to mention the constant Scrying. He was for bed, another dose of Morphonus’ Root, and dreamless sleep. Pulling back his cloak he touched the pommel of the sword at his belt and murmured a word. A grey light sprung from it, enough to guide him back to his chambers.
His duel with Horskram had forced him to put aside his sorcerous studies: tomorrow would be spent preparing for their final encounter. But anything that concerned Horskram was a worthy reason to pause in his plans for world domination. He almost felt his silver hand tingle as he walked through dark corridors that twisted with a madness even he envied.
Yes, killing the Argolian and all his companions would be almost as good as bringing the Known World to its knees.
CHAPTER XVII
Of Love and Hate
Kyra buried herself deeper in the cloak, pushing her body up against Anupe’s. The Harijan’s body felt hard and warm against hers. Basking in its glow she kissed her new lover full on the lips. Somewhere beyond the thicket they had chosen for their tryst a couple of birds took flight, their wings flapping as they screeched into the close night air.
‘Are ye always this forward?’ she asked, pulling her mouth from Anupe’s.
The Harijan frowned, her nut-brown skin creasing above her dark eyes. It was a quizzical gesture that she was learning to love fast. ‘Sorry,’ she asked. ‘What do you mean “forward”?’
‘What I mean,’ said Kyra, rolling her eyes, ‘is d’ye always just grab a wummun ye like?’
‘Usually,’ smirked the freesword. ‘Especially the ones that I know are willing.’
Kyra opened her mouth in shock, not sure if her foreign lover was joking. ‘Ye’re terrible,’ she grinned, kissing the Harijan again.
‘So terrible,’ agreed Anupe, stroking her breast and moving her calloused hand down towards her thighs. Kyra felt a thrill of pleasure. Living amongst the tight-knit and deeply conservative woodfolk, she so rarely got the chance to indulge her true desires.
The sound of a twig snapping brought their amorous reprisal to an abrupt end. Anupe stiffened beside her, and not with arousal. The Harijan’s hand emerged from beneath the cloak and snaked deftly towards her unsheathed falchion.
‘Sure I saw ‘em sneakin’ off in this direction together.’
‘Pair o’ slatterns, we’ll be doin’ the Almighty a favour. We’ll see ‘em hang fer this, and Baldo.’
‘Mebbe ‘ave some fun wi’ em first?’
The men laughed. It sounded like there were three of them at least. Silent as a fox, Anupe stood and wrapped the cloak around her, motioning for Kyra to lie still. Kyra did no such thing. Wrapping herself in her own cloak, she grabbed her bow and pulled an arrow from its quiver.
‘Think I see it, over there.’
Torchlight permeated the folds of the thicket.
‘Are you looking for someone, gentlemen?’
Three men stopped short as Anupe stepped out to face them, Kyra following close behind.
‘If I were you I would look away,’ said Anupe coolly. ‘Any man who sees my natural form must pay with his life. Old Harijan custom.’
‘Get ‘em!’ yelled the first woodlander. That was his death sentence. Without waiting for them to come the Harijan darted forwards, her blade flashing. By the time Kyra had nocked and drawn two of them lay dying while the third was crouched over, covering his eyes.
‘Dunna kill me, please!’ he wailed. ‘I didna look, I swear I didna!’
Anupe’s lip curled in disgust as she raised her bloody falchion. Kyra stepped in front of her.
‘Dunna do it, there’s been enough bloodshed as ‘tis,’ she breathed.
That was all the wretch needed. Springing to his feet he bounded back towards the camp, screaming blue murder. Silhouetted figures on night watch could be seen against the camp fire.
‘Now see what he will do!’ snarled the Harijan. ‘Your pity has got us in real trouble!’
‘We’re in trouble already – they must ‘ave seen ye do fer Baldo,’ replied Kyra, not best pleased with her lover’s quick temper. ‘C’mon, let’s get dressed an’ go face the music. Madogan’ll put this right, I ken ‘im right well.’
She bit her lip as Anupe stomped off to put her clothes on. She and Madogan had been friends for years, but this might overreach the boundaries of that friendship.
Adhelina had been busy since before dawn, giving the fifty or so women in her care another dose of Abaddon’s Root. It would take two or three administrations each morning before it took effect – assuming Wadwos responded the same way as mortal children in the womb. There wasn’t much in the way of comfort for the poor blasted creatures, thou
gh Madogan had sent men off to fetch wood and tarpaulin to construct a makeshift hospice.
She spared a glance across the panorama gifted her by the rising sun. The Argael was spread out like a green velvet blanket, a perfect match to the blue skies that enfolded it. To her left and right the grey-white peaks of the Hyrkrainians stretched, their rocky buttressing a pleasing contrast to the soft lushness of the trees that stretched up to greet it.
Adhelina sighed. The world was a beautiful place. And yet she had seen so little of it. And what she had seen of late had by turns horrified, appalled and terrified her. A rich table set with poisoned dishes – that was how the Thalamian poet Thracian had described the mortal vale, upon his return from the Wars of Unity that had seen the ancient city-states consolidated under the warrior king Thalamus.
‘It is a fair view is it not?’
She turned, startled at having her reverie broken. The Thraxian knight was standing next to her, a pleasant smile on his lips. She had been introduced to him, but so much had happened she’d barely registered his name.
‘Sir Braxus of Gaellen, at your service,’ he said with a courteous bow, as if reading her thoughts.
‘Lady Adhelina of Dulsinor, at yours,’ she replied formally in Decorlangue. She cursed inwardly. The knight seemed charming enough, but right now the last thing she wanted to do was converse with a stranger.
‘How go things with your patients?’ he asked. ‘I trust they will fare well in your able hands.’
‘The women,’ she replied pointedly, ‘fare gravely, as befits the hideous ordeal they have been subjected to.’
‘Please forgive me, I had not intended any offence,’ said the knight, the smile not leaving his lips. ‘You are right of course, my question was clumsy and foolish. Truth to tell, though I’ve seen the horrors of war many times, I’ve never seen such as this. I know not quite what to say.’