Instructing the Novice

by Evangeline Anderson

  “Peace, Brut,” the third male said. “We agreed that Karx would go to the Evil Mountain to learn what he could and to earn us enough credit to buy the outsider weapons we need to defeat the female infidels. He cannot help what he has to do there in order to fulfill the will of the Father Gods.”

  “I know you’re right, Terg—and as Shaman, you must have the final say,” the first male said. “But it still sickens me to think of all he has to do. Putting his mouth on a female’s most filthy parts—and not even one who has been purified by knife and fire as we will soon purify this one…” He nodded down at Lizabeth expressively.

  “Knife and fire?” she blurted, feeling more awake than ever, and not in a good way. “What are you talking about? If you touch me there will be Hell to pay—the Kindred will come after you! I promise you that!”

  “The Kindred, she says! Those female worshipers!” Brut, who Lizabeth now remembered as the leader of the tribe, turned his head and spat again. “I’ve even hard tell they worship a Goddess instead of the Father Gods as is right and proper!”

  “Yes!” the second male exclaimed. “And they let their females run wild and allow them to speak in public and—”

  “They respect women and treat them as equals,” Lizabeth snapped. “Why do you find that so threatening?”

  She’d expected a sharp retort but instead Brut drew back a heavy hand and slapped her. Lizabeth gasped and her head rocked back, hitting the hard platform they had placed her on. The side of her face exploded with pain and she tasted blood and knew her lip had been split.

  “Oh!” She put a hand to her face reflexively—at least her arms were free now, though her feet were still tied. “You asshole!”

  “You dare to speak so to a male?” Brut drew back his hand again but the Shaman—Terg—stopped him.

  “Peace, Brut,” he said again, putting a hand to the other male’s arm to keep the blow from falling. “You must not ruin her face before the ceremony—the Snow Queen’s features must be soft and smooth.”

  “She’s a filthy, unholy female—a whore who speaks to males and looks them in the eye as bold as can be,” Brut protested. “I was only trying to slap the filthy words from her mouth!”

  “We will soon fill her mouth with screams,” Terg promised. “And she will no longer be filthy when we have purified her. She will be a fitting sacrifice and the best Snow Queen we’ve had in a generation. Didn’t Krux say she had been in their magic pool which increases fertility? Surely when you and I have bred her she will conceive a child—a strong son who may become the leader or Shaman of our tribe in his own right someday.”

  Raping me—they’re talking about raping me, Lizabeth realized, feeling sick. After they finish cutting me up, that is.

  She had known that this was the situation she was going into when Karx had told her where he was taking her on the train. But somehow the reality of her plight was much, much worse than she ever could have imagined.

  Brut looked thoughtful.

  “I do not think that you and I should be the only males to breed her, Terg,” he said, frowning. “We should take no chances—I will throw the breeding open to any male of the tribe who wishes to try his luck. That way if she conceives, it will be a credit to the whole tribe.”

  “Very generous of you, Brut.” The Shaman nodded, as though the leader of the tribe had just suggested some philanthropic endeavor that would benefit everyone. “The Father Gods will smile on you for it.” He frowned and turned back to Lizabeth. “Of course, she must be purified before she’s fit to be bred.” He looked at the second man, who was watching silently. “Lurx, are the sacrificial knives ready?”

  “They will be, my Shaman.” The second man bowed his head respectfully. “I have them heating in the fire now. They are almost purified for the ritual.”

  Knives heating in the fire? Lizabeth felt like the blood had drained from her veins as a cold horror overtook her. Oh God this was going to hurt—this was going to hurt so much! And after the pain, she would be used by the entire tribe. What was she going to do? Why hadn’t they just killed her? Death would be preferable to this—anything would be preferable!

  She wanted to kick and scream and plead but she knew it would do no good. She would probably only earn herself another slap for her troubles and the side of her face already felt like it was swollen to twice its regular size. There was nothing she could do!

  “Good.” The Shaman nodded gravely at Lurx, who appeared to be his assistant. “Then let this female be prepared. And may the Father Gods accept our sacrifice of the Snow Queen.”

  “What is this? Who is this?” Mistress Anarrah looked at the mummified figure, dressed in richly embroidered robes, which was lying on the padded cot at one end of the Meditation Grotto.

  It might have been a nice place once, Lone thought. A place of reflection and solitude. But now the marble pool in the center of the round room was scummed with filth growing in the greenish water and the padded cots were coated in dust. The flowering plants and vast, frondy ferns which had filled the space had dried and withered away to nothing, their dead branches drooping over the pink marble floor which was dull with grime.

  And lying all alone, at the far end of the Grotto, was the mummified figure. He had run to the quiet figure the moment he got past the guards and into the room, certain that it was Lizabeth—sure that she had somehow learned to shut him out and block their link.

  But when he turned her over, he found not his Mistress but a body which had been dead for many months—maybe even years. How it hadn’t rotted in the humid environment of the Meditation Grotto was a mystery. Maybe it had something to do with the dried flowers piled all around it on the dusty cot. They gave off a sickly-sweetish smell his sensitive Kindred nose detected even though they, too, were long dead.

  “Mistress Goldahh!” Mistress Anarrah cried, catching her first glimpse of the mummified corpse’s face. “Oh, no! What happened to her?” She looked at Mistress Verlandah accusingly. “You said she was meditating and couldn’t be disturbed!”

  “So she was,” the Mistress Superior said defensively. “At first.”

  “At first? Look at her! She must have been dead for ages—why didn’t you say anything? And look at this place—our lovely Grotto! All the plants are dead—dust everywhere—the fountain filled with slime!”

  “Well, I couldn’t let any of the cleaning staff in to see her, now could I?” snapped Mistress Verlandah. “And I wasn’t about to do any cleaning myself. That’s beneath me!”

  “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t inform the rest of us that poor Mistress Goldahh had passed on to be with the Goddess!” Mistress Anarrah exclaimed. “Why would you keep such a thing a secret and just cover her in Sweet Lymel instead of letting us plan a proper passing ceremony?”

  “I think I can tell why.” Joren, who had come in with Mistress Anarrah, walked to one curving wall of the round room which was covered in a long tarp. Grabbing the flapping tarp, he ripped it down, revealing a huge hole gouged in the smooth, polished pink marble.

  “Oh no!” Mistress Anarrah gasped. “What in the Universe?”

  “It’s clear someone had been digging here—mining for precious metals and gems, no doubt, my Mistress,” Joren said, frowning. “One guess who that could be.” He pointed at Karx, who stood scowling by the Mistress Superior.

  “I only did what she told me,” he muttered, jerking his chin at Mistress Verlandah. “Got to obey orders, after all.”

  “Not when your orders are to desecrate the Sacred Mountain!” Mistress Anarrah exclaimed in a horrified voice. She turned on the Mistress Superior. “Verlandah—what were you thinking? Did you kill Mistress Goldahh and make up the story about her wanting to live in the Meditation Grotto just so you could have your Novice mine the mountain?”

  “Naturally not,” the Mistress Superior exclaimed, glaring down at the shorter woman. “Mistress Goldahh expressed a wish to go home but it was my belief that if she experienced all o
ur Meditation Grotto had to offer, she might change her mind.”

  “And keep her credit here at the Tower?” Joren said blandly.

  “Silence, Novice!” Mistress Verlandah snapped. “Anyway, I brought her here and gave her just a pinch of sniff-weed—just a pinch mind you—and—”

  “But sniff-weed is illegal and highly addictive!” Mistress Anarrah was clearly aghast. “Where did you even get it? And why would you give it to an esteemed guest?”

  “I was just trying to persuade her to stay,” Mistress Verlandah said, frowning. “And I did! She wanted nothing but to stay here in the Meditation Grotto and sniff more of it.”

  Lone could well imagine that was all Mistress Goldahh had wanted. Sniff-weed, also called Dream Dust, was known to cause beautiful 3-D hallucinations so life-like and gorgeous that those addicted to it would rather forgo food and water than come down from their high to eat and drink. It was illegal because it was so highly addictive and because almost ninety-nine percent of those addicted to it eventually died of self-neglect. As long as they had a pile of the bright pink powder beside them, they would just keep sniffing and sniffing it and dreaming their beautiful dreams until eventually they dreamed themselves to death.

  For a moment he had a terrible fear—had the monstrous Mistress Superior addicted Lizabeth too? Had she shoved her into a dark corner of the Tower somewhere with a deadly pile of Dream Dust? Was that why he could no longer feel the woman he loved? Was she lost in a drugged dream where he could never find her?

  But no—surely he would have continued to feel her emotions if that was true, he reasoned with himself. Sniff-weed, aka Dream Dust, was said to cause instant euphoria. He was certain that would have made its way through their link. No, the only explanation he could think of was that Lizabeth had been taken away out of range so that their link no longer functioned or…

  Or she’s dead, whispered a little voice in his head. But no—he couldn’t let himself think that way—couldn’t allow his mind to go down such a dark path. Lizabeth must be somewhere alive and well—the question was where?

  “Where is my Mistress—where is Lizabeth?” he demanded, stepping up to the Mistress Superior who was still arguing with Mistress Anarrah. “What did you do to her?”

  “What makes you think I did anything to her, Novice?” Mistress Verlandah demanded, glaring at him. “I thought she was in here with Mistress Goldahh.” She looked around, frowning at the empty, abandoned space. “Karx, where is she anyway?”

  A smirk spread over the Friezen’s dark, bearded face.

  “She’s where she can be useful, Mistress,” he sneered. “In the only proper place for a female on this cursed planet!”

  Suddenly Lone found that his hands were locked around the other male’s throat and he had Karx up against the curving, pink marble wall.

  “Where?” he growled, the sound deep and animalistic as it came from his throat. “Where did you put my mate? What did you do to her?”

  He seemed to see the other male through a red curtain as his fingers tightened around the choking Friezen’s neck. The Dark Twin part of him had full control now and all it wanted to do was kill and rip and rend and mutilate the male who had hurt the female he loved. Far in the back of his mind he heard the Light Twin part of him—the rational half—saying that he would never find Lizabeth if he killed the only person who knew where she was. It was this part of him, perhaps, that caused his hands to loosen just enough for Karx to choke out a reply.

  “My…tribe,” he gasped, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at Lone’s choke hold on his throat. “They needed…a fertile female. So I…took her.”

  “You gave her to the Friezens for their barbaric ritual?” Even Mistress Superior sounded aghast. “Name of the Goddess, Karx, why would you do that?”

  Karx’s face, already dark with blood, darkened further with hatred.

  “Because she’s a fucking upstart female…who doesn’t know her place,” he choked out. “Like all of you…Mistress.”

  Mistress Anarrah looked first shocked and then deeply disturbed.

  “This is awful, Mistress Superior—we must go get poor Lizabeth at once. Clearly your Novice is deranged!”

  “Not deranged—just a product of his culture,” Lone growled, squeezing the choking male tighter. “The Friezens hate women—did you really think they would stop just because you welcomed them into the Tower?”

  “This is what comes of letting the Friezens serve as Novices.” Joren frowned. “I allus said it was bad idea—that I did.”

  “Where is she exactly?” Lone demanded, glaring down into Karx’s face—which by this time was nearly purple. “Tell me the exact location, now!”

  The Friezen laughed—or tried to. What came out was more of a wheeze than any genuine sound of mirth.

  “By this time…in the Breeding Hut,” he gasped out. “Too late… to save her, Kindred. She’s…the Snow Queen.”

  Twenty

  “Spread her legs. She must be purified by knife and fire—open her so that we may cut away the offending flesh,” Terg directed.

  Lizabeth felt like she was caught in a bad dream and couldn’t wake up.

  “Please,” she begged, struggling with the Shaman’s assistant, who was attempting to part her thighs. “Please, no! You can’t do this to me! Please!”

  “Tie her and gag her too, if she keeps resisting,” Brut ordered, frowning. “Filthy whore! You’ll have to cut deep, Terg, to get rid of all the evil in this one and make her a fitting sacrifice for the Father Gods.”

  “So I shall.” The Shaman nodded thoughtfully. “And I intend to—as soon as the knives are purified and hot enough.”

  “They’re ready now, Shaman,” Lurx, his assistant said respectfully, still fighting to subdue Lizabeth’s kicking feet.

  She was strapped naked to their ceremonial table with a broad, leather band cinched tight over her hips and her arms already secured above her head but still she struggled. She’d made them fight for every piece of her they’d strapped down and she’d be damned if she’d stop fighting now, even though escape was clearly impossible.

  “I only have to pile the knives on the searing stone so that they stay hot during the ceremony,” the assistant added.

  “And the men are lined up outside the Breeding Hut—ready to do their duty to the Father Gods as soon as the Snow Queen is ready,” Brut said. He gestured at the Shaman’s assistant. “Here—can’t you subdue one small female? I’ll help you.”

  Both of them grabbed a foot and though Lizabeth fought and struggled, before she knew it her ankles were strapped to the table with her legs spread wide, baring her sex to their gaze.

  “Look at that—she’s nearly bare down there.” The Shaman’s assistant looked at her neatly trimmed sex which sported only a small mound of curls. “You won’t have to search to find her unclean parts, Shaman Terg.”

  “So much the better—I can get to her quickly. Tonight is the last acceptable evening for the Snow Queen sacrifice and we need to be swift to appease the Father Gods.” The Shaman was eyeing Lizabeth coldly, as though he was a butcher deciding the best way to cut up a piece of meat.

  She wanted to plead with them again to stop but she knew it would do no good. They were going to do this to her whether she screamed and cried and begged or not.

  Well, I might not be able to help the screaming and crying, she thought grimly. But I’ll be damned if I beg these bastards again! It doesn’t do a damn bit of good and I don’t want to give them the satisfaction.

  Then she saw the Shaman’s assistant carrying a wooden tray towards them. On it was a black, rectangular stone about three inches thick and twelve inches across. The stone was smoking with heat and on it were three knives with long, sharp blades—blades that glowed red, Lizabeth saw with horror. Clearly they had been heated in the fire until they were literally red-hot. Gods, this was horrible!

  Sweat broke out all over her body and her stomach clenched like a slick fist. Her heart began
to thunder in her ears—blood rushing so fast she felt faint but not, unfortunately, faint enough to actually lose consciousness. Despite her inner determination not to beg, words of pleading rose to her lips as she tried in vain to close her legs.

  Oh God, she thought frantically as the Shaman selected one of the glowing knives and came to stand between her spread thighs. Oh God, no—NO!

  “Hurry, will you Terg?” Brut said, frowning. “The men are eager for their taste of the Snow Queen and the sun is getting low. The Father Gods must be appeased soon.”

  “First the invocation must be carved into her flesh.” The Shaman had an unhurried air about him, like a man determined to do a difficult job correctly without rushing. He gripped Lizabeth’s right knee and bent to press the red-hot tip to her inner thigh.

  As the searing blade bit into her tender flesh, Lizabeth couldn’t help herself—she screamed and then screamed again. Oh God, it hurt so badly—and they weren’t even to the worst part yet! How could she survive this? What was she going to do? She had never been devout before—had never believed much in any deity. But now, in her desperation, she cried out for help.

  Please! she prayed. Please, help me! Goddess if you’re there—if you can hear me—please send someone to help me! I’m in so much trouble—help me now!

  Lone felt her panic long before the train reached the end of its run.

  “Hurry!” he growled at Joren who was working the controls. They had a whole cadre of guards with them—every Novice who wasn’t a Friezen was crammed into the small car. But it didn’t matter how many they brought to the fight if they were too late to rescue Lizabeth in time.

  Goddess, please, he prayed desperately. Please let me get to her on time and give me strength to save her! Please!

  “Going as fast as we can, yuh we are,” Joren said tersely. “I understand you fear for your lady but I can’t make the train go any faster. Sorry, lad.”