Amana

by Sarah Ashwood

Or, traditionally welcomed.

  Watching mindless citizenry prowl about his beloved home, devouring his food and imbibing his ale, Thane Elfric could but clench his fists.

  “Senseless, witless rabble,” he muttered. “Reeking offal. Possess all the charm of bilge water.”

  Unlike his father, who’d eagerly joined the throngs to out-drink the strongest men and kiss the prettiest maids, Elfric held himself aloof from such frivolity. Aye, these folk had adored his father, more willing to lend a helping hand than rule with a heavy one. But had they respected him? Feared him? The gods forbid!

  Well, he’d not lower himself by associating with the rabble. Let them dance, hop, and jig. Let them drink and feast. Let Bors—and here he smirked, finding a measure of satisfaction in his steward’s vexation—titter and tatter, wringing his hands about cost, provisions, and space while concurrently reminding his Thane that to terminate the Midautumn Eve festival was sure to enrage every tax-paying citizen. After a year like the last, the people needed reassurance that Elfric at least somewhat resembled his father, their ebullient, beloved Thane.

  Much as Elfric despised agreement with Bors, the man was right. Which accounted for Elfric hiding up here in a tower chamber overlooking the well-lit scene below. In his place, Tishelle moved amongst the people, graceful, elegant, and charming as a queen, while beautiful, cold, and remote as a coiled adder. Bors scurried about, continually wiping his brow, ensuring all went calmly. Elfric loathed it all: the pretense, the waste of coin, the happy singing and cries from below. They grated on his overwrought nerves, heightened to a fever pitch by lack of word from Amana.

  Where was the bloody woman? Two long months and more had lapsed since her message of agreement. During that time, Elfric had much opportunity for rumination. Why, after securing Dragorhold and its lands, should he stop there? Only five Thanes ruled the entire kingdom, supervised—but not ruled by—a High Thane. If Amana would aid him in this plan, why not others? Why shouldn’t he, Elfric, rule as High Thane? With Amana by his side, there would be no preventing him. It was all a matter of time, mainly, and, yes—privately he admitted it—chicanery. Blackmail.

  Bors’ current hold over him had offered Elfric the idea. Amana must, by necessity, reveal herself before or after completion of her task in order to claim payment. Once he knew her, he could threaten to expose her as murderess of Frenyc and Bors. After, that is, setting in place certain safeguards to protect himself from Amana’s bloody hand. If Bors could do it to him, why couldn’t he to Amana? If his intellect was not higher than his pudgy scribed-turned-steward’s, he may as well abdicate now.

  No, he consoled himself, gulping down a final goblet before venturing down to offer the Thane’s traditional Midautumn Eve address. No, my intellect far exceeds Bors’. Amana will come and she will serve me—either for coin or protection. In good time, I will be High Thane.

  All the scheme required was exceptional brilliance, and Amana. Thane Elfric was confident he’d plenty of the former to constrain the latter. She may be the most feared woman in the world, but in the end she was still merely that: a woman.

  ***

  Surrounded by friends, a bevy of courtiers’ daughters, Tishelle observed her brother’s Midautumn Eve address with a calculating eye. Elfric was a handsome man, poised and charming when he wished to be, his refinement and polish standing in sharp contrast to Frenyc’s bearded, rough exterior. Alas for Elfric, he failed to grasp his long words and longer speech meant little to the intoxicated peasants comprising his audience. These folk wanted a few hearty jests, coupled with promises of future wellbeing and praise for past industriousness. Tishelle’s late father had excelled at such speeches; not poor, foolish Elfric. Gifted he might be in myriad ways, but he’d no conception of how to deal with his subjects or win their favor. In this, their drunken lout of a father had far eclipsed his scholarly son.

  “Would that Frenyc were here,” Orlea sighed heavily. Goblet in hand, she slumped in a chair to Tishelle’s left, ample bosom threatening to escape from her drooping orange and gold bodice.

  “At least we’d have something pretty to look at,” assented Desmandia, facing Tishelle.

  “Oh, Thane Elfric is pretty enough,” praised Wishta, lifting her cup in the young Thane’s direction. “But merciful skies, who can bear looking at him when it also means listening to him?”

  “My point precisely,” exhaled plump Orlea. “With Frenyc, there’d be few words, I wager. Few words but great action.” She gave an enthusiastic wriggle. “Why, one beckon from those warrior’s hands and I’d be off in a dark corner with that braw, strapping stallion, and I’d care not who saw, who heard, or whether we interrupted Thane Elfric’s address.”

  Tishelle’s icy tones smote her companion’s lewd giggles. “Your remarks are as vulgar as your appetites, Orlea. And your gown.”

  Orlea’s cheeks flushed and she stiffened. “I crave your pardon, lady. Perhaps you disdain my candid speech, especially as it concerns your brothers, but I had rather be known as a woman of vulgar tastes than no tastes at all.”

  “Or one whose tastes run to fat, busybody stewards.”

  Wishta slid in the barb as smoothly as a knife slicing warmed butter. Tishelle felt her fingers tighten on the stem of her own wine goblet, but refused to betray her dismay. Yes, she remained a virgin—what of it? And, yes, Bors did buzz around more noisily of late—apparently with Elfric’s consent, for when she’d complained to her brother he had dismissed her protests with an idle brush of the hand.

  “Now, now, Tishelle. Take your woman’s folly elsewhere.”

  Furious, Tishelle had stormed out. Woman’s folly indeed! In his own hideously awkward way, her brother’s steward was courting her. In Tishelle’s heart, Wishta’s remark struck a deep chord. She was afraid: she, Tishelle, who’d always judged herself capable of handling any situation or man. She was afraid because Bors would not be dissuaded; afraid because his persistence could signify only one thing. The beast relied on Elfric’s support.

  By all rights, her brother was her legal guardian until she came of age. Although he could not force her to wed anyone, including Bors, he could make her life miserable should she refuse. Suspecting what she did of the ruthless cruelty underpinning Elfric’s silky demeanor, Tishelle had every right to fear. If wedding her to Bors gained him any advantage, Tishelle knew he would not delay.

  How to outwit the odious pair she knew not. However, Tishelle would not surrender easily. Of that she was certain. And she opened her mouth to tell her companions so, but was prevented by Desmandia’s wandering,

  “Who under the stars is that?”

  Along with the other three young women, Tishelle turned her head to see. There, having just passed the gates, stood a person at least a head taller than every man present. Broad shoulders and muscled arms belied the feminine lines of her face, granting her an almost grotesque appearance, as if somebody had stuck a woman’s face on a male warrior’s body.

  “Why, she’s a giant!” Orlea breathed.

  Tishelle found her hands clenching her chair’s armrests, years of training forbidding her from leaning forward to gape.

  “Not quite,” Wishta disagreed, “but nearly so. Gods, even Frenyc himself would think twice about contesting her.”

  True, Tishelle consented, studying the newcomer as she wove through the gawping crowd. Those that were sober enough to gawp, that is.

  A knife at her hip, and a blade strapped to the underside of her wrist. One in her leggings, just above her boot, and a broadsword slung across her shoulders. Zounds, she was armed to the teeth! And that sword—few men carried a broadsword, due to their prodigious size and weight. What manner of creature, then, was this woman?

  Unafraid, she strode to the center of the courtyard. Like waves around a boulder folk parted, offering a clear view not just of the stranger but of someone Tishelle had previously overlooked. Which was hardly surprising. Small and slight as the warrior was tall and heavy, the very bulk of the warr
ior’s frame had hidden her diminutive companion until now.

  This second stranger was every bit as unremarkable as her fellow was noteworthy. Against her chest she clasped a large, flat book, like a recording volume. Tishelle supposed the pouch at her side would hold writing accoutrements. Ebony hair fell in a thick, tidy braid to her waist, and her belted gown was a dull, simple grey.

  She stood quietly at the warrior’s side, staring up owlishly at handsome Elfric, who, upon the stranger’s advent, had fallen silent. He gazed back—not at the scribe, for such she appeared to be—but at the warrior, who overtowered him by several inches. Tishelle noticed an eerie hush permeated the entire assembly, as if an icy spell had frozen every tongue and body. Then, very slightly, the woman dipped her head to Elfric. That was all—nothing else, except to whirl sharply on her heel and stride away. Her little escort scurried to keep pace as she surged through the frozen merrymakers and out the open courtyard gates, departing as abruptly as she’d arrived.

  With her absence the spell was lifted. Again, folk moved and spake. Initially, the noise was muted, but volume rapidly escalated as witnesses voiced opinions on the queer occurrence. Nor did Tishelle’s companions differ, interrupting and speaking atop one another as they demanded to know, “Who was she? Where from? What was her purpose? Had anyone seen her before? Had her weapons been noted—especially her broadsword?”

  Tishelle made no effort to answer, being every bit in the dark as they. Anyway, with the vanishing of the stranger and her mousy scribe, another sort of darkness had perched upon Tishelle’s soul. A heavy sense of foreboding, of ill, suppressed her spirits. Rub her forearms as she might, the prickles would not be erased from her skin.

  “Death,” she whispered aloud, to yet another erumpeting cry of, “Who was she?” Nobody heard, but Tishelle said it again, repeated it to herself as if speaking the truth aloud might nullify it. “Death. That woman is death.”

  ***

  Thane Elfric could not repress a smile as he extended his arms so Dorin, his manservant, might commence to undress him.

  “My Thane seems in right cheerful humor,” Dorin observed, carefully folding Efric’s waistcoat. “And to think we feared your being perturbed.”

  “Perturbed? Why should I be perturbed?”

  The servant slacked his crisp folding motions. “Why, that woman. Arriving as she did. Unannounced, and interrupting your address. We feared you might be perturbed by that, as well as by her vanishing. Unchallenged,” he added lamely, with a strange look for his master who was all smiles.

  “Perturbed? Nay, by the sun’s light, I am not. That woman, Dorin…”

  Should he tell? Ah, it was so delicious Elfric wanted to laugh aloud, to boast of his genius. Amana was here, was here and had divulged her willingness for her task. Soon, Frenyc and Bors would be dead. Perhaps tonight! Elfric was confident Amana was not the sort of woman to delay an important undertaking. And after Frenyc, after Bors, one by one the other five Thanes. And after that, the High Thane himself. And after that?

  Chuckling, Elfric reigned in his thoughts. Patience, patience, he counseled. No sense putting the cart before the horse.

  Aware that Dorin observed him strangely, Elfric hastened to cover himself.

  “That woman,” he spoke aloud, “is no one to be concerned over. A friend of a friend. That is all.”

  An odd story, but then, Thane Elfric was an odd man. So Dorin passed over the incident, even as he muttered, “My Thane keeps curious friends. Most curious indeed.”

  ***

  Bors sighed with contentment as he slid into bed, sanctioning himself to relax for the first time that long, long day. Cool, pressed sheets enveloped him. One of many small luxuries the Thane’s steward allowed himself, unmindful of the extra work it caused the maids. Why should he mind? Soon, Elfric would be dead. Amana was here; the warrior in the courtyard could be no other. Briefly, but pointedly, her eyes had met his as they swept the crowd. The hard glint of recognition in her gaze: she knew him, consented to his plan. In due course, Elfric would be dead. He, Bors, would be Thane, and Tishelle, his haughty beauty, would be his submissive wife, sharing these crisp, pressed sheets.

  Bors sighed once more, flopping onto his side, contented as a swine in its wallow. Soon, he swore to himself, even as his eyelids drifted shut. Soon.

  Dragorhold’s steward slid peacefully into slumber.

  ***

  Thane Elfric could not sleep. Nestled in a warm nest of coverlets and sheets, he could not close his eyes, for to close his eyes meant to cease reading the note. Her note. Amana’s note.

  The bargain is struck. The unworthy will perish.

  —Amana

  He’d found it beneath his pillow while sliding into bed. Upon reading it, the wild joy lancing his heart more than offset the momentary chill that Amana—that tall, imposing warrior—had slipped in and out of his bedchamber unseen.

  “The bargain is struck. The unworthy will perish.”

  Over again he murmured the words, doubtless penned by Amana’s drab little scribe. “The unworthy will perish.” Frenyc, Bors, the five Thanes, the High Thane. All were unworthy. All would perish. She, Amana, had declared it.

  “The bargain is struck. The unworthy will perish. The bargain is struck. The unworthy will perish. The bargain is…”

  Somewhere between one word and the next he must have finally drifted off, for Thane Elfric woke suddenly. The fire in his hearth burned lower, but was not yet reduced to embers, meaning he mustn’t have slept long. Glancing down, he saw the note yet crumpled in his hand. Smiling, he traced the neat letters with a finger, tenderly as a lover his lady’s skin.

  “The bargain is struck. The unworthy will perish.”

  He smiled as he whispered the words, for it was truly a delectable thought—that of Frenyc and Bors struck dead by Amana’s hand. His smile broadened as he contemplated what he was soon to achieve.

  “Amana,” he breathed aloud. “Amana.”

  “Yes?”

  From out of the darkness she answered calmly, conversationally, as though he’d called and she replied. Thane Elfric started violently, attempted to twist and see, but found himself seized in a grip of iron. An arm grabbed his neck, trapping his head; its twin locked around his waist. Immobile, he could but roll his eyes helplessly, where he looked into the face of his captor.

  “Amana!?”

  Impossible! But her voice—it had originated from across the chamber, far to his right. Even as he wheezed for air, fighting for clarity of mind, Elfric’s thoughts whirled. Amana, the fierce warrior who’d intruded upon the Midautumn Eve celebration, held him fast. So whose voice had spoken from the shadows?

  From out of the darkness glided his answer, the slight figure of a plain, unremarkable woman. The gloom surrounding her created fathomless wells of her dark eyes. Her long braid drifted over a shoulder and across her breast, like a noose encircling a convict’s neck. At the foot of his great bed, she paused. Her gaze perforated his with the impact of a spear to the belly. Pinned by that stare, Elfric fleetingly understood how a rodent must feel when mesmerized by the eyes of a cobra.

  “The bargain is struck, Thane Elfric. The unworthy will perish.” She stopped, tilting her head. “Worthy or unworthy, Thane Elfric? Which are you?”

  “I—I don’t understand,” he managed to choke out.

  The corner of her thin mouth lifted. “Do you not? Then I shall enlighten you.

  “You, Thane Elfric of Dragorhold, struck a bargain with Amana. You wished me to remove those you considered unworthy of life for the price of so many coins. Is this so?”

  The pressure constricting his neck eased a bit, permitting him the freedom to nod. Barely.

  “We are agreed then. Now, Thane Elfric, Amana agreed to your bargain. The unworthy will perish, I have said. Nevertheless, young Thane, before I vanquish the unworthy in your life, you must ask yourself this: who is the most unworthy?”

  Most unworthy…what did she imply? Elfric’
s brain sped to puzzle out her meaning but the merciless grip about neck and torso impeded lucidity of mind as well as movement.

  “Y—you don’t know?”

  Amana’s scribe—or was this pale, slight woman Amana herself?—drifted a step nearer. “I cannot tell you, Thane. None can answer this question except you.”

  He wanted to say, “I will give you a written list of my enemies if only you’ll free me!”

  She seemed to read his mind. “This is not about enemies, young Thane. It is about unworthiness. So said your steward’s note when he wrote me: that it was your wish I come and attend to those deemed unworthy to live. But before I raise my hand to any, Amana must know: who is it you deem most unworthy of life?”

  Elfric’s heart pounded. Bors, Frenyc! he tried to shout.

  “Unworthy, not simply those you despise,” the slender assassin rebuked coldly. “Look into my eyes, Thane Elfric. Look at me, and look inside yourself. Search, seek, and know…”

  Her eyes were changing even as he gazed into them, from black to grey to silver to white and back again to silver. Through the various shades of pale and dark they circled and re-circled, a storm that spellbound and hypnotized, sucking him in. Helpless, he felt his spirit leaving flesh behind, still pinned by Amana’s companion to the pillows as the ethereal spun off into time and space.

  “Unworthy? Unworthy? Unworthy?”

  Her sibilant whispers pounded at the doors of his reeling mind, coaxing them to part. Through portals long barred Thane Elfric fell, forced, finally, to confront truths he’d hidden from himself.

  Unworthy?

  He saw himself as a child: the spoiled little monster using and abusing peer and servant alike, thinking the world was owed him because of his birth.

  Unworthy?

  Cruelty—cruelty towards pets and animals and humans. The seeds of bitter sibling rivalry sewn betwixt himself and Frenyc. One that would eventually escalate to sheer hatred as the years went by.