by Pam Uphoff
"C'mon man, let us have her, its our turn!" Two men untouched and unaware that their sprawled friends had been injured. She pulled power from the ground, lying limp as the survivors pulled the last man off of her. Couldn't they see he was dead? The two nearest men were too busy arguing over who got her next. But some of the others were noticing, their voices alarmed, retreating.
One of then flipped her over and shoved in. Damn it, where was the other one? She needed to get them both . . . she cried out as her torn tissues were jabbed again, and swung her fist at him. "Grab her, damn it, she's woken up." The second man grabbed her fist and she sent a jolt of power into him. He dropped away. She pulled power and filled the last man, over filled him. He was practically glowing, his face puffy and red, sweating gasping, grabbing his chest and rolling off of her.
She staggered to her feet, shaking in horror, and very quickly, tears. "Damn, damn, damn." Six men lying on the ground, some twitching, more not. Fading rattle of hooves, some others had fled. She pulled up her split riding skirt, fumbling with the ripped waist. Then she saw Junk.
Standing on three legs, trembling and sweating. "Oh no, oh Junk." Around her pounding head she tried remembering healing spells, spells that resonated with broken bones . . .
:: MOTHER! ::
She patted the mare. Listened.
:: MOTHER! ::
:: What's wrong? :: Never had certainly picked up the vibrations of horror from her.
:: Junk has a broken leg. Did you bring any of that wine? ::
:: Yes. I'm coming. What is wrong with you? ::
:: Hit my head. ::
Her head was pounding, and she was shivering.
:: The path past the pagoda, then split left for the lake. ::
She felt really, really awful. The dark reached up and grabbed her.
She vaguely woke when they found her, enough to blink at them and try to tell them how many fingers they were holding up, but there were too many to count when her head felt so awful. She drank something that took the pain away and made her smile at the handsome young men in their glittery uniforms. There were confusing conversations, and finally a sled. Eventually a bed, and then some hot honeyed wine that took care of everything. She curled up safe and slept.
Her head felt stuffed with wool when she finally woke up. "What happened?" She asked, blinking in the painfully bright light. "Junk!" She struggled to get out from under the blankets.
Her mother appeared, and helped her sit up. "Junk is just fine. Now sit up and let me see your eyes." She peered closely at them, covering and uncovering them, and finally sighing with relief.
"You'll be fine."
Rustle thought about the Young Bloods, but it all seemed very distant and fuzzy. "Did I get them all?" she asked. "Kill them? I don't seem to be thinking very well, right now."
"Lady Gisele said you might be a bit sleepy until the inside of your head finishes healing."
Rustle felt a sinking sensation. "Lady Gisele? That wasn't that wine? I don't want . . . "
"Yes, that wine. You were bleeding inside your skull, causing more damage. I had to dose you. I spoke to Lady Gisele at length, and she assures me that you will not get pregnant this month, since you ovulated four days ago."
"Oh, good." She tentatively touched her head. "I'm all full of wool. I killed some of them, didn't I?"
"Two. Four are rather seriously damaged, and two fled. They were too stupid to even remove the rope they brought you down with, and the king is very, very angry. I don't know what he'll do to them, nor do I really care. I'm taking you home right now."
"Good. I know what they say about rape as a way to advance a witches power, but I really don't recommend it." She frowned then and reached for power.
"Oh no you don't. Not for ten days. Gisele's orders. She say's you're properly ripped up, top worse than bottom."
"My brain cannot possibly be as sore . . . err, I mean, that part I did all by myself."
"Cracked your skull yourself?" her mother snorted. "You had to do a whole lot of heavy hauling after you hit your head, and so you need to let that new channel of yours heal. I mean it, Rustle. Don't hurt your brain any worse than it is already."
She nodded reluctantly, and subsided.
By noon they were on their way in a well sprung carriage. They took the corridor to the Wizard's Tower, where the rest of her anxious family swamped her with love and care, and quite a bit of anger.
Her father didn't seem to want to stop hugging her, and glared at Havi when he congratulated her on killing two men. "And the four you zapped, old gods, I hear they're drooling idiots, wearing diapers. Good job."
"Behave." Dad picked her up and carried her to his own wagon, a gaudy Traveler's rig with two pintos pulling it. The back was half filled with a thick mattress, and despite her protests that she'd laid down long enough already, she laid down and let herself be tucked in like she was a little girl again.
She could feel Havi worrying, he'd always been able to read her, follow her magic when she worked it. She tried to tone down any broadcasting she might be doing.
Instead of going home, Dad drove on into the village.
Quick footsteps preceded the arrive of her grandmother and great-grandmother, then Lady Gisele and a renewal of worried and embarrassing enquiries. It was under their formidable observation that she was allowed to draw a bit of power, and then channel it away.
Answer breathed a sigh of relief. "You've not taken any permanent harm, Rustle. But you do need to take everything slowly and carefully for the next month or so."
Relieved, all around, they finally returned home, three quarters of the way back to the tower, and up a steep hill. Rustle retreated to bed and slept. She slept a great deal over the next two weeks, and started worrying.
"You will not get pregnant this month."
Could anything be more infuriating than an unambiguous statement from a Goddess? Rustle contemplated the possible meanings of that statement. Did it mean she would get pregnant next month—which started tonight at midnight? Or her own personal month, of which her moon flow had just ceased? Was she storing the rapist's sperm? That wine was rumored to maintain them. Would she get pregnant by one of them as soon as she ovulated?
Tears stung the corners of her eyes, anger, even fear, now that it was all over. She choked back a sob. I don't want a baby. I really don't want one of those hideous . . . stupid, ordinary, criminal . . . persons' baby.
"Damn." She forced herself to put the emotions aside. Think. Don't sit here and cry like some City Girl without options or any control over your life.
Were there any options?
She wiped away a tear that had somehow escaped. Yes. She could see two. Magically ending a pregnancy was rare. Corrupting, somehow. She squirmed. Because it's not the baby's fault. But will nine months of the results of that rape dragging at my body be better or worse than a little corruption?
There was really only one workable option, when you got right down to it, and it had to be done now.
Rusty Junk had been brought back from the city after a longer stay at the palace, and had arrived just yesterday.
"How about it?" Rustle asked her. "Shall I catch another horse?" But Junk reached out and grabbed the bit, practically bridling herself. They took it easy, arriving in Ash late in the afternoon.
She tied the mare at Lady Giselle's gate, and loosened the girth.
"Worried, are you?" Lady Gisele opened the door for her.
"Yes. Your wine conserves life. Has it conserved . . . " she broke off, the old crone was nodding. "I had hoped, that when I had my Moon flow it would have washed it all out. Well. What if I have sex again, is there a chance that man would father my child, not one of those rapists?"
Another nod. "You have a good logical mind, for such a young girl. Too young to be having a baby, but that is going to happen anyway. You can only influence who the father is." She sighed. "Among all the other things that wine does, it also selects for magical abilities. Of all
those thousands of sperm that are near, whichever has the most magical genes will be the one to fertilize your egg, and your egg will contain the best of your own magical genes as well."
The old woman sighed. "This is so wrong, and has come up so fast. There is one problem I think you should be aware of. You were raped and you fought. You were badly hurt. You killed. You may panic, the next time you have sex. It will stir up memories. You could easily kill the man."
Rustle drew a breath in horror.
"You must be very careful, if you wish to avoid a life long guilt," the old woman sighed. "I shouldn't meddle, little one, but . . . You couldn't kill the Auld Wulf."
"Oh, yes," Rustle exhaled in relief. "I won't hurt him? You're sure? He . . . "
"He's starting to stir, he's healed, he's strong."
Rustle tightened the cinch, then decided against riding and walked up the alley. She led the mare off the usual path to the hot springs, angling southward to the other springs.
She tied Junk to the big oak tree at the end of the ravine, and stripped the saddle off. The mare might as well be comfortable while waiting.
The ravine was warm, the hot water from the springs running its length undiluted. The ravine widened into a little valley. Rows of vines, ancient wine grapes, ran up the northern slope to catch the sunlight, dormant in this season, but unfrozen. The little winery was built of warm reddish wooden planks and smelled fruity and delicious, leaving one with the feeling that perhaps one wasn't quite walking on the ground any more. Even her feet didn't seem to be quite sure. She walked into his bedroom.
"Good evening, Little Rustle. What brings you here on a winter's eve?" the Auld Wulf blinked sleepily.
"I'm hunting for courage," she admitted. "But not that rare liquid vintage you bottled seventeen years ago."
He laughed, a warm hearty sound, alive and active, filling the room with warmth and joy. "Ah, that wine has brought so much trouble and so much happiness. We told the Witches we wouldn't give out any more, yet I might have a bottle tucked away somewhere, for desperate need. Are you in desperate need, Rustle?" He stretched, an impressive sight. "I will save you." He closed his eyes and relaxed, dosing off again.
"I do need saving, in an unusual way. I want you to be the father of my baby." She hesitated over the lack of a reply, then stripped and climbed in beside him. He rolled up against her.
"Have I slept long enough for you to finally be old enough for this?" His large hand stroked her face, tipped it for a kiss.
She kissed him back, suddenly hungry for him, as he pulled her tight against him, all hard bone, hard muscles. Hard manhood. Her mind blanked for a moment in panic.
He pulled back enough to kiss her, leaned closer and stared into her eyes. His were a red-brown so deep they were nearly black, deep and shining with power.
"With you, I will create a god."
For just a second she wondered if seducing a half-hibernating god was wise, then gave into a lifetime of hero worship and let him show her what relations between man and woman should be.
She lay there enjoying her bodily ease for a long time, but finally pulled out from his grasp and climbed out of bed.
He gave a long deep sigh. "Best dream yet." His eyes closed and he slept.
She gulped and stood still a moment, until she was sure her feet were actually on the ground, and that she could lean over and pick up her scattered clothing.
She dressed, and didn't linger any longer.
Her footsteps steadied as she walked back down the ravine in the pre-dawn light. Pig-like grunting from ahead brought her to the alert, and she approached the end of the ravine carefully. A monstrous dark thing was looming over Junk, who squealed. Rustle stepped closer, and the dark mass resolved into a giant horse, grunting and nuzzling the mare. Its coat was so dark it looked more like a hole in the World than a real horse. Massive muscles rolled like the sea at midnight. It rose up and mounted the eager mare, practically engulfing her. The stallion flagged its blacker than black tail and dissolved into the dawn as if it hadn't ever really been there at all.
As the sky lightened, Rustle circled the oak tree. Only Junk's hoof prints disturbed yesterday's thin fresh snow.
***
"Good grief, Rustle, why didn't you talk to me? Or to Gisele?"
"I rode in to talk to Lady Gisele," Rustle shrugged. "As I figured, I'd be preggers no matter what I did. So I chose a different man to father my child."
Her mother had been wide awake and waiting for her when she rode in, barely in time to help feed the stock. Not that she'd been allowed to do the slightest bit of heavy work. Never shook her head, lips pressed together in disapproval. "Well, who did you seduce? Should we check on them? Is he alive?" Her gaze veered toward the house, worried.
"Mother! Havi's my brother. I wouldn't . . . The man is fine, for heaven's sake."
"Oh," Never frowned. "I suppose, under the circumstances, I understand, but hopefully you won't take. Then you can make a considered decision in a few years when you are fully grown."
"Mother. I understand that you had to give me that wine. Now you need to understand that I can't dodge the consequences."
"Yes you can." Her father stomped in to join the argument.
"Don't make it any worse, Dad. I've already killed two people. They call witches like me Black Widows. I'll be lucky if I'm not ostracized all my life. I can minimize my internal guilt over those stupid, vicious . . . But if I kill my own child, it will haunt me the rest of my life."
"You are just sixteen."
"None the less, you two had better get used to the idea of being grandparents." Rustle decided to leave it at that. She really didn't want to explain, didn't want her parents angry at the god. Damn it, witches chose their men and it was no one else's business. Even if they did usually verbally dissect the men in committee both before and after.
But in the mean time, she had new abilities to train up to.
Until she gave birth, she was still officially a Crescent, but Answer put her in a Triad with two Half Moons, Catti and Zamm. Their daughters were two years younger than Rustle, and hadn't yet grasped power. She gritted her teeth over their sympathy, and tendency to treat her like a child. She wasn't that much younger . . . They traded off occasionally with Mostly and Likely, her mother's age mates. Their daughters, Exchange and Free, hadn't grasped power, and if they failed this Summer, at the Solstice Ceremony, the girls would be expelled from the Pyramid. Four other girls, including her sister-aunt, Ask, were facing that deadline as well.
Being able to channel power in and out of Earth, she now found it easier to find the gemstones that were the Witches main source of income. There were semi-precious stones formed in the contact layer, where lava had pushed through sedimentary rock and heat, pressure and new mixes of chemicals under heat and pressure formed unusual crystals. Today though, she wanted to explore the stream beds. Diamonds were formed very deep down inside volcanoes, and carried to the surface in the lava. The old eroded volcanic plugs in the Gray Valley were an excellent source, and the easiest way to find diamonds was to check the sand and gravel bars of the streams in, and flowing out of, the valley.
She sliced off a big wedge of cheese and wrapped it in paper, a hard dried salami, bread. She'd take her bow and arrows, and when she ran out of food, she'd come back. It was still cold; she rolled blankets in an oilskin and slung that over the top of her backpack. She really didn't need anything else. She grabbed a wrinkly apple and slipped it into the belt pouch. She walked out, and headed uphill.
There was still snow on the ground wherever it was shaded from the sun, and where the path was usually muddy, it tended toward frosted and stiff. She walked steadily, taking a break on the crest of Iron Ridge to eat her apple and admire the stark beauty of Gray Valley. It was like the Rip, all stone, but weathered and worn into fantastic shapes. The valley was old. The volcanic fires long dead, the edges of the stones worn into curves, the rock rotten and soft in places. Gray Valley was older than Mount
Frost, older than the Long Fault, predated the disaster than had created the Rip and the New Lands and killed nine out of ten people alive back then.
A thousand years ago the gods said a comet had fallen. Nearly everyone had died. They had dealt with this small one, barely. Rustle wondered how they would deal with another one.
A large one.
A huge one.
Six and a half years. I have a lot to learn.
Chapter Six
1369 Spring
Foothills Province
Rustle spent most of the spring prowling the mountains. She was starting to show, and found the sidelong stares of the her fellow Sisters of the Crescent Moon difficult to handle. When she wasn't prowling, she read. Perhaps obsessively. Mostly about childbirth and the care of newborns. But she still read the science books and the history of Earth. She wondered if she should go back to the winery. Talk to him. But it wasn't his fault, wasn't his problem.
She knew her mother was worried. Rustle had always thought things out, made decisions. This one had been forced on her, and even though she'd twisted it to be less awful, she was still not handling it gracefully.
She was roasting a goose after a long day of diamond hunting when the Auld Wulf hailed her camp.