by David Hair
Elgus placed a mark against both men’s names, but for now, he pushed his anger down and feigned confusion. ‘Come now, Raythe. This is the wilderness, not the empire. We all know the Solus woman has been leading Osvard a dance – and she spreads for anyone else to spite him—’
‘Liar!’ Kemara snarled.
‘I never did a thing to her, Pa,’ Osvard called, straining against Vidar’s noose. ‘I done nothing, nor did Poel. We was just putting her in her place, that’s all.’
Beside him, Poel made squeaking sounds of agreement. He’d never got over being his own mother’s death: he clung to Osvard like a parasite. But he was still flesh and blood.
‘It’s not clear to me what’s happened, Raythe,’ Elgus said, injecting more command in his voice. ‘We don’t hang a man when there’s a doubt – and my sons are entitled to more than a lynching.’ He spread his hands. ‘Let’s talk this out, man to man.’
‘No,’ Kemara snapped, ‘I know what happened. Hang the stinking bastards.’
Bloody Thom murmured, ‘Boss, there’s fifty of us and three of them. Let’s kill the feckers.’
It was tempting, but even as Elgus considered, there was a stir on both flanks. Mater Varahana arrived with her flock of townsmen and their families, their faces blanching as they beheld the confrontation. But a quick glance was enough to see that most of the men held weapons.
At the same time, Cal Foaley and his hunters appeared on the other flank, bristling with blades and bows, a far deadlier threat.
That cast enough doubt for him to hesitate, but the bigger issue was that he still needed Vyre, until they found the istariol. Stand down, he gestured to Crowfoot, and the men at his back carefully moved hands from hilts.
That done, he advanced and Vyre came to meet him. ‘Raythe, this is nonsense.’
‘Osvard tried to rape Kemara – and Poel went for my daughter.’
Shit, his kragging daughter, Elgus thought. What the krag was the little snit thinking? He rapidly revised his approach. ‘What’s alleged to have happened?’
Vyre met his eyes. ‘The whole camp has seen how Osvard harasses Kemara. I do not accept that she leads him on. She is blameless in this matter.’
‘She broke the lad’s nose,’ Elgus retorted. ‘He takes a Pit-full of lip over that – he’s had a rough time of it.’ He raised a hand. ‘Not that that makes retribution right. But he’s young.’
‘Old enough to hold her down with a knife to the throat and begin to strip her, with Poel’s help. When Zar came upon them and tried to raise the alarm, Poel attacked her.’
It all rang true, but Elgus seized on the opening: ‘You said “began” – so that’s not the deed itself. Osvard only wanted to scare her, I’m sure of it. He’s all bark and no bite, that one – and as for Poel, I doubt he could even get it up.’
‘Osvard told Kemara he was going to rape her, then kill her. Poel pinned Zar down and tore her blouse.’
‘Words and fumblings, Raythe. Words aren’t deeds – if he even said them at all.’
Vyre’s face hardened. ‘He meant every word. They both did.’
Elgus fumed inwardly, I should beat the pair of them to pulp. But he couldn’t be seen to back down here. Leading a warband required absolute authority.
‘Raythe, we’re in the wilds now. Imperial statutes mean nothing out here: you and me are the law. My boys aren’t bad, just fecking stupid. By the Pit, I’ll bet we were just the same at their age! You think a girl wants you, then they get the jitters and where are you? Dick hanging out and looking like a raper, that’s where. And at the end of the day, who’s been harmed? Your daughter looks fine, and the healer will have nothing but a black eye come morning. My lads have had the worst of it and that’s natural justice.’ He dropped his voice further and added, ‘We need each other, Raythe. You need my men, and we need your leadership. Cut my lads loose and let’s put this behind us.’
Or else I’ll kill you and yours and manage without you, he resolved.
*
Raythe’s mind raced, seeking some middle ground that would extricate them all from this, a way for everyone to back away from the precipice, because the threat was none too veiled: right now: only his sons’ plight was holding Elgus Rhamp back. That and the hope of istariol.
They could go on a rampage at the drop of a hand and they’d turn this place into a slaughterhouse. Though plenty of them would also die, they’d triumph, I don’t doubt it . . .
But letting Rhamp’s sons go would break his own authority. He had to come out of this with his standing enhanced and his relationship with Rhamp intact, or this expedition had already failed.
He could think of only one way.
‘They’ll have the Otravian punishment for attempted rape,’ he told Elgus. When the knight tried to interject he raised a hand, silencing him. ‘Tie them to the tree,’ he called to Jesco and Vidar. ‘Then bring me a horsewhip.’
‘Vyre—’ Elgus began.
‘They’re getting off lightly,’ Raythe snapped, and stalked away, deliberately exposing his back, knowing Cognatus would warn him if the worst happened.
The entire camp was here now, with lit torches illuminating every face with a ruddy, infernal glow. Mater Varahana bustled in, but Raythe waved her away, murmuring, ‘It’s not your business, Vara. No one blasphemed.’
She held out a horsewhip. ‘Your every need anticipated, darling.’
He gave her sideways look, concealing a smile as he took the whip. ‘Aren’t you the wise one.’ He turned to Foaley, and murmured, ‘How much authority have you got over the hunters?’
‘I wouldn’t call it “authority” at all, but they listen.’
‘How do they feel about Rhamp?’
‘They think he’s an arse.’
‘Good.’
‘They think you are too, but not so much.’
‘Excellent. Glad I can count on someone. Can you watch my back? Tami’s out there somewhere and who knows who she’d shoot at in a crisis?’
Foaley nodded as Raythe stripped to the waist, revealing the scars and pockmarks of old wounds, and enough muscle that most could see he wasn’t a pushover. Then he flicked the whip, getting the feel of it as he stalked to the tree where Osvard and Poel’s backs were being bared.
‘I’m not scared of you, runt,’ Osvard barked, but Poel, beside him, was whimpering. Everyone knew that a prolonged whipping could destroy the back muscles completely, leaving a man crippled and in pain for the rest of his life.
‘Mater Varahana, what’s the normal number of lashes for attempted rape?’ Raythe called.
‘Twenty lashes,’ the priestess replied, her austere features neutral.
‘Twenty it is.’
He touched the whip to Poel’s back, at which the young man, who was still in his teens, burst into tears. Ignoring the ring of people pressing closer to see blood, Raythe steeled himself for what must be done.
‘Vyre . . .’ Elgus Rhamp began, his voice strained.
‘Touch Poel and I’ll kill you,’ Osvard snarled.
Raythe paused. ‘What’s the penalty for threatening an official, Mater?’
‘Er, twenty more.’
‘Thank you.’ Raythe turned back to Poel. ‘Did you go with Osvard to Mistress Kemara’s campfire with your brother? Did you stamp on her hand to keep her down? Did you bear my daughter to earth and rip her clothing?’
The sobbing young man broke down, moaning, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .’
All round the circle, the men and women of Varahana’s flock hissed and tsked grimly.
‘This will remind you never to do any such thing again,’ Raythe said gravely.
Then he brought the whip arcing round and slashed it down, cracking it on the boy’s pale, pimply back and breaking the skin in a welt running from right shoulder to left hip. Poel shrieked and collapsed against the tree trunk, held up only by the ropes knotted about his wrists.
Osvard roared like an angry leopard, ‘I’
ll kill you—!’
‘Shut the krag up!’ Elgus bellowed at his son. He stepped into the circle and looking at the precise lash wound, stated, ‘You’ve done this before, Vyre.’
‘I have administered my own discipline, as a good officer should.’
‘A man should always wield his own justice,’ Elgus agreed. He touched his blubbing son’s shoulder and murmured, ‘He’s learned his lesson. Don’t break him. Please.’
Raythe sensed his plea and he lowered the whip, not in fear, but in understanding. They’d reached middle ground on this point, at least. ‘Very well. Jesco, cut him down.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Elgus grated, pulling a dagger and slicing the ropes, then lowering his weeping child to the ground . . . then he properly saw the handprint burnt into the young man’s face. ‘What in the Pit . . .?’
‘My daughter used the praxis, an accidental discharge of power during the assault,’ Raythe told him.
Elgus stared at Zarelda and Raythe feared violence, but instead the knight made the Sign of Gerda. ‘No one will ever touch her again,’ he said solemnly. ‘This I swear.’
Raythe believed him – but did Zar? She looked like she wanted to spit, but for once she swallowed her words and nodded, before her eyes flickered elsewhere – to Banno Rhamp, who was looking utterly wretched.
Perhaps this’ll ram home for her what the Rhamps are like?
But there was still Osvard to deal with. He hefted the horsewhip again, then a hand closed over his wrist.
‘Let me,’ Kemara demanded. When he went to pull away, she kept hold. Up close, she was perspiring heavily, but her eyes shone like moons. ‘Give the whip to me.’
The intensity in her face overrode Raythe’s objections. He looked at Elgus, who grunted, ‘If that’s what she wants.’ He clearly thought it would lessen Osvard’s punishment.
So did Osvard. ‘Sure, let her. She’s can’t hurt me,’ he sneered. ‘Took her down one-handed.’
‘Shut up,’ Elgus hissed again. ‘For krag’s sake, boy, shut up!’
Raythe reluctantly relinquished the whip. ‘Listen—’ he began.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ she snapped, as she confronted Osvard’s mocking face.
‘Come on, then,’ the mercenary jeered, ‘or better yet, why don’t you ram that whip handle up your—’
The lash slashed through the air, a rush of gelid blue light burning Raythe’s retinas as it flew, the sinuous knotted cord of leather bit into Osvard’s back and he screamed as his skin and muscles parted to the very bone and all along the wound, ice formed, blackening the skin.
‘Gerda’s Teats,’ Elgus gasped. ‘What in the Pit—?’
Raythe was almost as astounded, even though he’d guessed at her potential, but he’d sensed no build-up of energy, seen no spell-work – and Kemara looked utterly horrified at what she’d just done, which wasn’t a good thing.
Uncontrolled sorcery – mizra – is the power that destroys civilisations.
Osvard fell to his knees, hanging from his bound wrists, writhing as the ice spread and burrowed, and Raythe realised that this could kill him. He knelt and laid a hand on the man’s back while calling on Cognatus and muttering a counter-spell. Kemara’s magic collapsed and Raythe looked at her. She was just staring, terrified, as people backed away from her.
She lost control, he realised. That happened occasionally in teenagers with sorcerous potential, but she was close on thirty. She needs real training, or to be cauterised properly, before it goes bad.
But from the murmurs around them, everyone thought she’d done it deliberately. ‘Another sorcerer,’ he heard from all around them. ‘She’s an Arcanus too.’ Many made reverent signs, for the Church maintained that the praxis was Gerda’s gift to the world.
Just as many looked scared and hostile.
Osvard was now unconscious, but when Raythe checked his pulse and respiration, he was still alive. He stood. Taking the whip from Kemara’s unresisting hand, he told Elgus, ‘I think the punishment is served. And I think you’ve seen ample reason why your followers should give Mistress Kemara – and every women in our caravan – the respect they’re due. Do not the knights of Pelaria pledge to serve and protect all women? Then honour your vows, and see that your men, the extensions of your will, do likewise.’
Elgus looked at his son, then at the whip. ‘We’ve all learned a great deal tonight,’ he said, in a strained voice. ‘I’ll control my people.’ Then he looked hard at Kemara. ‘You control yours.’
‘I’m answerable to no one,’ Kemara retorted.
The knight bunched a fist – but then he turned it into a dismissive gesture and strode away, his fighting men picking up Osvard and Poel. There were all sorts of backwards looks, blends of fear and malice. Everyone knew of the praxis, but only a sorcerer knew what it could and couldn’t do, and that amplified the natural dread of the uncanny. It would take real courage for anyone to assail Kemara after this.
But that didn’t mean she was safe. ‘Perhaps you should move into my camp, Mistress Kemara?’ Raythe suggested, as everyone left.
‘Why, so you can protect me?’ she sneered.
‘Evidently you need protecting—’
‘He caught me by surprise – it won’t happen again.’
‘But I could teach you—’
‘I’m not interested. I’ve got it leashed.’
‘But—’
Then Zar’s voice cut in. ‘Kemara, you could learn with me?’ she suggested.
When she went off, why did Zar go to Kemara? Raythe wondered suddenly. He’d not sensed any bond between them. But if she hadn’t, Kemara might well be dead.
Kemara stopped, clearly thinking that same thing. Uncertainty creased her angry visage. But then her eyes tightened. ‘I’m not learning it. I don’t want it.’
She whirled and stormed away.
*
For the next few days, the tension in the caravan was like a tightening noose round Zarelda’s throat.
Rhamp’s soldiers and camp-followers refused to mingle with the other groups, but there was no more carousing in their camp, for Sir Elgus had laid down the law. Things had changed, that was clear. She ached to see Banno, but he appeared to be confined to his camp.
She also badly wanted to speak to Kemara. She felt like the attack had formed a tenuous bond between them, and sometimes she caught the redheaded healer watching her.
There was a wonderful compensation, though: Adefar was hers again and their bonding felt complete. Her peril and his immediate response had overridden the stupid little power-plays and now her familiar was devotion itself, protective lest she be assailed again. Every moment she could spare was spent trying safe little spells to deepen their mastery, like braiding ropes, igniting twigs and dousing them, or conjuring puffs of wind. It was wonderful, and almost enough to compensate for the nightmares of being crushed under Poel’s body . . .
It was from just such a dream that she jolted awake one night. She joined her father, sitting beside the fire, and looked up at the glittering stars and Shamaya’s planetary rings. Jesco and Vidar were sleeping, and so was Kemara, beneath her cart nearby. Her father was gazing at the Ferrean woman with an odd expression.
‘Hey,’ she mumbled, poking the fire with a stick, ‘d’you fancy her?’
He harrumphed. ‘She’d bite my head off.’
‘I kind of like her. But I wish she’d learn the praxis.’
Her father sighed. ‘Aye, me too.’
They watched Cognatus and Adefar skirt each other, then blur into bird shape and soar off into the dark, flitting above with sense-defying speed and agility, vanishing, then reappearing. That got her thinking.
‘How come I can sometimes see Adefar – and Cognatus – but other times not?’
‘Spirits are little bundles of intellect and energy,’ her father replied. ‘They can hide from us or each other at will, and we can command them to do so as well. In Teshveld, I had Cognatus conceal himself most of the time, i
n case someone had the witch-sight and realised what I was. You can conceal your aura too. Often it’s best if no one knows who or what you are.’
‘So there could be another sorcerer among us, but if they hid their aura and familiar, we’d never know?’
‘If they’re skilled enough, yes.’
‘That’s a little scary,’ she admitted.
‘It is, but the truth is that magic is slow, and in any case, I’d back myself against most other sorcerers. I’m more scared of an assassin with a gun or a bow.’
She shuddered, unused to thinking of the world in such terms.
‘In time you’ll learn to assess every situation for danger, and how to counter those threats,’ he said. ‘I’ll teach you what spell to conjure in a crisis, which way to move, who to deal with first.’
She remembered how dark her father’s hair had been, and how clear his complexion when they fled Otravia, and compared it to the greying temples, brow and strain lines that marked his face now. If he spent all his time thinking like that, it was no wonder.
‘I miss feeling safe,’ she admitted.
‘Me too.’ He hugged her close. ‘Me too.’
*
At dusk on the fifth day out of the Aldar rath, Raythe was sitting with Zarelda, taking her through her praxis words, while Vidar and Jesco diced and joked. Kemara was a little way away, sitting alone, hunched over her own fire, with them but apart.
Then someone coughed diffidently at the edge of their circle of light: Sir Elgus Rhamp, unarmed, with a small keg under either arm. ‘Raythe,’ he called, ‘can we talk?’
They all rose and Raythe peered into the shadows, but Rhamp looked to be alone.
‘Come ahead,’ he called.
The knight entered the circle of warmth and handed over the two kegs. ‘We’ve reached the end of what Gravis had brewed,’ he rumbled. ‘The last two ale barrels are being rolled into Varahana’s and Vidar’s camps right now, but I figured you might like the good stuff.’
Finally, a peace-offering.
This was necessary, but Raythe was conscious that Zar mightn’t see it like that. He looked at her enquiringly and she murmured, ‘Make up if you have to. Just don’t forget what he’s like.’