Hands trembling now, she removed her belt of charms. She was surprised at how fully his sex was responding: she stepped out of the hide-breeches.
At last she too stood naked, conscious of her body-fragrance, his nearness and of his strained member. She should feel stupid, she thought, yet it seemed quite natural.
Her hands rested upon his bare shoulders, cool and gentle, and her heart hammered as his sex brushed her curling bush of hair; and then their movements ceased to be tentative and inhibited. Instinct embraced them.
The warm and vibrant touch of her body against his was devastating. She felt herself quickening, aglow, soaring to hitherto untapped heights. Yet the ecstasy was short-lived and her emotions tumbled and it was all over too soon, before she could fully savour it.
Later, Slane tenderly stroked her cheek as she laid her head upon his rising chest. “It’s supposed to be like that,” he whispered understandingly. “I’m like you, Fhord – it’s my first time. My sister told me, I’m supposed to endure the same frustration you are right now.”
“It’s natural? This let-down feeling? It was so wonderful and then…”
“It gets better next time, I’m told.”
“You gave me so much pleasure and I want to return that to you.” She recalled the poem by Laan Gibb, What is love? “Love is the gift that is lost too soon.” She felt utterly lost, empty, and defeated: she couldn’t even perform like a woman, Lehun Dess be damned!
“Yes,” he answered, a croak in his voice. “The gift of love is in the heart – no matter what failings the body has, my dearest Fhord.”
She embraced him.
As they caressed each other, he said, “Tell me a story from your Archives, Fhord. I love to listen to stories.”
She smiled, feeling she was on sure ground now, and began her little tale which she called “Works wonders”:
*
“What urge?” the boy asked.
“Thau-mat-urge,” old An-sep repeated, his parchment face creasing in amusement as he leaned over the rough-hewn palace garden wall. “A worker of wonders.”
“So you’re a miracle-man, a – a magician, is that it?” the child observed brightly. “Like Por-al Row in the Annals of Floreskand?”
A frown summoned up a strange, almost other-worldly throaty sound. “Well, sort of, only I’m a little more consistent with my spells.” The lad shrank away slightly, biting his lower lip. “But I follow the Path of Light, unlike poor Por.”
This hasty exposal tended to mollify the boy. Inevitably, he demanded, “Do me a spell, then, old mage, if I’m to believe you!” His tone was imperious, as it should be, An-sep supposed: the boy’s blood was royal, after all. Still, the thaumaturge wondered why he bothered: no amount of patient guidance helped. Once the royal children tasted power, their best intentions went to Oblivion.
At that moment An-sep espied on the other side of the wall the boy’s gravid mother, Queen Marosa strolling between the aisles of sekors, flora of the Overlord.
Perhaps it amounted to sacrilege, but he fancied that the sacred flowers’ beauty paled beside that of the queen.
She was gracefully adorned in a gold brocade maternity gown, her plaited dark hair trailing behind.
There were no attendants in evidence.
She had always been a raven-haired beauty, with shimmering cobalt-blue eyes. But now even at this distance An-sep could detect disquiet in her face: sleep-deprived eyes and a down-turned mouth implied she sorely missed her Lord whose almost obsessed quest for peace in Floreskand had sent him on a mission to neighbouring Goldalese.
“Well?” demanded the prince, glaring.
An-sep shrugged away his concern for the vulnerable-looking woman. Might as well keep the child happy, he’d be ruler soon enough! Intoning words of Quotamontir, he flourished his hands aloft and two white doves materialised, flicking their wings as if to shrug off the after-effects of their astral journey.
The boy was suitably impressed.
Warning tremors surged in An-sep’s temple.
Without thought to the consequences, he scaled the wall and landed in a flurry of robes on royal greensward; the prince exclaimed in alarm, for any commoner who so much as bent these blades of grass would be rent by sword-blades: this was the Law.
But An-sep’s impulse was beyond man-made edict.
Queen Marosa cried out and sank to her knees.
Dragging the boy with him, An-sep ran over the divine flowerbed.
He knelt obeisance and then gently lowered her to the grass. A gnarled cool finger on her head uncreased the brow and the pain seemed to flow out of her.
Her boy prince was trembling, eyes starting at sight of the baby emerging into the world.
It was not a difficult birth; the baby cried with healthy gusto.
The young prince cried too, as he cradled his new brother and held him to his mother’s smiling lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“By your leave,” An-sep stood, bowed and walked the way he had come.
And in his wake the flowers and grass so recently trampled upon now resumed their natural posture as if he had never trespassed.
“Now that’s a miracle, Thaumaturge!” the prince shouted, drying his eyes.
“No, young prince,” An-sep called back, “the real miracle is the life you hold in your arms.”
*
Slane dug Cobrora Fhord playfully in the ribs. “Ah, that was lovely – poor Por, indeed!”
She winced and then sensed his spent member growing as she noticed her nipples hardening to his touch. “I must admit I’ve never known any neighbour’s birth be easy – it’s obviously a man’s tale!”
“No,” he said, kissing her breasts, “I think I understand it now. It wasn’t difficult because An-sep eased all the pain.”
“That’s right, dear Slane,” Fhord whispered.
As he and his confidence grew, he entered her. “Never heard of Queen Marosa, though.”
“No, I made it all up.”
“Well, it was – is – lovely. I’ll remember old An-sep as long as I live, darling Fhord.”
This time, there were no disappointments.
***
She must have lain there for some time. Obviously, the awkward position, lying upon his chest, had aroused her. But no, it had been some form of presentiment.
A threat, she felt sure, though the form it would take remained a mystery.
***
The bones had never lied before. “But him!” snarled Por-al Row. How in all Arion could that weed of a man be a threat to his designs on Yip-nef Dom? The king’s bitch, he could fear her, yes, and that bird. But him? And yet the bones had never lied.
For the last five solid orms he had sweated and strained, losing much weight and power in the effort.
And now he had detected indications regarding the future. A nebulous future, by no means incontrovertible. But the never-to-be-repeated spell had provided an answer.
He hoped it would prove sufficient, for were he to tackle the spell again he wouldn’t survive to see the results.
So, fire was the answer: the bones had been plain enough there!
Por-al Row wiped sweat from his puckered brow and praise to Honsor tripped over his foam-flecked lips.
***
Cobrora Fhord sat up in bed, turned back the covers. Slane smiled contentedly in sleep.
Carefully, she stood and padded to the window.
Dawn was rising quickly today, she thought, as she descried the horizon lightening with a red hue, faster and faster, illuminating the plains beyond to the dunsaron.
Some nagging feeling ordered her senses without her volition. Mechanically, she dressed, hardly moving her eyes from the lightening sky and plainsland.
She glanced back once: Slane continued to sleep and she had no wish to disturb him.
Instinctively, she believed that the danger threatened Courdour and Ulran. No reason, just a feeling.
Fully clothed again,
she stepped out of the window, retrieved her fallen sword and ran round the building towards the lean-to.
A cursory glance before entering the lean-to disclosed the land all lit up with an eerie red-and-yellow glow, quite unlike any sunrise she’d ever seen. Yet – she blinked to make sure – yes, the horizon to the dunsaron had now darkened again. As if some celestial body of light were streaking across the land in their direction.
She barged in and shook Ulran awake without ceremony, her whole body and mind rebelling at the sight she had just witnessed. It wasn’t natural, surely.
To her surprise Courdour was awake and fully clothed, studying the rafters.
As Ulran unquestioningly thrust his feet into tough hide boots, Fhord said, “I fear some wizardry – an attack on us!”
“Wizardry?” queried Courdour derisively. “You came barging in here – disturbing my reverie – and for what?”
Ulran shot a warning look at the warrior. “What signs, Fhord?” he asked levelly.
The use of the first-name was not lost on her. “Light – fire - streaking across the land – it isn’t natural–”
The blast and explosion shook the lean-to and the rafters groaned, metal pins squeaked free and splinters showered all of them. The silkworm cages burst open onto the floor.
“Get out!” Ulran shouted, shoving Fhord to the door. “It’s an attack!”
Courdour Alomar was close on their heels, the whinnying of the horses shrill in their ears.
They got out barely in time.
Tears streamed down Fhord’s face as she stared, clamped in Ulran’s firm embrace. “It was a fireball, just a freak, not an attack. It hit the main house,” he said. “They didn’t stand a chance.”
The rest of the house was a raging inferno and the flames rapidly spread to the collapsed lean-to.
Starkly lit, the group stood well back from the incredible heat.
“Let me go,” Fhord wailed, “let me at least try to help them!”
“It’s not only the fire,” Alomar growled. “You’ve got smoke to contend with – and you’re not kith of that lesslord!”
Sobbing uncontrollably, she lowered to her knees, fists pounding the dirt in anguished futility.
Ulran tried telling her that Slane wouldn’t have suffered greatly. The entire family had been wiped out in an instant. But his words seemed quite inadequate consolation.
All she could say, over and over again, was “But who – who – who could’ve unleashed a weapon of the very demons of Below?”
***
Second Sabin’s daylight showed the sad remains, merely a few charred uprights of ironwood, a blackened stone tower where the hearth had stood.
There was nothing to bury, the heat had been so intense.
Fortunately for them, the paddock where the horses and mule spent the night had been far enough away to survive unscathed, though even in the new day the horses took some calming even with all Ulran’s remarkable gifts.
As they rode across the charred grass that led dunsaronwards, Courdour Alomar leaned on his pommel. “Don’t read any more into last night than you ought, Cobrora Fhord,” he said sternly. “It was simply a fireball – a rare enough phenomenon, true – but natural enough. Do you understand – natural, not supernatural?”
Wordlessly, Fhord nodded.
Courdour persisted. “You young folk must learn to take knocks like this, you know. I mourn their loss too; I knew the whole family for a long time. By the gods, if you’d lived my span, you’d know! I’m telling you – I’ve seen fireballs before. It’s an accident of nature – nothing to do with your silly gods!”
“Alomar!” Ulran warned.
The warrior shrugged, pulled his floppy black hat over his eyes. “She’ll learn.” He sighed and rode on ahead.
***
Pale and trembling, Por-al Row stared, bemused, at the dimming picture. He would have liked to believe it was through his own influence, but he knew neither his power nor his spells were that strong. No alchemist living would have achieved that!
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder at the startling coincidence. The fireball had almost claimed the youth, as the bones had revealed.
He felt sure that fire was the city-dweller’s nemesis.
He scowled. If Yip-nef Dom had been here to see it, he would have claimed credit for the fireball’s appearance! The fool, knowing no better, would have believed him and been impressed. What an opportunity to curry favour, to beat the king’s she-cat at her own treacherous game! But it was no use thinking of what might have been, he scolded himself. Also, he had to face facts: apart from the grossly vague predictions through the bones, there was no way to view the future.
Por-al Row sighed. If only the Old Ways of the Sonalume Angkorites hadn’t been lost all those years ago!
***
Two days from the Bashen housestead’s burned husk, on the Second Dekin of Fornious, they came again upon Saloar Teen and rode along its bank for two days.
Over this period Fhord remained morose and uncommunicative.
Courdour supplemented their diet with his hunting prowess, his arrows and sling-stones claiming buck, rabbit and the occasional fowl.
At times Fhord found the warrior’s vitriolic tongue unbearable and fretted, unable to sleep. She was aware of a gradual decline in her general fitness, and her appetite had diminished to the point of virtual fasting. No urging from Ulran seemed to persuade her to eat. Although aware that her secret was revealed now, she didn’t care. It no longer mattered. Even if they didn’t want a woman to accompany them, they wouldn’t leave her behind; they’d come too far now to send her back. She rode with them but to all intents and purposes was not of their company any more.
To compound the feelings of loss and inadequacy that she experienced, Ulran’s matchless stionery kept them sheltered and dry when clouds burst and the winds howled. She appreciated Ulran’s efforts to keep things as smooth as possible between her and Courdour, but she was beginning to feel that perhaps the warrior’s opinion was correct, that Cobrora Fhord, psychic and city-dweller, had no right to be on this trek.
She eyed her amulets with rheumy eyes. What good were they? Her hands trembled, and she was tempted to throw the trinkets away. She had tackled Courdour with the loss of the effigy and the near-tragedy at the teen. But the warrior remained unconvinced that the two incidents were connected. Their argument had grown so heated that she had feared they would come to blows; she’d almost welcomed it! But Ulran’s calming intervention prevented that.
She didn’t particularly care, she’d become quite reckless of late.
Time and again, as she cast modesty aside and took off her shirt to wash herself in the teen, she would imbibe the scent of Slane left on the garment and she would fight to keep back the tears. Thoughts of Slane invaded her conscious moments repeatedly and were brutally obliterated with a dusting of black, anonymous ash.
***
All this time, Scalrin hadn’t landed once, forever gliding and soaring, sometimes jostling for sky with a few audacious plovers or forktails. To Ulran, Scalrin always seemed the epitome of logic. Yet, for mortal man, such implicit reliance on logic was dangerous: instinct and intuitive practice had saved him on countless occasions where strict application of logic would have doomed him. He wondered too about the running feud between his companions. Now Cobrora Fhord was definitely becoming a liability. And, for all his age, sagacity and renown, Alomar was a cantankerous old devil at times!
***
Courdour Alomar’s thoughts on Fhord had mellowed since they had rejoined the teen. At the sad remains of the Bashen housestead, he had not fully appreciated how deep the girl’s feelings for the Slane lad had been. Unbidden, painfully clear memories of Jaryar invaded his mind. Indirectly, it was because of her that he was perpetually wandering, seeking the Navel.
The warrior involuntarily sighed; yes, he understood the strength and implacable nature of love. Perhaps he had been over-harsh with Fhord because of
Jaryar, not wanting her to suffer as he himself had. But the girl irritated him immensely – because of her youth? Or perhaps because of her mortality? How young, he thought suddenly, how young was I when that fateful day occurred?
Too much time had passed; he forgot; but he was probably no more than Cobrora Fhord’s age. He shook himself savagely; so long since he had dwelled upon his past, particularly that agonising portion. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t help you find the Navel, he thought.
They spotted no recent signs of the Devastators and on the Second Dloin they struck manderon, away from the curving teen, with the miasma of the marsh on their horizon, no more than a day’s hard ride distant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NEBULOUS
A fortress, precipice-enfolded
In a gash of the wind-lashed Sentinel Mountains.
– The Lay of Lorgen
At first light they reached Marron Marsh. Grey-green wisps eddied above the long damp grasses and reeds. Fhord grasped for her amulets; but there was no god of marshes. The horses sensed something uncanny about the place as well; as they approached, the marsh-cloud looming ever larger, the animals shied and the travellers had great difficulty calming them.
Even Versayr proved troublesome and excitable. Ulran called ahead to Courdour: “You really live in that muck?” There was no incredulity in his voice, no surprise: he just could not find the idea normal.
“Aye. Toran Nebulous is in its centre. Well-guarded, don’t you think?”
Behind them, birds whistled and sang, the breeze rustled the grass, the air smelled fresh and was clear. But as they reined in at the brim of the Marsh, not a sound carried from that place. They could glimpse but fleetingly a little distance within the swirling murk. Unpleasant prickling traced Fhord’s spine.
“Let’s get on, then, I’m eager to be home!” Courdour disparagingly eyed the city-dweller. And so saying he pushed Borsalac deeper into the mists, hoofs squelching and splashing in the bog-like ground. “Follow me closely else you’ll be dragged from sight and human ken!” he bellowed over his shoulder and laughed.
And his laughter echoed, seeming to bounce from the grey banks of mist.
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