Mistress of the Gods

by Rex Sumner

  The pain flamed for a moment, before turning to ice inside her and she felt herself slipping away, to where she knew not, but she became conscious of a great yawning vortex appearing beside them, a darkness from which she could hear delighted yammerings.

  The bishop bent his head once more to repeat the treatment, when a golden bade slipped in front of his lips. He froze.

  “Who gave you permission to play with my servant, creature? You, who serve nothing, long lost while your God lies in the dust, murdered by your predecessors before the time your memories reach. Do you not know you are lost yourself? Taken by the dark, which offers nought in return, for they are not of our world?”

  Golden light filled the room, as the bishop backed up, rising to his feet as he stared at the blade, before raising his head to start in astonishment at the sight of Danu in her glory, radiating golden light and between Diane and Diana, grim visages both.

  “Still alive?” The bishop gaped in wonder. “Oh, so foolish, woman, for now we know where you are and how to find you. I will leave you your plaything and return for my legions. We shall devastate you, tear you apart and send you to the pit.”

  As he spoke, he grasped his own silver blue cord and pulled, a grin of triumph on his face. He shot backwards, to slam into the broad chest of Crom, whose ancient craggy face gleamed malevolent, non-human eyes at him, while grasping the cord in one hand, bent in two and pinched to stop the travel.

  “See your doom, human.” The voice low and gravelly gave the Bishop pause.

  “Clever, creature, but pointless. The cords cannot be broken. Now I see you, I shall find another route.”

  “Creature? You are so young, you who think yourself strong, yet you have no idea with whom you deal or the eons in which we have learnt about this realm.”

  Crom raised his hand and placed the cord between his teeth, giving the bishop a gentle, sad smile in complete contrast to his actions. The bishop’s face contorted to horror, as the God ground his teeth, severing the cord and allowing two ends to flap to the ground.

  For a moment, Bishop Schofield’s mouth gaped in horror. An unearthly scream began, causing some of the unaware soldiers in the room to start, before his astral body jerked back into the corner. It advanced to the bed, retreated, leapt into a strange one-sided fight, before backing off and diving to the ground, dragging an invisible body back to his corner. A moment with the body before the cycle began again

  Susan watched in amazement, still feeling the blackness deep in her lungs. A cry from the room drew her attention, to where an old woman, naked but for strange blue symbols and sigils marked in blood, stood at the end of the bed crying out at the shades, waving something at them which she realised was a dripping head.

  The shades appeared weaker, and she realised most were no longer on the king, but drifting in uncertain circles. Before her eyes, one leapt on another, attacking and devouring it. A second fight broke out between the shades, more evenly matched as the shades winked out, one by one.

  Annette looked at Susan and the Gods, before nodding and bending to her work on the king. The princess stood at her elbow, holding a bowl of steaming water, with a serious expression on her face. The Elven singer stood at the foot of the bed, face wreathed in smiles as she watched the shades die, crooning a low song in Elvish.

  Susan felt warm arms wrap themselves around her, and Danu herself bent to kiss her. Warm breath flooded into her lungs, driving the darkness before it. She blinked a few times, looking up at Danu’s smiling face, before accepting her hand and getting to her feet.

  “The darkness is not truly gone, my Shelagh, but it will not affect you now. You are forever marked as one who has been to the dark side, and the true golden ones will shun you, but know you may become a grey walker, one who can enter the dark without fear. The dark will think you one of their own, to bear this mark and live.”

  Susan didn’t understand this, but nodded anyway, wanting to help the king and staggering towards him. Danu restrained her.

  “No, child, you cannot help here. We shall call upon our good friends who will help the witch, as indeed she has called them. They work on the king’s spirit and the witch does the rest. We shall watch a while, back here in the shadows where we do not distract.”

  “They cannot see us?”

  “Nay, nor hear or feel us. Well, you may project love, they will feel that. Children often see us, as do animals. But only the adepts who can travel the aether, like the witch and the singer, know we are here. It is not good for a warrior to be able to see his enemy after he is slain, and most of these are warriors.”

  Annette cleansed the wound, easing out the pus as the princess gagged but stayed with her. The king’s breathing became more restful and even, his eyes opening and taking in the scene around his bed.

  “Hardenwall has fallen, Dad,” said the princess. “The Kingslayer raised the city and they swept away the false duke. We have control of the city and you are being treated by the best healers available.”

  The king stared at Annette in amazement, while she cackled and waved the late duke’s head at him.

  Danu drifted forward, turning to Crom. “Time to go, I think. She has experienced enough for today, take her home and let her recover. A few days rest before you travel again. Your training is fast as ever, my friend.”

  Crom nodded, eyes twinkling deep under his heavy brow. “She surprised me a little, Lady, by working out how to travel on her own. Didn’t know where she went till she called us. All good learning, and I think she will benefit from being touched by the dark. A vision from the ancient one says she has travels and work ahead.”

  “I have some knowledge of this, he has spoken with me too. Go, now. We are close behind.”

  *

  The sun dipped down to kiss the sea, beaming trails of gold towards the shore. Susan watched, content, as she sipped a soothing tea concocted from mint and elder. She reclined in a chair, an object of some wonder amongst the Tuatha da Danann who were not good at innovation. A Brownie had made it to her specifications, with broad feet to avoid sinking in the ground, carved with fantastic representations of what Susan now knew to be the people of the aether, although she had yet to meet any who looked anything like them.

  She considered life as she reflected on the past week, content to know Harrhein fared well in her absence. Crom refused to answer her questions on the dark side and took care to avoid certain parts of the aether, as she now began to realise. She no longer needed the mushrooms to find herself travelling and often explored alone, something not exactly forbidden but she chose not to tell anyone.

  Especially not about Hermodr. This confusing figure she met one night while Crom conducted one of his rites with his acolytes. She wasn’t sure which realm, but it was far and cold, and he entranced her with song and music, showing her much that was different to the knowledge of Crom and Danu.

  He confessed to being a cousin of sorts, but said they didn’t know about him, thought all his line was gone and it was best so. Indeed, she received the strong impression that he spent all his time in the aether. He told her this was true for many people.

  His very touch intoxicating, she knew she would let him make love to her in the aether in the near future, and thrilled at the thought. Another reason not to tell Crom about him, not that Crom was jealous, far from it. The Tuatha da Danann did not understand the concept and thought she should harvest the energy of many men, ready for ceremonies. Crom spent long hours teaching her how to collect the energies and later give them back to him for his own rituals.

  Her future, that was a question. It was clear she would not remain long amongst the Gods, and she felt she would go back to Harrhein, but she couldn’t see how this would happen. In the meantime there was much to learn, not just about the aether but about the more mundane sexual activity being taught to the acolytes like Fionur, which could be used to bind ordinary mortal
s.

  This appealed, and she wondered at the change from the shy, unassuming girl who wanted to be queen, but remained very decorous in bed. She laughed, remembering her shock at Irina’s abilities and knowing that now she far surpassed that skill. She wondered about the Seminary, whether it would be interesting to visit and see how they trained.

  How was the king? She sipped her tea and decided to look in on him later, make sure all was well in the kingdom. She needed to find a witch or follower of the old ways who could see her, so she could pass messages. Not that she was allowed to visit Count Rothestone, whom Danu warned her was well protected by dark travellers.

  Decision made, she relaxed, sipped her tea and smiled as the sun dipped below the horizon in a burst of red.

  --ooOoo--

  Mistress of the Kingdom

  Susan’s story continues in Mistress of the Kingdom, due to be published in 2018, when she makes a return to Harrhein. The kingdom continues to suffer from the machinations of Rotherstone and his friends, and she begins to determine a shadowy hand behind him.

  Will Redcloak and his players return to lend her employment and friendship, to the outrage of the Church which has no idea who she might be.

  The Princess continues her development, studying mischief in the main to the discomfort of the court and is banned from visiting the Lord of the North. Jeremy and Lionel manage to create sufficient havoc to outstay their welcome in Harrhein and set off on a great adventure.

  The king meanwhile, approves plans to build a ship....

  Please enjoy the first chapter:

  The rain lashed Colonel Drummond’s face as he rode up the pike, grinning at the beetling craggy face of the Hardenwall to his front, looming out of the darkening clouds. His small troop clattered into the gate, swung wide at their arrival. A bare-chested, muscled figure painted in blue sauntered out of the guardhouse.

  “You’n that Pathfinder laddie, I remember you’n,” he said. “You’n yourn are areet, get on down the track to the palace, laddie. Wan’ some uisge?”

  Drummond accepted the proffered leather flask with a small smile, betraying real warmth at the gift. So very different from his last arrival.

  “You are a gentleman, sir, much appreciated,” he said.

  The guard snorted. “Gennlem’n? We squishes those. G’arn with ye, get that down yer throat an’ warm yersel’ up fer the party at the palace.”

  Drummond saluted him with the bottle, taking a hearty swig to a nod of approval, and cantered down the main road leading up to the palace. The populace milled through the streets, he noted, smiling and waving at the soldiers. A couple of girls even flashed their breasts as they passed and he reflected on the change in attitude since his last visit. The late Duke Hardenwall must have oppressed the people even more than he appreciated. He rather liked this different, friendly attitude and felt his men would be safe walking the streets at night now. He could feel his troop perking up as a similar realization spread through them. He smiled into the rain.

  Wranglers waited in the palace yard, taking his horse straight to the stables as he dismounted, the boy not speaking but flashing a quick smile.

  “Jenkins, I am sure these lads will look after the horses well, but follow along and double check, there’s a good lad.” The Pathfinder to whom he spoke nodded his head and followed on, leading his own horse and shrugging off the attentions of a lad. Drummond strode into the palace and made his way to the wing containing the officers mess. All the old paintings gone, he noted, different coats of arms that he did not recognize and some rather splendid old paintings of landscapes and an enormous, wingless dragon talking to some people painted in the eponymous blue.

  After a moment trying to understand the painting, he pushed open the door to the mess and ducked as a knife flashed past his head.

  “Silly bastard,” said a feminine voice in a broad local accent. “Why dontcha knock before coming in? Us girls mighta been nekkid.”

  “Probly why he dinna,” said another, “hoping to take a peek, he is.”

  Drummond found himself on the floor, his sword half drawn, with two girls glaring at him. After a moment to relax at the absence of real danger, he realized the two young girls were the only occupants of the room.

  “Ah, ladies, my apologies. Last time I was here this was the Officers Mess, I sought to change from my travelling clothes before meeting with Sir Jeremy. Could you tell me…”

  “You sayin’ we aint ladies?” The knife thrower brandished another knife and interrupted him. “We’uns orficers too, I’ll have ya know.”

  “Real…” he bit off the word before he could finish, seeing the danger of upsetting them further, before realizing they were from Sir Jeremy’s personal guard. Of course they would have made themselves officers, bloody hell-cats thought they were the bee’s knees. “I didn’t recognize you with clothes, I mean your uniform is unique.” On his last visit, the girls wore nothing at all, just blue paint. Now they wore plaid, skirts to below the knee and a loose blouse giving plenty of room to swing an arm. Seeing the narrowing of eyes and whitening nostrils, he continued in haste. “I must say, it is very becoming. The colours set off your hair, a perfect setting for such pearls of beauty.”

  The two redheads relaxed, one preening in visible pleasure.

  “Why, he speaks right pretty, he does. Think he fancies us’n more with clothes on, he does, bloody weirdo that’s for sure.”

  Seeing the girls relaxed and imminent danger passed, he rose to his feet, still wary. “Ah, ladies, may I ask, why the knives? Why do you throw them at me?”

  “Silly bastid, if’n we were throwing at youse, we would’ve hit yer. The knife is the Brionne’s own weapon, sure it is, so we practice in here, we do.”

  He glanced to his left and discovered the paintings of the late duke were being put to good use, with four knives sticking from various parts of his anatomy.

  “See, here,” said the knife thrower, to his alarm manifesting right beside him and slipping a cool, slender and surprisingly strong arm around his waist, pulling him deeper into the room. “If’n you’ve come to see the Brionne, you brung orders? We goin’ to war?”

  “Well,” he said, wrong-footed. “I do bear a message from the king, but it is for Sir Jeremy and I cannot possibly divulge it.” The second girl now had her arm around him from the other side and he found himself being propelled towards a chair, into which they pushed him. One sat on the arm of the chair and the other slipped onto his knee, her hand rising to fondle the back of his head.

  “Oh, tush,” she said. “Ah’m Morag, and anythink the Brionne knows, I knows too. We gotta make sure he’s safe, see. Youse wanna wash before’n you see him? We kin help ya. You from Feeraigh? We likes you clean boys, we do, Miriam and me.”

  Drummond considered himself a ladies man, or had when he was younger, but now he possessed a wife and child in Praesidium and had no idea how to react to these forward girls, so different to any in his experience. With a determined effort of will and body, he pushed himself upright, thinking to dump Morag on the floor but she landed on her feet. He grabbed his bag and hurried to a spare room, speaking over his shoulder.

  “No, I’m from Praesidium. Married, don’t you know. Thank you for the kind invitation, quite able to change on my own.” The door closed on a sound suspiciously like giggles.

  Appearing ten minutes later, the epitome of a Pathfinder Colonel in his best uniform, he found the mess deserted and strode down the corridor to the throne room.

  Here he found Sir Jeremy and Sir Lionel along with half a dozen Lancers and a similar number of locals plus a fearsome, tattooed warrior, all studying a map. Morag and Miriam, as innocent as two little fawns in a woodland glade, smiled demurely from behind Jeremy.

  “Drummond,” said Sir Lionel. “Welcome. You been to Spakka?”

  Colonel Drummond approached the table, again wrong-fo
oted by this dispensing of the usual etiquette and realized they studied a map of the eastern seas and Spakka. The most detailed of any in his experience.

  “Ah, no sir, not yet. Are you planning a raid?”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Sir Jeremy. “Getting boring here, and doesn’t look like a campaign this summer.”

  ‘Which,’ thought Drummond, ‘tells me exactly nothing. More to this lad than I realized.’

  “Well,” he said, “there may be something in the offing.”

  “Yes,” said Jeremy. “You come from the king? What does he have to say?” The girls snickered and Drummond looked askance at the many people in the room. Jeremy continued. “You can speak in front of them. No secrets amongst Lancers or the North. Not healthy, secrets.”

  Drummond realized the truth of that. “The King bids you come with your brother to the capital. He has a mission for you.”

  “Does he now,” said Lionel, while a small undercurrent of noise went around the interested people round the table. Matt passed Drummond a flagon, from which he took an injudicious swig before realizing it was uisge, not wine.

  “What’s the mission?” Jeremy asked, leaning forward with interest. “Didn’t know we had any enemies left.”

  “I am not privy to His Majesty’s thoughts on the matter,” said Drummond with as much diplomacy as he could muster in the face of a mass snort of disbelief from around the table.

  “It’ll be Susan,” said Lionel with finality. “Remember how upset he was with Donnell saying she was dead? If he either doesn’t believe it or wants her body back, or wants to know what happened, somebody has to go to Coillearnacha, and who are his elf experts? Either us or the Church, and he won’t ask them.”

  “I think you are probably right,” said Jeremy, musing while he stroked Morag’s thigh. Drummond took a great interest in his uisge as the girl stared at him. “What do you think, Drummond? Know anything about the girl?”