by Ted Striker
Chapter 39
Ayabis sat stubbornly behind the small table that Shimshon travelled with. An untouched flagon of wine stood before her.
“You’ve become stubborn, my dear,” commented Shimshon with his superior smile. “Enjoy it while you can.” He lounged back on his richly appointed travelling couch and sipped from his own cup.
Ayabis did not speak. A manservant brought roast fowl and tubers, set the platter on the table, and left. In a moment he returned with a new bottle of wine.
“Oh, come, now,” said Shimshon after the servant had departed the second time. “Will you pout and waste all this good wine and food? Don’t tell me that you would rather be clapped in irons naked in a drafty tent where any soldier could come in.”
The silence continued. Shimshon sighed. “Well, then, let me tell you what is going to happen. You will be clapped in irons, but you will sleep in this tent.” As Ayabis stirred angrily, he said placatingly, “Alone, for tonight at any rate. Tomorrow you will be bathed and dressed appropriately for your former station, for the benefit of both your husband and his reluctant replacement. And, please allow me to say here how disappointing it is to see that you have not been able to drag the future King into your bed. He seems to be worse than Melthane, always ready to put the welfare of others ahead of his own.”
Shimshon interrupted himself a second time. “Did you know that The Captain turned down enough gold to buy himself a duchy? All he would have had to do was shove your horse down a hillside and make sure that you broke your pretty neck. This Bryan is cut from the same cloth. The fact that he is a young man should only have made him more vulnerable to your charms. Is there something the matter with him?”
He waved away her answer. “It doesn’t matter. He could no more pass up a chance to save an entire kingdom than I could pass up a brothel. He will be at the square to take up his new position tomorrow. Even if he is still reluctant, Connor will see to it that he is there. The Laignach have a vested interest in seeing Bryan set on the throne, for they know that I will hunt them down ten times more ruthlessly than Porvir ever did.” He drank from his golden goblet and poured more wine.
“Of course, after tomorrow you will have none of the protections you are enjoying tonight. That drafty tent I spoke of will become your kingdom until we return to the Empire. I understand that the prisoners in the Imperial dungeons are fed a thin stew of whatever meat is available, usually rat, I think. Not even water is given. Of course, you may not end up in the dungeons. His Imperial Highness may have you executed as soon as we return to the City.”
He took another sip. “Or he may strap you down over a barrel in the Garrison exercise yard for the use of the Guard. He seems to think that a wonderful punishment for men and women alike; I know that the Guardsmen surely appreciate it. My sergeant was telling me that the last wench there – one of our mutual cousins, her father was slow in cooperating with some whim of His Highness – only lasted for a half day. The body wasn’t removed until nightfall since it seems that the troops didn’t realize she was gone until they came to bring her the evening meal.”
Shimshon gauged the temper of his silent listener. “A pity that you did not have the foresight to seduce Bryan. Who knows? I might have been able to arrange to spare you so that you could be used as a carrot and a stick for the new King of North Keep.”
Ayabis listened to her cousin the Imperial captain drone on about the horrible things that he had planned for her immediate future. He had bullied, used, tortured and outguessed her since before puberty, when he had discovered the things that Aradia had been teaching her. Her father had refused to arrange a marriage between Shimshon and herself, and in revenge for her father’s stubbornness, the Emperor had arranged the much less advantageous match with Porvir. Shimshon had spitefully added his own revenge to that by becoming the Imperial Liaison to North Keep and using his knowledge of Ayabis and her supposed crimes to blackmail her into continuing to be his docile plaything.
No more. Now that death was her only option, she had lost any fear she might have had. The witch Aradia had taught her the botany and chemistry of magic as well as the formulae and methods for controlling magical energies, and Ayabis had been able to pluck just the plant she needed on the walk to the tent. She might be destined to die, but Shimshon was going to die before she did; she promised herself that.
They might burn her for it, but he would burn, too, from the inside out.
Chapter 40
Connor strode up and down the length of the council chamber like a caged wolf. He stopped and glared at Bryan. “You are not being reasonable!” he roared.
“Don’t vent your anger at me just because you know you made a bad decision.” Bryan sat quietly at the table. A mug of Liam’s gold was in front of him, and he took it up and sipped. “And reasonable or not, you know that I am right. You’re letting this Captain Shimshon intimidate you, and once a man starts to retreat, it’s hard to stop. If you do what Shimshon wants, if you let him have his way, then you belong to him. It will be a hundred times harder to throw off his yoke later, and a thousand times more costly in lives.”
The full council, all six of them, listened to the argument. The older Wolves followed the dispute intently, eyes switching back and forth between Connor and Bryan as if watching a tennis match.
“The man has two hundred soldiers!” yelled Connor. “We are not so strong that we can fight that many, and even if we did manage to defeat his troops, the Empire would only send a thousand more!” He brushed a hand through his salt-and pepper mane of hair, tousling it into even greater disarray than it had been in before.
“You brought them here,” said Bryan.
Branna spoke for the first time. “And that’s not the first time you’ve taken things in to your own hands, is it? Conn had hoped to be able to build a coalition of the clans and families quietly, so that when the Empire finally began to send its troops to the north we could resist more effectively.”
Connor stood stock-still, seeming not to breathe.
“You thought that would make us weak in relation to the other clans, didn’t you?” The Wolf Queen continued her quiet attack. “I remember you and him fighting about it in this very room. And when he stood firm against you, that was when you allowed Phelan to take over. Oh, perhaps you didn’t mastermind the murder of your son, but you ignored it.”
Aodhan looked up sharply. He had been running a stone along the edge of his sword, but now he stopped in mid-stroke. Neit choked on his swallow of whiskey and began to cough spasmodically. Aodhan pounded him on the back.
The members of the Council stared at Branna in openmouthed silence.
“Phelan couldn’t take the chance that Conn would defeat him in a Challenge fight, so he arranged for the North Keep ambush, but you must have suspected, Connor.”
Bryan said, “And then you manipulated Branna into having me fight Phelan.”
Tamoth and Jwilla were at the back of the room. Bryan heard Tamoth’s rumble. “Our little boy has grown up.”
Jwilla snorted.
Connor glared at Bryan. “By what right d’you dare to accuse me?” he demanded.
“By the right, dear Connor,” said Branna in a softly dangerous voice, “of being the man who cleaned up the mess you made by replacing Conn with that beast Phelan.” She stood and stepped closer to the Council leader. “Your earlier treachery became clear to me this morning, when you repeated it.”
“This is ridiculous!” Connor turned to the Council and held out his hands as if invoking understanding. “You all know what was done. You were all here when Conn and I fought over the direction he was taking the Clan.”
The Council members were murmuring.
“When I saw what you’d done in bringing the Empire upon us,” said Branna. “I realized that you had to have tried this kind of thing before. Do you deny this?”
The old Wolf sighed. His shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he said heavily, “I consented to the death of your mate, my
eldest son, but not knowingly! His vision of the future would have led to the dwindling and destruction of our Clan, and he would not be dissuaded. Phelan told me that he could convince Conn of the mistake he was making. They went into the Forest to hunt, and Phelan returned alone with the story of an attack by Porvir. I didn’t know it then, but I had arranged for the murder of my own son.” Connor fell to his knees with his head in his hands. Hot tears flowed through his fingers to splash on the stone floor.
Aodhan stood up and moved to stand beside Connor. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Neit. “It seemed that Phelan would be ideal as Clan Chief,” he said. “But he was too brutal, too much the Beast. His way seemed promising at first, but it drove a wedge between ourselves and the other clans of the Laignach to the point that a war between our kind was eminent.”
Connor took Aodhan’s hand and got slowly to his feet. He took a long draught of whiskey and sighed again. “I beg your forgiveness, Daughter. I thought that I knew best, and would not see otherwise until it was too late. I suppose that an old fool must make the same mistake twice before seeing the error of his ways.”
He looked up into Branna’s eyes, seeming suddenly old and stooped. “I will accept whatever punishment my Queen decides to lay upon me.”
Aodhan spoke. “Queen Branna, whatever happened before Bryan defeated Phelan, know that we as Clan Council took these actions, and took them because we thought them best for the Clan. No one of us stands alone in guilt.”
Connor waved his hand dismissively. “I forced the matter every time,” he said. “I take all of the blame.”
Branna walked around the long council table and made shooing motions to the elders there, who left their seats and slunk around to stand beside their Leader. Bryan started to walk to the rear wall to join Tamoth and Jwilla. “No, Bryan,” said the Wolf Queen. “Come stand beside me.”
Then she turned to face the Council members. “As the Laignach of Clan Conroight now have a Queen, the Clan Council is hereby dissolved. I shall create my own Council in my own time. Connor Maccon, for your crimes, you and your cronies deserve nothing more than to have your heads mounted on the spikes outside the town. I, however, have another thought. You, Aodhan, and Neit are all bound over in service to Lord Bryan, until such time as he shall release you. ”
Connor bowed his head. “We accept the just punishment of our Queen,” he intoned solemnly “Lord Bryan, we will serve you with all our might and intelligence, even unto death.”
Bryan answered the grave speech with a grin. “So let’s put your devious mind to work on getting free of that Imperial asshole Shimshon. I want you to help me plan how to rescue Ayabis while at the same time avoiding Shimshon Anistif’s scorpion sting.”
“But ‘tis impossible!” Connor started to object. Bryan held up his hand.
“No,” he said. “Your job is to tell me how to do things, not why they can’t be done. Let’s come up with a way. You’ll have to do the rescue part without me, of course; I’ll be fighting the ‘unbeatable’ Thorm.”
“What!” Branna stared at him. “You will not!”
“I will. I’ve thought this through, Branna. I don’t see any other way to fix this mess. Connor, you are going to get your wish, but I simply will not be Shimshon’s creature. So I have to Challenge Porvir and win the kingdom on my own.”
“Ayabis was right, though,” said Afixio. “Thorm has never been beaten.”
“With the Challenge against Phelan under my belt, I’m practically an expert on the things. Plus, I have an edge,” he said, patting the Soul Sword. It seemed to purr in contented anticipation.
“I believe that I can offer some ideas for our part in the rescue,” Jwilla said. She moved to the table, followed by Tamoth, who had to watch his head with the chandeliers and hanging torches.
“How’s your butt?” asked Bryan.
“Almost healed,” rumbled the centaur seriously. “Ironic that a partial healing ends up taking longer than nature does, but the reason is that the healer has to return and dissolve any scar tissue from the earlier healing.”
“Right,” said Bryan. “Thanks for the update.”
Jwilla brushed by Bryan. “Very well, ‘Hero,’” she said. “Let’s look at the diagram of the town square so we can walk through some ideas about how to get through this alive.”
Chapter 41
“Lord Porvir,” intoned the Mistress of Virgins in solemn tones, “all is ready.”
Porvir felt a cruel satisfaction course through him; as King of North Keep, it was his responsibility to usher in the planting and the harvest. Before he killed Harald, this had involved the sacrifice of a lamb and some new plants, but that had changed when Porvir took the kingdom. He had replaced the peaceful animal and plant sacrifices with a vicious human sacrifice, and now the two equinoxes were welcomed by the ritual despoilment and killing of a maiden.
This and other dark sacrifices had profited Porvir well. Since the King chose the victims, nobles and merchants alike knew that the proper forfeit of funds could spare their daughters, and the burden fell on the daughters of those unable to pay or those who somehow offended a member of the North Keep Court.
The chosen maidens were imprisoned in the Virgin House for months preceding the sacrifice, both to prevent families from hiding their girl children and to provide Porvir the opportunity of abusing the girls until the rite. The fact that the so-called ‘virgin’ sacrificial victims were not virgins bothered him not at all. He was Lord here, after all; none dared object.
The King adjusted his ceremonial armor, and strode importantly through the tiled hall to his waiting chariot. His black-armored champion, Thorm, was statue-still at the door, and Dumitrou stood ready outside. The priest of Offet was missing, but that made no difference, really. If Afixio had been here instead of in the belly of some Wolf, his duties would have been to make the traditional invocations for a plentiful harvest at the temple of Offett, rites which were more welcome to the farmers, peasants, and townspeople than those that were about to take place. The King had taken extra pleasure in rubbing the priest’s nose in the suffering of the victims, but this season the only pleasures he would have would be those he extracted from the victim.
And, he thought with a sudden surge of anger, even that pleasure was marred by the attendance of that Imperial idiot Shimshon and his troops. Their presence was a damned nuisance more than anything else.
“All is as you would expect, your Grace,” said Dumitrou. He glanced around the area in front of the castle warily, in spite of the presence of the two hundred troops. The square was lined with wanly cheering townspeople, prodded by men at arms into early morning attendance, the sparse numbers bolstered by Shimshon’s men.
The King looked around the square at the listless people with angry, cold eyes, his beard jutting fiercely. How he despised this place! He had come here at the command of the Emperor with instructions to ensure the blockage of undesirables from the North and the flow of riches into the Imperial coffers. When the former king had protested at the draconian taxes, he had killed Harald and ripped the crown from the man’s bloody head. When the heads of the royal household were raised up on spikes outside the castle walls, the merchants and farmers had stopped whining about how harsh the taxes were and knuckled under. King Porvir had been able to begin to magnify his kingship, increasing revenues by raiding north to the communities outside his protection, robbing even caravans nominally under Imperial protection. He had gotten money, women, fear and respect. Things had finally been going well.
And then this thorn in his ass, this Bryan! Bryan had cost him his wife, his reluctant magician, half his men, and all the fear he had built up over the years. Instead of raking in the gold and silver, he was now forced to spend it to supply these two hundred commentaries on his weakness from the Imperial city. And Shimshon! He hadn’t seen the man yet, but Porvir knew that the upstart was just waiting to rub his nose in the fact that Porvir needed help from the Empire.
The
King heard screaming and weeping start up behind him as the sacrificial victim was led out, and his spirits lifted. At least he wasn’t the only one losing something today. He glanced over to see the girl’s family, her mother sobbing onto her farmer father's shoulders as the girl’s cries and pleas filled their ears. Beside them, her brother clenched his fists in rage and glared at the King, but even he didn't dare to speak out. Soldiers stood beside the family to make sure they had an excellent view of the proceedings. Porvir let his eye run over the figure of the mother and his lips curled up in a cruel smile. Not bad. Maybe later he would have her brought to the castle for . . . comforting.
The girl screamed louder when she saw the place where she would die. Before Porvir had perverted the ritual, the altar had been reconstructed each season, the priest laying the large flat stones to form a table as long as a sheep and as tall as a child, just the right height for killing the animal. Porvir had made the fixture permanent, adding a ring to which the human victim’s hands were tied. The altar’s surface was rusty with old blood. The Mistress of Virgins guided the muscular eunuchs as they fastened the crying, naked girl into place. Porvir’s dark mood lightened even further as he watched. She struggled against the ropes holding her to the stone slab as its crusty surface ground against the skin of her back.
Shimshon still hadn’t deigned to show himself. Porvir shrugged mentally as he dismounted from the chariot. Probably besotted in bed with some doxy he’d picked up on the way – what?! The King staggered as if struck.
The Imperial Captain was standing near the terrified family of the sacrifice. And beside him, resplendent in her robes of state, was Ayabis. Disconnectedly, Porvir thought that they must have sent for the robes after he had come to the square.