Everything looked the same – a couple of customers at the bar, a young girl sweeping the floor, noises and mouth-watering smells emanating from the kitchen, the twitter of birds outside. And yet her senses prickled. The fire leapt in the hearth. The shadows seemed darker than normal, stretching towards her like giant claws. In spite of the fire, a cold breeze ran through the inn.
What had awoken her? She rose slowly to her feet, years of battle training snapping her out of her slumber, honing her senses. Her gaze focussed on a corner of the room, and for a brief moment she thought she saw a man standing there, dressed in a grey cloak, the hood over his face. Cinereo? She caught her breath. A warning?
“There she is!”
Her head snapped around. A figure appeared silhouetted at the door, backlit by the setting sun, almost filling the doorway with his huge frame. Hunfrith! Two more came through behind him, henchmen who fanned out at his command, approaching her with sneering grins. Their bare blades glinted in the firelight.
The innkeeper squealed and pulled the young girl into the corner with him. The other guests in the room downed their ale and made a hasty exit.
Hunfrith approached, the two men on either side of him. He adopted a forlorn face. “You ran away. And I was so looking forward to spending some time together.”
Procella drew her sword. “Go fuck your mother, you ugly bastard son of a rancid dog.”
Hunfrith laughed at the guttural Wulfian words, although his eyes narrowed at the insult. “Such spirit.” His gaze bore into her, lust sparking the green orbs. “It will be interesting to see if that fire still burns after every man in Wulfengar has taken his pleasure out on you.”
“I will kill myself before I let any Wulfian scum touch me.” She tossed the sword from right hand to left and back again, reminding herself of the weight, forcing herself to relax. Refusing to let his taunts rile her, she ran through the mental list she made before every fight – weight on the balls of her feet, stance wide, deep breaths, chin up, shoulders loose. Exhilaration flooded her. She had been made for battle. Even the mighty Valens had struggled to best her on a good day, and Chonrad had pronounced her the best knight he had ever met. She would not be intimidated by a trio of jackasses.
Still, the Wulfian lord was exceptionally tall and well-built, bigger than both Valens and Chonrad had been, and he had already almost bested her in a fight. She tried not to look at the bulging muscles in his arms and the width of his thighs, focussing instead on his self-assured grin, and letting her indignation rise to fuel her.
“We will see,” Hunfrith said. He grabbed his crotch and massaged it. “It has been a while since I have seen action. I think I will keep you to myself for a while. I will chain you to my bed and rape you until you beg me to stop. And then rape you a few times more.” The men with him laughed.
Her heart raced, blood thundering through her veins, and she began to feel the battle rage taking her over. It had been a while, and she welcomed the scarlet veil as it descended upon her. Her senses sharpened, and she became aware of every little noise – the scrape of a chair as the innkeeper barricaded himself into a corner; the murmur of the two cooks in the kitchen; the clatter of a mouse’s paws as it ran across the floor to a hole in the opposite wall. Her gaze flicked from man to man, judging their size and strength, noting the way the fellow on her left shifted his weight, signifying a troublesome knee, and how the right eye of the other man was discoloured, suggesting partial blindness.
That man now sniggered and said, “Do not wear her out, Hunfrith, I want her to have some life left in her when I–”
He didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Procella lunged forward onto his blind side, caught him by surprise and jammed her sword in his stomach up to the hilt. Drawing the blade out swiftly, she moved back out of range of the others, swinging the sword around her, to the left, to the right, behind her, to the front, enjoying the weight of the blade, the buzz of adrenalin bringing her body to life. She met Hunfrith’s furious gaze and held it, challenging him.
“He will die slowly,” she announced as the man’s screams rang through the inn. “The bowel will suppurate and the wound will fester. It will be very painful. At least, I hope it will.”
Hunfrith’s eyes narrowed, and the man beside him snarled. Do your worst, she thought, hoping that Chonrad’s spirit would stay with her and Valens would lend his strength to her arms. But she said nothing more, waiting for the attack she knew would come.
The man next to the Wulfian lord moved forward. His smile had faded, and he approached her more cautiously, obviously aware her skill was not to be treated lightly. She moved across the room, pushing aside tables and chairs, not taking her eyes off him. He swung at her and she dodged the blow neatly, then did the same the other side. He was testing her, trying to get the measure of her skill and find a weakness. She almost laughed. He wouldn’t find one. He was about half her age, and although he probably had the edge on her when it came to speed, she had fought in more battles than he had teeth in his head.
She let him play for a bit, and then, when she had got bored and he had tired from his constant movement, she darted forward, caught the hilt of his blade with hers as he brought it up instinctively to protect himself, and twisted it, causing the sword to fall from his hand and skitter across the floor. His eyes lit with alarm, but they barely had time to register the fear before she grabbed a fistful of his tunic, knocked aside his raised arm and shoved the blade up under his arm and into his ribcage. Blood bubbled from his mouth, and his eyes widened, then went gradually glassy before he fell silently to the floor.
Procella moved backwards, wiping her sword on a cloth she had picked up from the bar. She threw the bloodied material onto the nearest table and swung the blade around her again, her wrist loose, the pommel keeping the weight even. How wonderful it felt to fight. She had forgotten how good at it she was.
Hunfrith came forward slowly, his blade across his body. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, removing the sweat, and wondered why he didn’t seem angrier. Then she realised – he had sent in the other two so he could watch her, ascertain her style, tire her a little. They had been expendable, although hopefully he hadn’t expected her to dispatch them quite so effortlessly.
They circled, and she watched him carefully. He was taller, younger, heavier and stronger than her, so she wouldn’t win the fight with physical power. She had to be quicker, and she had to be smarter.
He feinted, ducked to her right; they parried and she leapt back. They circled, clashed weapons, and the steel rang as the blades skidded across each other. Again and again they met, moving around the room, lunging, side-stepping, swinging, and thrusting.
He was good – fast and agile for a big man. But Procella had trained with the best, and her reactions were still second to none.
Even so, she was having trouble finding a way through his defences. Because of his height and weight, she knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in a physical lock. She had to keep moving to have any chance of winning this, and so she kept light on her feet and circled him continuously, keeping him off-balance, not letting him widen his stance.
Briefly she wondered why he didn’t just have one of his followers come up behind her and knock her out, but she knew that he wanted to do this himself. Wulfians prided themselves on their masculinity, and Hunfrith would not be able to return to his followers with the news that he had been bested by a woman.
The blow, when it came, took her by surprise, his hand moving so fast she barely saw it before the hilt connected with her nose. The bone cracked and blood spurted, spraying like a fountain over them both, making her cough and splutter.
She stumbled back and tried to wipe her hands on her leather tunic, aware the blood would make the hilt of the sword slip in her fingers.
“Aw, poor little lady,” Hunfrith taunted. “Does she have a bit of blood under her fingernails? Does she want to go wash her pretty little face?”
The pat
ronising taunt got to her more than the blow. She had been lucky throughout her career in the Exercitus and had never broken a limb nor suffered a long-lasting wound, but she had known her fair share of cuts and bruises, and had long since ceased to worry about the sight of blood.
Rage spiralled through her, and with it came carelessness. She swung, missed as he side-stepped, and then he was on her, his weight pushing her so she backpedalled, crashing into tables and chairs until she met an unmoveable one. He bent her backwards, his sword across her throat and his face inches from hers, lips pulled back in a snarl like a dog’s.
“Pawes!” he growled, breathing the Wulfian swear word over her like a spell he thought would charm her into submission. “I am Lord of the Plains. You think you can best me?”
She struggled, but the blade bit into her skin, forcing her back. He was too heavy and she could not throw him off.
Panic shot through her. She could not let him win. She could not! She had never been bested in battle, had never been touched by a man other than her husband, other than by Hunfrith with his forced kiss, and she was not going to start now, with this heaving oafish hulk who smelled of fish and whose confidence oozed over her like sap.
He laughed and fumbled at the tie at the top of her breeches. His hips pressed hers into the table, his body crushing hers into the wood, and she could feel him hard against her.
“No!” She tugged futilely at his jerkin, braced her hands against his shoulder, but to no avail. She would not scream; she would not give him the satisfaction. Blood continued to flow from her nose, and she coughed and spat as she struggled. She was losing. Arbor’s roots, she was losing.
And then Hunfrith stopped. No; correction, he was still moving, but he looked as if he had been thrown into deep water, his movements slow and ponderous. Procella blinked, caught her breath as around them the twilight air sparkled with fine dust. She turned her head on the table and only then saw the figure standing to one side, dressed in a grey cloak.
“Cinereo?”
“Playing games, Procella?” He sounded amused.
“I cannot…” She pushed at Hunfrith, tried to heave him off, but couldn’t.
“Where is your fight? Your passion?”
She punched the big man furiously in the shoulder, angry at the cloaked man’s words. And yet… Was he right? Was she fighting as hard as she could? Or had she half given up, too tired and demoralised to fight on?
“Your children need you,” Cinereo said.
Her children? In her mind, scenes flashed by. Horada, chained and kept in the dark. Julen, surrounded by flaming elementals. Orsin, tempted and tormented, about to give up everything he believed in because he felt so unloved.
Her chest tightened. “Help me,” she whispered.
“Help yourself.” His voice hardened.
She stared at him, then back at Hunfrith. He was in the process of undoing the ties on his breeches, his fingers moving a tenth of their normal speed.
Help yourself…
She gritted her teeth. Had she ever done anything but? She had never needed a man to rescue her, and she wasn’t going to start now.
She spat blood, shifted beneath the hulk and brought up a knee. At the same time, the glittering dust faded, and Hunfrith’s movements returned to normal.
With every ounce of strength in her body, she connected her knee to the precious part of his body he was just trying to release.
His eyes popped, he let out a low groan and stumbled back. Procella leapt up, launched herself at him and pushed him onto the floor. Straddling him, letting her full fury flood her, she hit him several times across the face, giving a satisfied yell as teeth loosened and something snapped. Then, grabbing the hilt of the dagger on her hip, she ripped it out and pressed the point into the flesh of his neck.
Hunfrith’s eyes met hers. To her delight, fear sparked in them.
Keeping her eyes locked on his, she pushed the blade up into his throat, and deep into his brain, leaning all her weight on it until the hilt met his neck.
When he was dead, she got to her feet and looked around, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Half a dozen of his followers had come through the doorway, but they stopped as they saw Hunfrith on the floor, unmoving.
Victory flooded her veins, made her swell. “Do you want to join him?” she demanded of the men, gesturing to the body. “Anyone?”
The men looked at each other, unsure. One turned and fled. The others gradually lowered their swords.
She raised her blade high. “I am Procella, Dux of the Exercitus!” She glared at them and let her triumph radiate through her. Nobody was going to stop her when her children needed saving. “Never forget it!”
II
The journey out of the mountains was fast and furious, and it passed by mostly in a blur for Tahir. Still in need of food and drink, hazy with confusion about what had just happened, he let Demitto half-carry him through the passageways. Catena walked in front, her hands brushing the walls on either side, guiding their way out. Atavus trotted by their side, inseparable now from the master he had missed so much.
They met Incendi-possessed guards more than once, but each time Demitto and Catena despatched them with speedy ruthlessness, Atavus snarling and biting; then they picked Tahir up and moved on. They wove through the maze of corridors, and at some point exited the pyramid and plunged deep into the heart of the mountain. Tahir lost track of time, of distance, of everything but the sound of feet scuffling on loose stone, the smell of rock dust, the heat and the stifling, oppressive air. At some point, Demitto picked him up completely and carried him, and he lay limp in the emissary’s arms, barely lucid.
And he began to dream. He was back at Harlton, nine years old, and, as usual, he was alone. The other children in the castle had gone down to the river to fish, and they had not asked him to go with them. Perhaps they thought he was busy with princely duties, or maybe they just didn’t know how to speak to the boy whose life was doomed to end on his fourteenth birthday. But at the time he had watched them walk into town with a heavy heart, lonely resentful tears he refused to shed pricking his eyes.
He walked to an oak tree in the castle grounds and lay beneath it, the grass soft like velvet under his back. The sun was high in the sky, and filtered through the tree’s lobed leaves to cast warm patches like drops of melted butter across him, while at the same time a refreshing zephyr brushed his skin. The air smelled clean, of loam and growth, and he could hear birdsong from the branches, the hum of people talking in the distance.
He knew he should be happy. He was privileged – he didn’t want for food, shelter or clothing. He had seen some of the children dressed in rags as he rode through the town, so thin their bones seemed to protrude through their flesh. Catena had once snapped at him when he complained that he didn’t like the venison they had served for dinner, saying at least he had venison, and that as a child, meat for her had been a rarity, with the same bit of bacon boiled umpteen times in a stew to give the vegetables flavour. He hadn’t talked to her for a week after she told him off, but as usual her words had struck home and for some reason played on his mind. The children in the town may have looked thin and scruffy, but they had also looked happy, running away from the royal party to play hopscotch together. He had craned his neck to watch them as his horse plodded towards the castle, and at that moment he would have given anything to have been one of those poor children.
He closed his eyes, trying to let the dappled sunlight soothe him. He was destined to be alone – he just had to come to terms with it.
Someone called his name, and he cursed at this interruption of his peace and sat upright, his irritation fading as he realised it was Catena. She carried a large wooden box, and she was smiling.
“Hey, young prince.” She knelt beside him. “I have something for you.”
He looked at the box with interest. Although he rarely wanted for anything, he rarely received personal presents. “What is it?”
“I am not
going to spoil it for you. Open it and see.”
His fingers fumbled on the lid and he looked up at her, startled as he felt movement in the box. He lifted the lid, and stared with delight.
It was a puppy. One of the castle guard dogs had recently given birth to a litter, and he recognised the light grey fur.
“Go on,” Catena said. “Pick it up.”
Tahir stared at her. “Is it… mine?”
She smiled. “All yours.”
He looked down at the puppy, which sat and scratched its ear then jumped up and put its front paws on the edge of the box. It scrabbled to get its hind leg up, but couldn’t quite make it, and gave a short, annoyed yap.
“Father would not like it,” he said, careful to keep the emotion from his voice.
For a moment, Catena said nothing. Then she rested a hand on his shoulder. The rare contact brought tears to his eyes. “I have discussed it with your father,” she said. “I suggested to him that now you have been named the Selected, it is imperative we keep you safe. And he agreed it would be a good idea for you to have a guard dog.” Her words were matter-of-fact, but her eyes showed a softness the statement didn’t convey. That was not why she had given him the puppy – even he in his immaturity recognised that. She had recognised his loneliness and was hoping to remedy it.
He reached out a hand to the puppy, and it licked and nibbled his fingers with tiny teeth. “He is really mine?”
“All yours, my prince.”
He lifted the puppy out. It was a boy, with ears too big for his head and paws too big for his legs. It scrambled over him, turned around and around in his lap, plonked its bottom down at an uneven angle and fell off Tahir’s leg onto the ground.
Tahir laughed and picked him up again. “He is like a court jester.”
“It is good to see you smile,” Catena observed.
ARC: Sunstone Page 35
