Mistress of the Gods (The Making of Suzanne Book 2)

by Rex Sumner

  “What do you want of us?” His accent showed a marked improvement as he ground out the words with grudging anger, slamming the claymore back into its rope sheath.

  “Just the safety of the realm. I do not want irritants on our northern border. You will not trade with the Spakka.”

  There was silence as the Stuart digested this. He peered round at his men, noting all keeping their hands well clear of any weapons, and resting his gaze on Jeremy who ignored them, paring his nails with studious care, now and again tossing the knife up to spin and gleam in the mid-morning sun.

  “I want your fealty, Stuart!” Asmara’s voice changed again, cracking like a whip and the Stuart started in his saddle, returning his gaze to the little girl in front of him, left hand outstretched, eyes blazing with an anger that ignited a furnace in his own heart. He inflated like a bullfrog, going red in the face and reaching again for his claymore.

  Lionel dropped his lance to the ready position and the others followed suit, while Jeremy reached up with his left hand to grasp the reins of the Stuart, the knife ready to fly.

  “If’n we’re part o’ the Kingdom, kin we take part in the pageants?” A young man broke in, before the Stuart could vent.

  “You’ll need a bigger horse,” said Lionel with a nod, not taking his eyes off the Stuart.

  “Which you’d fall off,” said Jeremy with a laugh, ignoring the princess’ frown, casual and deadly in front of the Stuart, oblivious of danger. The youngster rolled over his horse’s head to land on two feet beside Jeremy, legs flexing like a cat.

  “Sure I would,” he said. “But I’d bounce back.” He grinned at Jeremy who smiled back and put out his hand, the knife miraculously disappearing. “I’m Gordie Stuart. If’n we’re part of the kingdom like the wee lassie says, I’ll come ride wi’ you.” They gripped hands.

  “Bring your bedroll, Robbie over there will give you a horse,” said Jeremy.

  The Stuart boomed with laughter and the tension broke, clansmen coming up to stroke the Lancers’ horses and admire their lines, while the Stuart dismounted and came up to the princess, lost amongst the sudden hubbub of warriors talking.

  “Never thought I’d see the day, young lady, but I’ll swear my fealty to you, I will, and damme but I am proud to do so. You’re a tough wee lass. We heard you were on the run with a Spakka and here you are smelling of roses.”

  He grasped her left hand and bowed over it, only slightly due to the height of the horse, kissing her signet ring. “I’m yours, lass, body and soul. You can call on the Stuarts in need, and you can have my son to seal the bargain.”

  Asmara was not quite sure what happened, but smiled in regal precision.

  “Thank you Gordon. I shall bear your felicitations to my father. Do you have a report for me to bear?”

  “Aye, weel, ye can tell him tha’ the Hidden Bog is secure, no Northmen nor Spakka come our way. Jus’ the driven, miserable scum that are the Macadoon, trouble they is. But do na worry. We’ll sort them out fer yer Highness.”

  Asmara nodded, wondering whether the Macadoon were human or some sort of animal vermin. Trolls perhaps?

  “One thing, Princess, d’ye have a need for wull or peat in the Kingdom? Powerful lot of it we have, good quality too.”

  “Wool from the sheep,” Gordie cut in at the blank expression on Asmara’s face. “Peat is the old turf we cut from the bog, burns well, it does, and flavours the craich.”

  “I will arrange for merchants to visit you, ones with an interest in such products,” said Asmara to the satisfaction of the Stuart.

  *

  Taking their leave of the Stuarts, the Lancers rode four abreast down the trail, Asmara sandwiched by the brothers. She studied Jeremy, curious at this wide shouldered boy so lauded by the elves to be called a disciple of their God of Death. He rode with nonchalant ease, eyes roving the countryside and she noticed that he followed a set pattern, a searching-for-trouble gaze identical to Pathfinder scouts.

  “Get on with it,” he said, breaking the silence and Asmara raised an eyebrow.

  Lionel sighed, raising his eyes at Jeremy in annoyance, without Asmara noticing. “I didn’t sign up to be a royal teacher,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Asmara rounded on him, eyes narrowed.

  “Nothing,” he said. “We need to de-brief the meeting.”

  If anything, her eyes narrowed further, a green flash sparking in their depths.

  “What went right about your words, Princess? What are you pleased about?”

  She continued to glare at him for a moment, as she gathered her thoughts and her eyes relaxed.

  “Well, he did what he was told, and kissed my ring. Swore fealty to the crown.”

  “I mean what were the words you used, and the tone, which were successful in bending him to your will and what didn’t work.”

  “Stop treating me like a child. I know what to do, I am a princess. WHAT did you say Jeremy?”

  “I said so act like one, stop acting like a spoiled brat.”

  “Princess,” Lionel intervened while she spluttered in fury at Jeremy. “We know you can do this, but this time you just ordered him around and he didn’t like it. If it hadn’t been for his son, we’d have fought and men would have died.

  “I KNOW, all right?” She glared at Lionel, till her face broke into a massive scowl, an errant tear trickling down her face. “I’m sorry, I’m still so angry at being a captive.” She bent her head down, allowing her red hair to hide her face. She muttered, a furious sound and the boys leant forward to try to hear her words. It appeared to be a mantra.

  “I am a Fighting Starr, I know no weakness, I am strong, I will prevail. I am a Fighting Starr, I know no weakness, I am strong, I will prevail.”

  The boys raised eyebrows at each other.

  “We know and understand, love,” said Jeremy, his tone changing in an instant. He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it where she held the rein. Her face emerged from the windswept hair, green eyes wide in shock at Jeremy being nice to her and wondering if anybody had ever called her love before. “Can we do a bit better next time? What worked, what got these Uightlanders excited to be part of the Kingdom?”

  Enjoying his hand on hers, Asmara managed a wry little smile. “They want somebody to trade with, somebody to buy their wool and this peat stuff. He liked not having to pay taxes.”

  “Exactly,” said Lionel, who hadn’t thought of the trading part. “So maybe next time we can lose the threats? Concentrate on the good stuff?”

  “Yeah,” said Jeremy, “and don’t forget the pageants. They want the chance to come and show they can bully us. Damn fool things.”

  “He’s just bitter,” said Lionel with a smile, “because he was kicked out of the Barndton pageant for cheating.”

  “Idiots,” said Jeremy. “I didn’t cheat and they could prove nothing, they just didn’t believe I could be so good and thought I must have used magic. Don’t remember you doing any good – that fat boy thrashed you didn’t he?”

  “Wouldn’t let me use my own horse, what do you expect?”

  “Horse? Damn thing is a unicorn.”

  “He’s just smart. I still think it was you who put that idea into their heads, served you right that they then kicked you out for magic”

  “They were looking for an excuse; we’re jumped up clerks.”

  “You shouldn’t have seduced the Duke’s daughter. I’m not sure we dare go back in case he has found out. He suspected, why he wanted us thrown out.”

  The boys continued to bicker and Asmara felt better, smiling at their banter and keeping quiet, delighted at these insights into their past and into what it is like to have a sibling.

  *

  The column crested the pass and the valley opened up in front of them, a meandering river wending its way through lush pastures do
tted with trees. Black specks turned into enormous cows as they descended and Asmara drew up on the bank of a stream staring at the huge black hornless creature whose mournful expression returned her scrutiny while she chewed the long grass hanging from the corner of her mouth.

  “What is it?” Asmara breathed her question.

  “It’s a cow,” said Jeremy, pleased to be of assistance. Asmara shot him an annoyed look, while Lionel turned in his saddle.

  “Pass the word back for Matt and Gordie,” he said to the lancer behind him and in moments Matt’s horse came racing up the side of the column, pulling up with a showy pawing of the air, while Gordie showed more restraint.

  “Good morning, Princess,” Matt cried, his usual sunny smile beaming out of his beard. “You are looking lovely this morning, as ever. What’s the plan? Early lunch? Picnic by the stream?” The princess smiled

  “Hey Matt,” said Lionel. “These cows, the black ones, do you know what they are?”

  “They’re Angus’, aren’t they great?” He said. “Look how big they are, and tasty too. I’ve never seen one before, so happy to see them.”

  “Who’s Angus?” Jeremy’s face creased into a frown of suspicion. “And how do you know him and that this cow is his?”

  “No, no, the cow is a Doddie,” said Gordie. “Why do you call it an Angus?”

  “That’s what we call them down south,” said Matt. “Famous, they are. I don’t know why it is called an Angus, I guess somebody called Angus bred them or brought them down south.”

  “It’s those fecking thievin’ bastards south of the wall, you can be sure. Steal our bluidy doddies and call them sodding Angus, after themselves, there’s nae a doubt.”

  “How do you know so much about cows, Matt?” Asmara smiled at him, eager to change the direction of conversation.

  “Oh, we have them on our farm, I used to look after them since I was small. I love cows!” He shot a dirty look at Jeremy, who muttered something about milkmaids to his brother.

  “Can you tell me about the fields and what they are growing as we pass?”

  “Sure! These are laid to pasture, for the cattle. These Angus, ah, Doddies, are beef cattle, but each farmer will have sheep or goats for milking near the farmhouse. They will make cheese and butter from the milk.”

  “Aye, that’s right enough. Ye get right sweet milk from a sheep, but goats milk can smell bad, it can, unless you keep the billy away.”

  “Billy?”

  “The man goat, him with the long hair. Och, they smell, they do, wurse than ye can imagine, and the smell gets into the milk, it does. Lingers like a cabbage fart in the cheese, it does.”

  “Yes,” said Matt, changing the subject in case the princess found smells sacrilegious. “You see those lighter green fields over there? I bet we will see bere growing there. It’s the six row barley they grow in the north, because it grows so fast, you harvest it in three months.”

  “Noo, them’s oats them is, the bere is in the next field, a bit darker. The bere is lighter ‘cos o’ the hairs on the grain but is too early for that, needs another month they do.”

  “Oh! Look, over there, those blue flowers beside the dark area. That’s flax, or linseed. The dark area must be a swamp or bog, I heard you need to plant flax beside a bog. When they harvest the plants, they rett them, either in the field or in the stream. Pooh! That stinks, for sure.”

  “Rett?”

  “You soak the plants in water for a week, till they rot and you can get the tough stalk fibres out. Smells bad.”

  “Everything you damn farmers do smells bad,” muttered Jeremy, dodging a kick from Matt.

  “What do you use flax for?” Asmara leant forward, fascinated at this flow of information, quite outside her usual interests.

  “Flax? Oh, you can eat the seeds, they decorate bread with them, and you can make an oil, but the stalk gives us fibres for spinning and weaving into linen and lace. I reckon this area could produce quality cloth.”

  “Aye, we do right enough. See this plaid? It’s wool for sure, but my ma she did this tat at the top, that’s flax right enough.”

  “How do you know if it is good quality?” Asmara leant over to Gordie and inspected his cloth. The lace trimming felt stiff which might have been caused by the grime.

  “Ask a tailor. All I know is you get a better price for retting the flax in the field rather than a pond because the quality is better. Takes longer, though. And the fishermen get upset if you use a pond or stream.”

  “Where do they sell the flax?”

  “Oh, there will be spinners in the towns that want it, and they will make the cloth for the people. They probably have a fair in the summer, where buyers will come to find the best of the crops.”

  “Aye, we do, there’s a small fair every week there is, but the big ones in the Autumn. Tha’s when we do the drinkin’ and the fightin’.”

  “A fair? What’s that?”

  “It’s like a market, or pageant. A fun time for the farmers, they sell their crops, show off who has grown the best or has the best bull, and everyone has a good time. Dancing, music, jugglers, food, drinks, all sorts.”

  “An’ fightin. Is good for that. Not with a blade, mind. Jus’ wi’ our brawn.” Gordie punched Matt hard on the shoulder in case the southerners didn’t understand his excited brogue.

  Asmara considered this intelligence, an idea forming in her fertile brain and swirling around for her to examine from all sides.

  “How is a fair like a pageant?” Jeremy asked. “The farmers going to beat each other to death with hoes?”

  “No, don’t be silly,” said Matt, rubbing his shoulder. “They compete to see who has the best crops and herds. There is a sheep dog competition, to see which dog works best, and horse riding.”

  “Aye, we do that, an’ the wrestlin’ and the punchin’. We cut the wood, hurl the hammer and toss the caber.” Gordie’s enthusiasm started to get the better of him.

  “Caber?” Jeremy asked, starting to get interested. “What the hell’s that? You don’t mean your dick, do you?”

  “Ye wha’? Ach, doan be disgustin’, man. The caber is a big lump o’ wood, it is, tha’ yer chuck in the air an make it do a cartwheel, so you do.”

  “Don’t you do anything interesting,” said Jeremy in a bored drawl, “like seeing who can deflower the most virgins?”

  “No! Who wud think of such a thing? You’re weird, you know that, Sir Jeremy?”

  The lancers in earshot all burst into laughter, agreeing with Gordie, and Matt took up the gauntlet. “They won’t have your favourite sport, though, Jez.”

  “What’s that?” Asmara surfaced from her reverie, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. She found her education in the finer points of sexual activity increased by leaps and bounds amongst the Lancers; the Pathfinders took care to be delicate in their speech around her while the Lancers said what they thought. She found this refreshing, most of the time.

  “We have pigs in Fearaigh, they don’t here, and in our fairs all the young guys get in the field and they release a young pig, covered in lard so it is slippery. Whoever catches it and can pick it up and carry it out of the field gets to keep it.”

  Behind them, those riders in ear shot where laughing, and Asmara wondered what she was missing as she noticed the tips of Jez’s ears turn red.

  “I seem to remember it was Pez who caught the biggest porker,” said Jeremy.

  “Oi, don’t bring me into this,” came a shout from behind them and all the boys laughed. Asmara left them to their heckling and thought about fairs.

  The Black Dragon

  The cold grey dawn sent tendrils of light under the door, whispering at Susan’s lashes till she awoke, blinking sleep away. Her dream faded, along with the dancing light in the glade, and she moved her hands up to her chest, feeling the unfamiliar lumps blossoming on
her chest. Her breath tightened and she gasped, sitting up in bed and pushing the blanket down to gaze at her burgeoning breasts.

  They were bigger. She was sure they were bigger, grown larger and more obscene during the night. She cupped them, and they spilled from her hands, straining high and proud. She hated them. Every day for the last month they had grown, swelling so her clothes no longer fitted and now nobody looked her in the eyes, instead they stared at her chest, transfixed. Everybody was the same: Elves, Tuatha de Danann, Humans, girls, men, even the bloody animals.

  Despair and despondency washed over her, and a tear slipped from her eye. A straining hand found the long bolt of cloth by her bed, intended as a hair covering. With feverish haste she wrapped her chest, strapping down the monsters only for them to pop out the side leaving her even more misshapen. Her hands dropped away and she cried as her breasts surfaced in triumph, pushing the cloth away in the dash for freedom.

  A hand brushed the nape of her neck, stroking with firm gentle hands, soothing her ragged sobs.

  “Hush, darling, I’m here,” said Fionuir in a whisper.

  Susan pushed her hand away. “Stop it. You’re the same as everyone else. You just want to look at them and hold them. Go away, I hate you.”

  “I love you, darling, and I love your breasts, they are part of you. I love every part of you.” Fionuir pulled her into a hug, taking care not to touch her breasts, crushing her shoulder against her own. She began to sing, a little lullaby to comfort children.

  “Get off me, and stop that stupid noise.” Susan pushed her arms away and stood up, stamping over to the bowl and pouring water before splashing her face. “Get away from me, don’t touch me. I remember what you said last night.”

  In her passion, Fionuir had started talking to Susan’s breasts, telling them how much she loved them. She regretted that now as she tried to ease the girl’s troubled spirit. Wild eyed, Susan dressed, yanking on her clothes and selecting a cape with which she covered her entire body.

  “I’m going for a walk, don’t you dare follow me.” She stormed from their room.