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

by Rex Sumner

  Diana sipped her tea, eyes twinkling as Susan tried to take it all in.

  “Why did you send for me, bring me to this place and gift me this knowledge?” Susan’s world had not been kind, and she didn’t believe in altruism. These goddesses wanted something from her.

  “There is change in the world. We know this, for we follow events in your Harrhein and further afield, through the power of the dream world. In every city there are holy places, where the Old Gods, ourselves, are still worshipped and the Druids who lead the worship, unknowing of the truth, are a locus on which we can focus to see the happenings.”

  Susan nodded, though her mind reeled and she wasn’t at all sure she understood. Something about the maid changed, Susan noticed a stiffening of her supple body and a sharpening in her eyes.

  “Man has long corrupted our knowledge, which should be open to all. He created religions, invented new gods, male gods in his own image, all for the purpose of controlling people rather than allowing them access to the infinite. For many years, this did not matter. For much of the teachings, though warped, were inherently good.”

  Susan nodded, this struck a chord and she thought fondly of the Venerable Reinard and the Archbishop.

  “Amongst the good, something evil is stirring, as it tries to gain control.”

  “Yes,” said Susan, her jaw tightening. “I have met this evil, and I destroyed it.”

  “You did well,” Diana nodded. “Your actions brought you to our notice and we watched your triumph with joy. But you killed a small head of the Hydra. And did not notice when another, larger head came back and bit you.”

  “What? No, it was not like that. The king showed his true self, and I could not stay.”

  “It is subtle, this evil, and knows us too well. They used the king’s pride, yes, and yours, to destroy by stealth what they could not do any other way. But you still fooled them by fleeing to Coillearnarcha, which they did not expect or know. Death waited for you back in Galicia, nevermind in Harrhein.”

  Susan’s mind reeled. She didn’t like being manipulated and wanted to know more, but Diana continued, ignoring and talking over her attempted questions.

  “Your Church interests us, for we see in it the hand of our cousin, Magda, who many years ago went south. She sought to amend the teachings of Thoth, a legendary Tuatha d Danann of great power, who built an empire based on the old knowledge in the South, long ago, eons ago. It appears to be the same story, but amended for your people. We want you to return, guide and teach, bringing the Church back to the Mother.”

  “I am not well informed on the Church, nor do they trust me,” said Susan, speaking in some alarm. “I would have a time of it teaching people to drink blood! People are scared of the night, the dark and drinking blood. They believe it comes with witches, evil and death. And why is the title of the goddess Vampire?”

  “Umpir is an old word, a title, from a time long ago and lost to our memories. The title will have been corrupted by the men with their religions and changing the reason for drinking the blood. Probably didn’t understand. Our power, our abilities, the other religions fear. And they invent stories to show us as the opposite of our true selves.” The maid nodded, unworried. “Does your Church not drink wine, holy wine, in its ceremonies?”

  “Well, yes,” said Susan, her eyes reflecting her shock as she remembered what the wine represented.

  “Indeed,” the maid nodded, recognising Susan’s thoughts. “We see the hand of our cousin here, but her family will have long fallen and died for their teachings to change so much, without their guidance. The Church’s practices will not open the mind to the depths required to find true knowledge and peace. But it helps. The trouble is, they fear and fight the power of the Mother which they need for true balance, love and understanding.”

  “Most people in the Church bear no love for me,” said Susan.

  “No, you cannot return as you were. Although the Venerable Reinand loves you.”

  Susan stared, wondering how they could know.

  “What do you remember from last night?” Diana changed the subject with aplomb.

  “I thought I was being sacrificed,” Susan whispered. “I was so scared but I couldn’t move. The girl cut my neck and drained my blood.” She felt her neck, seeking the point the knife bit but found nothing. Diana nodded at her to continue.

  “I came to the circle with you and we all drank my blood.”

  “Not just your blood, all our blood was in the Grail. This is important. When we mingle our essence, it allows us to accompany you on your exploration of your soul. Our blood is within you now, and will stay with you for seven years, for which time you are Tuatha d’Danu. Continue.”

  Susan hesitated a moment, trying to take this in and make sense. “We, we flew, and there was a dragon, and I killed it, and your mother said it was my doubts and fears.”

  Diana smiled, the radiance filling the room with warmth, light and laughter. “This is what we do, child. See you now, unworried and happy. Contrast this with your feelings yesterday.”

  Susan stared, her hands going to cup and hold her impressive, beautiful new breasts, remembering how just yesterday she hated and feared them as grotesque monstrosities.

  “Enough,” said Diana. “I wish to meditate and there is much you must learn. You are now my Sheelagh na Gig, and must study to enable you to serve in the correct manner. I give you to my grandmother who will introduce you to the mysteries and our court.”

  Her guide from earlier stood beside her and Susan rose, nodding to Diana who closed her eyes as she moved her feet up onto her thighs and sat like a stone statue. Susan followed her guide down the winding stairs from the tower, thinking to herself that she didn’t believe a word she had just heard, despite the uncomfortable way it resonated. She didn’t know what these gods wanted, but it certainly wasn’t for her to change the Church.

  ‘Be careful, Susan,’ she told herself.

  The Power of a Promise

  The troop cantered three abreast down a wide path along a wide valley, stretching down to the sea with rolling pastures and fields, small villages and crofts off to the side. The inhabitants came out to watch them pass, unmoved despite many of the lancers waving to them. On occasion a rider on one of their small horses would start after them from a village, but each time the speed of the troop left him far behind.

  Lionel changed the speed every now and again, judging the time by the passage of the sun through the sky, not helped by the constant drizzle. He did not allow them to gallop, but alternated from walk through trot to canter, every now and again putting them into the glide. Asmara knew of the glide, but this was the first time she had seen and indeed ridden it. A fast, flat, smooth gait, designed for horse archers, she failed to see the need when there were no archers amongst the lancers.

  “It’s an Elven trick,” said Jeremy. “They have archers, but not lancers. We adapted it for lancing. With light horse like ourselves, speed and accuracy are our main weapons. We go into the glide from the gallop at the last moment, enables us to be absolutely precise in hitting tiny targets with the lance at high speed. You see these big knights on their heavy horse with heavy lances, they need to be really strong and to move with the horse. Even then few hit what they aim for. In the glide we can hold the lance straight on the eye, which scares them, and drop it for the throat, belly or even arm. We can hit whatever we want, not many can say that. Thanks to the glide.”

  Asmara digested this, her eyes registering Jeremy’s strange waterproofing. Everyone else wore furs; in constant argument as to which fur proved the better. But Jeremy wore something without fur, almost transparent.

  “What are you wearing, Jez?”

  “This? A present from an Elf. He travelled far to the north and spent time with the ice people, brought several back. It’s made from the stomachs of sea dogs, sewn together and the seams are sealed
with bone glue. I added the leg guards from cow stomach to make it suitable for riding, though I don’t think my glue is so good.”

  “It looks so light. My furs are so heavy.”

  “That’s the idea.” Asmara noticed Jeremy never looked at her while riding, his eyes moving in a ceaseless pattern across his arc, front to side. “I can wield a lance or throw a knife in heavy rain, and I am only a little less effective than on a sunny day. Not the same for knights, they are finished if it is raining, particularly if they rust up.”

  The road raised and swept away from the river up a gentle slope to a low pass. As they neared the crest, a scout appeared, waiting just below the skyline.

  “Hey Pat, what’s up?” Lionel greeted him.

  “Town ahead, boss. Big one for up here. Guarding a bridge over the river. Your little river joins a big one up ahead. There’s a stone fort overlooking the town, but there is no wall. We can’t cross the river downstream, but above the town about five miles there is a ford. Might need to swim a bit, the lads are checking. Don’t go over the pass, you will be in plain sight of the fort.”

  “How many warriors in the fort, or in the town?”

  The scout shrugged. “No way to tell. It’s big, so could be there are a thousand people here, maybe a couple of hundred?”

  “Do we have a route to get to the ford?”

  “Matty should be along in a moment. He’s checking it out.” Pat turned to look along the side of the mountain.

  “That’s a long way to the next pass,” said Jeremy. “We will need to go through the pass and slip off to the West. How’s the tree cover?”

  “Should be fine if you go one by one, but not as a troop.”

  “Hang on,” said Asmara. “Why can’t we just go through the town?”

  “Because of the fort,” said Lionel. “We don’t know how many men are in it.”

  “Does the road south go through the fort?”

  Pat shook his head. “No, it follows the river, a short way from the fort.”

  “Arrow range?”

  “No, a good five hundred paces at the nearest point, where it turns south after the bridge in the market square.”

  “Market? Is it market day today?”

  “I dunno, but there are some stalls and people selling. Quite a few people there.”

  “That’s settled then. Lionel, I want to go to the market. Take me, please.”

  Lionel considered her, while Jeremy laughed aloud. “C’mon bro, this will be fun! I bet that we turn up so fast they don’t know what to do. The laird will shit himself and hide in the fort. The villagers will hide in their houses, or some will stay with the stalls.”

  A smile spread across Lionel’s face and he turned in his saddle. “Robbie! Make sure each man has some coin. We are going through the town, past the market, and anyone can buy anything they want from the stalls. If they buy booze, no drinking till we are back at the Hardenwall. Report when ready. Pat, go round up the scouts, I don’t want to leave anybody behind. Get everybody back here as fast as you can. Matt, get a brew on, pass the word, we will be here at least an hour till the scouts are back, so everybody can have something warm to eat.”

  *

  The troop cantered down the road leading to the town, covering the ground in long, mile-eating strides. Within less than five minutes they slowed down as they passed the outlying homesteads, ramshackle hovels made of stacked turf. All weapons sheathed or at rest, Robbie sported a pennant fluttering behind the Princess.

  Few townspeople walked abroad in the lower town, those that did rushing into their houses, slamming the doors behind them. Up in the fort figures milled on the parapet, ignored by the lancers. As they clattered over the bridge, the great doors of the fort clanged shut, a few late warriors rushing inside.

  In the market the townspeople watched aghast as their protectors fled to the fort, leaving them and their wares to the mercy of the rabid southern troops. A few mothers fled to their houses, babes in arms, but most stood watching. A group of children moved to one side, mouths open as the horses rode past.

  Lionel raised a hand at the corner of the market and the troop came to a stop. He remained on his horse, as did the last man, while the others dismounted, every fifth trooper taking the reins of his fellows. Asmara led the lancers into the market, Jeremy and Gordie by her side, Matt trailing behind.

  The first table presented cheeses, small round circles piled high. Asmara made for it, sniffing the air as she approached.

  “Hello Goodwife,” she said with a cheery good humour. “Are these sheep or goat cheeses? May I taste one?”

  The farmer’s wife stared at her for a good moment, before closing her mouth with an audible snap. “Sheep, mum. From me own farm they be. ‘Ere, a special ‘un, try a piece.” She cut off a generous slice and Asmara popped it into her mouth. Her eyes widened.

  “Do you know, that is unlike any other cheese I have tasted. I rather think I like it. I know my father would adore them. How much for a basket full?”

  “Well,” said the farmer’s wife, preparing an extortionate fee in her head, before her eyes fell on Gordie, taking in his plaid and narrowed eyes. “Eee, mum, take them for free, please do.”

  “Nonsense. We will pay. The Starrs do not steal from the poor. Gordie, what is a good price?”

  “Give her a crown, more than enough for this rubbish,” said Gordie, dismissive of these lowlander crafts.

  “A crown?” The woman screeched in dismay, all fear of soldiers disintegrating in the face of an insolent Highlander. “They’re worth twice what you hillmen can make, they have flavour from the crafting, not stuffed in as an afterthought.”

  Asmara laughed. “Jeremy, give her two crowns. Thank you, Goodwife. You should enter the cheese competition at the Royal Fair in Hardenwall this autumn, I think you would have a chance of winning.”

  “Hardenwall?” The woman stopped, her voice a little muffled as she bit into a crown presented by a scowling Jeremy. “That be a long way, and dangerous too.”

  “Nonsense. My Pathfinders will guarantee the safety of all who wish to come to trade and compete.”

  A man from the next stall started at this, scrabbled at his table and rushed over with something resting on clean cloth. “Ma’am, please try my smoked ham, from hogs fattened on acorns and beech mast for a fuller flavour.”

  “Oh, what a delicate flavour. I must take a ham.”

  “Is that right, ma’am, we can come to the fair? Can we sell our produce to the southern buyers at the fair?”

  “Of course you can, why ever not?” Asmara presented her best guileless face, eyes wide and innocent.

  “Well,” said the man, thinking it through. “I don’t rightly know. We’ve never been to that fair, but my cousin from Tweedside sells his hams down there and gets twice my price, not such good hams neither.”

  “Yeah,” interjected another trader. “I hear there’s buyers up from the south, will take all you got to offer.”

  “But is it safe?”

  “What about taxes?”

  “We’d get robbed on the way back.”

  By now the traders were leaving their tables unattended to join the discussion and Asmara listened to them all, giving her full attention to each in turn. Jeremy and Gordie needed to glare at not a few and one importunate fellow received a hard stamp on the toes when he dared to lay hands on the Princess’ arm. Asmara spoke to one trader in an undertone, he nodded, cleared some items off his table and she jumped up, turning to face the gathering crowd.

  “Good people of the north, I am, as I am sure you are aware, the Crown Princess Asmara, Heir to the Harrhein Kingdom and Lady of High Reaches.” The crowd stirred and muttered, a few edging to the back and casting concerned glances at the Lancers, all busy consuming various titbits purchased from stalls.

  “This year I decided to enha
nce the Northern Fair by bestowing prizes for various competitions. Not in feats of strength or arms, but in what matters most to a peaceful people – your goods and wares, the produce of this land from which you sprung and feel the pull of kinship. We seek to find who breeds the best doddie, from whose sheep springs the finest wool, the best spinners and weavers, cheesemakers and pie bakers.”

  The crowd nodded, entranced at the thought, weighing up each other as potential adversaries.

  “The Northern Fair will take place at Hardenwall, where the Duke laid a bet with me that his people will win the most prizes, that his people are the best craftsmen in the north.” The crowd shifted on their feet, not happy with this suggestion. “I have tasted your produce, I have seen your doddies and sheep. I think you can win me my bet. Will you help me take the Duke down and show off your produce at the same time?” The crowd milled a bit more, unconvinced. “The buyers from the south will be there, they will pay the highest prices to those who do well in competition, and I shall bring judges from the south who care not whence the produce comes.”

  She measured the crowd, taking in the uncertain looks, and ramped up her argument.

  “I heard you worry about taxes, and I don’t understand. Your Duke, your Laird in the fort, he levies taxes upon you. It is not for the crown to add to your burden, rather it is our task to ease it, to make you safe and wealthy. You will not pay further taxes to us. We own the market, and the fees you pay to trade there are more than sufficient recompense.” She waited now, as the rustling of conversation grew into a short storm, and the black looks thrown up at the fort told her all she needed to know about the Laird’s taxation practices.

  “Many of you come from far afield, and will not enjoy this Laird’s protection. Be assured, my Lancers and Pathfinders will patrol the roads to ensure your safety from brigands and cut-purses. If you petition the crown, we shall provide escorts for caravans of goods. There is no charge for this service, though I am sure the soldiers involved will appreciate a bite of your fine fare.”