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

by Rex Sumner

  The crowd perked up at this point and started to break up as discussions arose all over the market. Asmara became annoyed, and prepared to speak again, searching her mind for another tempting offer, when Jeremy caught her cloak and tugged. Annoyed, she pulled it from his grasp and turned back, only for his grasp to become insistent. She glared at him, and he motioned for her to get down. She jumped down beside him, her eyebrows raised in enquiry. He leant forward and whispered in her ear.

  “Well done. You’ve done it, they will come, now let’s get out of here before the Laird arrives. Men leaving the ramparts, he’s probably preparing a sally.”

  She digested this, still unaware of the effect of her words, and allowed herself to be guided back to her horse. The lancers mounted and she waved to the crowd, who cheered her as the troop trotted down the path, soldiers waving on both sides. Her brow creased to a frown, as she tried to understand, still thinking she hadn’t managed to get her message across, and moved smoothly into the canter as Lionel took the troop out of the town on the south road. He laughed as he did so.

  “Ha! The Laird is just waking up to what is happening. He’s stormed out of the fort and is rushing down to the market. He won’t like the mess you’ve landed him in, Princess.”

  “Aye,” said Gordie from behind them with a laugh. “That tax comment was genius, Princess. Stirling will be red in the face. He says he wants the money to defend the folk from you, Princess, and here you go offering them money! Talking to them like they’re important to you, while he talks to them like they’re sheep droppings.”

  Asmara reacted to her horse, moving with the gelding, as she allowed the words to sink in. Jeremy spoke in a low tone, enough so only Lionel could overhear.

  “You did good, Princess, but you must learn to read the people. You nearly over-sold them, gave them too many reasons. You might have told them how bad their current situation is, how Laird Stirling takes advantage of them and levies unfair taxes, and done that to start.” He paused at his horse stiffening without breaking stride, as a dog raced alongside barking. The Princess nodded and Lionel spoke.

  “You might have given them too many good reasons to come, the Fair is going to be heaving with hairy Highlanders now. The other thing worth doing is asking questions as you go. Get them used to answering you and saying what you want them to say. Even if they don’t say it out loud, they are thinking it. Then at the end you can tell them you will see them at the Fair. Make it like a command, a friendly command. They’ll come.”

  “How do you boys know all this stuff?”

  “Elves,” said Jeremy with a grunt. “They love this, reckon that all forms of conversation are like warfare, the most important part of warfare, as you can solve problems without people getting hurt. Like you did here today. Without saying a word about nationality, without anybody dying, or getting hurt, you’ve made all these people your subjects and destroyed the power of the Laird.”

  “I have?”

  “Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but you watch what happens. Make sure this Fair is big and important, lots of prizes. You’ll make the money back in trade, for sure. Nothing will keep these Uightlanders away, especially if you make a big fuss about the Wall Angus being better than their doddies.”

  The sun was out, Asmara noticed, as she felt the warmth across her shoulders and the movement of her horse soothed her, and she basked in this feeling of success. She went over her words again and again, picking out the more successful and replaying the audience reactions in her mind. She wondered if she could persuade the boys to take her to Coillearnacha. She felt it would be a good finishing school.

  *

  Bill slouched on the battlements of Hardenwall, trying to keep out of the driving rain. Wherever he stood, damp managed to pour down his neck. He cursed this filthy country, wondering why he chose to join the Lord’s Watch. He’d prefer to be back in his village, an hour’s ride from Praesidium. Just the previous month, after the carthorse trod on his foot and his father belted him round the ear for ploughing a crooked furrow, he’d taken to the inn for a pint and his mates persuaded him to join up with them. The lure of the lawless frontier, loot, women available for the taking, willing or not. Respect from the peasants, free booze and lots of food.

  All a bloody lie. The peasants were animals, who respected him not a jot. They laughed at him. As for the women, well, his virginity didn’t look like going anytime soon. They terrified him, big strapping women with bouncing breasts, some of them with big wobbling bottoms which fixated his eyes. Until they noticed and scowled at him. One monstrous woman had even rolled up her sleeves and advanced on him, causing him to flee back to the barracks.

  Burt Fletcher, a big man who treated Bill as his personal slave, claimed to have had a woman last week, but Bill wasn’t sure he believed him. The locals didn’t talk to them, ignored them. He hunched his shoulders as a drip found its way down his collar, but the drizzle seemed to be easing. Was that blue sky over there? Wonder of wonders, the first he’d seen this week. And this was spring!

  His thoughts went back to the disaster of the previous night. Burt had encouraged them to celebrate the victory over the Spakka and after lubrication on the local uisge in the canteen, four plucked up the courage to try the Hanged Spakka, a local haunt with music and women. He knew their mistake the moment they entered, the music stopping and an ethereal girl on the stage checking in mid-song, her mouth snapping shut while eyes the colour of the storm-tossed sea riveted his soul, transfixing him in mid-stride. A massive man, bare chested with tattoos whorled across his chest in a startling blue, met them before they had fully entered the room.

  “Youse are not welcome heeya affa dark like,” it said. “Nou fuck off back te yuh bloody lair before ah tek yer heeds off an shove em up yer arse.” An aggressive belly, not an ounce fat, pushed them hard but they were backing up and out of the door in haste, even Burt’s bravado deserting him.

  As they trailed down the street, Bill in the rear, alcohol dispersing at speed, a hand came out of a shadow and grabbed his arm, causing Bill to leap in the air like a startled pheasant.

  “Alreet canny lad are yuh looking fer a good time pet? Ah’ll tek yuh ta heavin an back, Ah wull, an’ suck yuh as dry as a witch’s tit.”

  A girl gripped him, pulling him towards a doorway. He couldn’t tell what she looked like, transfixed by the breasts straining to escape a barely buttoned tunic and his resistance evaporated, his steps following her to the door.

  “Ah’m Kels, howay an a’l make yuh so happy, bonny lad,” she said as she eased the door shut before turning and slamming an iron fist into his chin. “Silly fucken’ soft suthern wanka, think yuh can get yuh filthy mits on this sacred body. Ah divn’t think see, a’l teach yuh a lesson yuh’ll niver forget like.”

  In moments she stripped him, shoving him bare-assed naked from the door which slammed firm behind him, the drizzle turning to rain, sluicing down him bringing him back to awareness. Running barefoot and naked through the rain to catch up with the ridicule of his friends and safety from the laughter of the locals.

  Overlooking

  Her guide awaited back in the dining area and pressed a hot tisane into Susan’s willing hands, the aroma of fresh mint and honeysuckle twitching her nostrils. She sat back on a stool and waited for Susan with sparkling eyes, mischief dancing in the corners. Susan liked her. She pulled up a stool and sat opposite, as the girl measured her.

  “Did the Goddess instruct you?”

  “Well,” said Susan, her mind going back to the conversation. “She said I was to be her Shelagh na Gig. I’m not sure what that means.” Her eyes flew wide. “Ohhh, the carvings, do I have to pull myself open?”

  The girl laughed, not the musical twinkling Susan might expect, but a deep laugh from her belly, her power. “I am also Shelagh na Gig. You may call me Niamh. I guess I will be your instructor, Diana will expect you just to know what to do.
No, you won’t be opening yourself up like that. You are a guard, but so much more. Finish your tea and we shall sort out your clothes. You will need armour. Can you fight at all?”

  Susan could hear the doubt in her voice and smiled. “Oh, just a little. But I will need something to control my new bouncers, I haven’t exercised since these things grew.”

  Niamh narrowed her eyes in thought. “They are... impressive. I think they could be useful as a distraction, though. Rather than hide them, let us try to emphasize them. Will give you more time to gut them if they are goggling at your boobs.”

  “Is there much danger? You sound as if you have to fight somebody off all the time.”

  “No, I have never fought in earnest. I suppose one of the other priestesses might make a play for supreme power, but it has never happened. We hold the Elves in our sway, and it is more than a thousand years since they attacked us. We keep prepared, and fight daily on the practice field and we compete in the arena. Come, let us see what we can do about a harness for you.

  The Brownie armourer clucked in consternation as Susan’s boobs plopped out of the leather for the fifth time.

  “Maybe if I put a little more length in this strap,” she said.

  “Oh, enough already,” said an exasperated Susan. “Your design is for Elves and Tuatha da Danann. We need to create something different for me.”

  Niamh yawned, amused. “The Brownies are very good at craftsmanship, but they never create anything new. Maybe Lugh will have an idea, we can ask him. Or Crom sometimes fiddles with his armour and baldric.”

  “As if a man would design anything that didn’t fall apart at the critical moment. No, I’ll do it myself. Let me see, give me that cloth. If I make something in cloth, can you repeat it in leather?”

  The Brownie nodded, eyes narrowed in suspicion and doubt. Susan ignored her and worked fast, cutting up strips of cloth and pinning them together.

  “I don’t want to give too much support, or my muscles will weaken. But I need to stop excessive swaying. How can I do it without strapping them down?” Susan mused to herself as she worked, creating a broad belt to go just under her breasts and support two cups, with a strap going up over her shoulders.

  Niamh and the Brownie watched with interest and she tried it on.

  “You are very fast,” said Niamh. “Have you just created this on the spot, or have you done this before?”

  “I worked in my father’s shop, a tailor. We made similar things for women of all sorts. Never a military harness, though. Now, this works well for a dress, but if I attach a sword to it, the weight will pull down the side and my breast will pop out. I wonder if I made a sort of double baldric?” A baldric was an over the shoulder belt designed to hold a sword, and a double one materialised in cloth under her nimble fingers. The Brownie’s eyes lit with understanding.

  “Ah, I see what you want now. Yes, I can do this. Please, come back this afternoon, I will have it ready. Now, please try on the trousers.”

  Susan did, frowning as she anticipated the weight, and her brow clearing as she found the armour lighter than expected. They were soft fabric, linen or cotton, with large, overlapping scales sewn around the outside. She had presumed them to be metal, but now realised they were light, and checking she found they were real scales, from some massive animal.

  “A present from the dragon, Fiotr himself,” said Niamh, noticing her interest. “Over the years he gifted us many of his scales, specifically for the guardians of his children.”

  “These are real dragon scales?” Susan breathed deep, stunned at what she heard, stroking the scales with reverent fingers. “Fiotr exists?”

  Niamh smiled. “He did, but has not been seen in my lifetime, not since Aine passed on and was not reborn, or at least not here.”

  This distracted Susan. “Aine is dead? She existed? Reborn? This is so confusing, I don’t understand anything!”

  Niamh laughed. “It is so obvious, but I suppose it is hard when you have lived with lies all your life. Our soul, our spirit is eternal, and is reborn in another body when this one dies. Sometimes immediately, sometimes not for a while. The priestesses can recognise past souls. Aine was the queen of a race of different people, island people, who were smaller than usual. She was beautiful, looking much like you, and wore her hair short. We called them fairies, for they were a gentle people who loved flowers and plants. Of course the other races slaughtered them, to take their lands and for their women. Aine was not the only beautiful one. We gave them sanctuary, here in Elphame, and denied access to their persecutors. But they did not thrive with us, far from their fields and flowers. One by one they died out, Aine the last. Maybe you have her soul, migrated from fairy to man, for when the fairies stopped breeding, there were no bodies for the old souls.”

  “I don’t feel any real connection,” said Susan in thought. “Would I not remember something?”

  “Maybe you do, and don’t realise where it is from. The Tuatha da D’Anu are very interested in you.”

  “Why these different names?”

  “The Tuatha da Danann are the people of Danu, while the Tuatha da D’Anu are the Royal Scythians, the highest caste, the Priest-Kings and Priestess-Queens, whom we serve. The ones the Elves call Gods.”

  “It is so confusing.”

  “Ancient customs and events shape us, complicate matters and many find tiny details important and comforting.”

  “I’ll never understand it all. But you were telling me of Fiotr.”

  Niamh nodded, her face falling into rapture. “The father of all, the Great Dragon who guided us. He lived here when we arrived from across the sea, when we were one tribe, our brother Odin staying in the land you call Spakka while we came here. He welcomed us, revelling in the minds of our Tuatha da D’Anu, for he could speak with them and travelled with them in the Other Lands. Together they fought and cleared the land of the little imps that prey on the unwary, making this land safe for us. Manannan mac Lir was his special friend, they would swim together. He loved Aine, loved her purity and her love of flowers. He grieved when she passed on, and shortly after disappeared, not seen again.”

  “He was a real dragon? With wings and breathing fire?”

  Niamh snorted. “He was reptile, see his scales, light and strong, stronger than metal. He lived in the water, moving at great speed. No, he had no wings, and never breathed fire. He dispensed wisdom and helped us explore our minds, scorching the dark from our thoughts, flying through our dreams to brighten our lives.”

  Niamh fell silent, gesturing at Susan to put on the trousers, which she did, smiling at the smooth feel of the scales as she brushed over them with her fingers. A delicious, sensuous feel, sending a rush of pleasure through her, before something thrummed in her mind and she froze, confused.

  Niamh shook herself, smiled with a sad, lost look on her face, and said, “Come, it is time for lunch. Afterwards we shall try your harness and see how you fare on the exercise field.”

  *

  Niamh led Susan down to the training field, a sandy paddock with short turf, dried sheep’s dung indicating how they cut the grass. A dozen warriors, all tall and red-haired like the true Tuatha da Danann, practiced to the right, in the full sun. Niamh avoided them, noting Susan’s interest at the sight of people never seen before, and took her towards some sheds.

  Susan, bedecked in her new finery, pulled at her leather harness, where something dug into the underside of her left breast, growing more painful as she walked. She adjusted in to no avail, and reached down to feel what the offending object could be. It seemed to be a knot in the sewing thread, and she whipped up a tuft of sheep’s wool stuck in the grass to pad it. She smiled in triumph at the easing of the irritation, only to realize that a couple of the warriors had ceased their training to watch her performance.

  She flushed, held her head high and followed Niamh, her earlier embar
rassment at her enlarged breasts returning with a vengeance. Hurrying after, she caught up as Niamh started to pull some spears from a rack. Turning, she threw one to Susan, nodding in approval as she caught it. Susan inspected the spear with care, testing the weight and balance, while running her hand up and down the shaft. Cotton wound around the middle, creating a grip, but she explored the smooth polished wood on either side, frowning as she guessed it to be ash, and doubted the strength. The head felt heavy and the spear too long.

  “Let’s see how you do with a spear,” said Niamh. “Ever held one before?” She noted the manner in which Susan inspected it, like a professional, to her surprise.

  “Yes,” said Susan. “But not much, as I think it is quite a limited weapon. I prefer a staff, for close quarter fighting. Spears are fine for untrained troops against horse, and for throwing, but at close quarters they are ungainly.”

  “Well, it is our weapon, the designated weapon of the Shelagh na Gig, so you had better get used to it. Come on, measure up.”

  Niamh strode outside to a level area and turned in wait. Susan picked her way carefully, studying the ground and rubbing her feet through the grass, searching for roots and slippery moss, finding none. Niamh stood with her left foot forward and the spear leveled at Susan.

  Susan faced her, relaxed, legs a shoulder’s breadth apart and the spear held loosely by both hands, eschewing the grip.

  “You’ll have no chance like that,” said Niamh. “Take up the first stance, like this.”

  “I know what I am doing,” said Susan. “Come, engage.”

  Niamh hesitated for a moment, before coming forward, thrusting with no intent as she probed Susan’s defense. Susan ignored the first feint, before batting away the second. The third came with more purpose, as Niamh stamped forward with her left foot.

  Susan switched from batting the spear down and to the right, to knocking it up in the air, high in the air, and she swept the butt of the spear down to slam against Niamh’s leading leg, sending her flying. At the same time she yelped, and Niamh picked herself up, dusting down her backside and frowned at the sight of Susan who had dropped her spear and was massaging her right breast, wearing an exasperated expression.