The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Celimus turned back to his guests and rubbed his knuckles. ‘She has a head as hard as stone — like all the Thirsk trolls.’ Nervous laughter sounded in the room. ‘Get her ready!’ he ordered Jessom, who escorted a prone Ylena Thirsk, held in the arms of a guard, out of a side door.

  Cailech wanted to bring the evening to a rapid close. It was time to get away from here, but the sight of the golden-haired beauty and her magnificent defiance of the man everyone in Morgravia feared, compelled him to learn more. He knew Celimus was watching him and so he said smoothly, ‘You were telling me about Koreldy,’ as if the interruption had been of little consequence.

  Celimus continued with similar aplomb, seating himself and bidding everyone do the same. ‘Yes, forgive the disturbance. I revealed Koreldy’s true identity to Queen Valentyna, who was mortified — as you might imagine — for the mercenary had killed her father, King Valor.’

  ‘I see. And?’

  ‘Well, she banished him, which made it possible for one of my assassins to deal with him. I had no intention of allowing Koreldy to roam the land after betraying me.’

  Cailech could not believe his ears. ‘You have proof of Koreldy’s death?’

  ‘A finger, still wearing a signet ring with a deep blood-red stone and marked with the family insignia.’

  ‘I know the ring,’ Cailech replied, feeling suddenly empty. He had been denied the pleasure of dealing with Romen Koreldy, it was true, but he had not expected the acute sense of sorrow that pervaded him. In spite of their differences, not to mention the bad blood, there had been respect between them. He felt sure Koreldy would have preferred to be felled by a Mountain warrior’s sword than a Morgravian assassin’s blade. ‘I always thought the man had lives to spare,’ he commented, trying to hide the bitterness in his tone.

  ‘Well, he used them all up once he crossed me, my friend,’ Celimus boasted and urged more wine to be poured.

  Cailech had tired of being referred to as friend by the Morgravian King. He gave a subtle nod towards Aremys who understood its meaning but made no move; instead he glanced again towards the door where the woman had been taken. Cailech frowned. What was it between those two?

  ‘That woman — what is to happen to her?’ he asked, twirling his half-empty goblet.

  ‘She will be executed in your honour, sir,’ Celimus answered.

  Cailech spilled some of the wine in his surprise. ‘Certainy not in my honour!’

  The King of Morgravia shrugged. ‘Well, she is to die anyway — I’d like her to be my gift to you. You’re not squeamish, are you?’ It was a challenge.

  Cailech did not like the sound of the gift or the suggestion of his gutlessness. ‘Celimus, we have enjoyed your hospitality long enough. You will forgive me if I take my leave now.’

  ‘I could not forgive you if you did, my friend.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Cailech asked, gritting his teeth.

  ‘We still have some time before the appointed rendezvous and I would like you to partake of the evening’s entertainment.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Celimus’s voice was sly. ‘Tell Jessom we are ready,’ he said to a waiting servant.

  It was terrifying. Elspyth had never fought in any sort of hand-to-hand combat in her life, not even as a child, enacting pretend swordfights and mock battles with other children in the pursuit of laughter and competition. Now she found herself facing a woman who seemed utterly determined to kill her. Elspyth had no tricks to draw upon, no skills which might help her to protect herself.

  Alda’s lips were drawn back in a tight snarl. There was no doubt in Elspyth’s mind that Alda viewed herself as the predator and her opponent as the cornered, helpless prey. The hunter laughed, springing forward and feinting towards her right. The hunted fell for it and tried to dart in the opposite direction, but found that path cut off and a blade slashing towards her. Elspyth shrieked and twisted away, feeling the knife cut cruelly down her back.

  The men roared; more bets were exchanged in Alda’s favour. The cheering and jeering continued without respite. The audience insulted Elspyth and shouted that Shar’s Gatherers were running towards her so fast, she might as well give up now.

  Again Alda pounced, this time trying to slash her opponent’s face — which was all the prettier, many in the audience conceded, for its pleading expression. Elspyth reacted instinctively and put both her arms up, which won her a nasty gash on the arm where bright blood bloomed instantly. It was not life-threatening but it was the arm she held her blade in and it began to go numb almost immediately. She cried out in despair.

  Alda was enjoying herself. Elspyth realised the woman was simply playing with her. She had promised the fat man a spectacle in exchange for being allowed to kill the opponent of her choice, and Alda was delivering on that hard-hearted promise. How many more slashes would she make before the killing blow came, Elspyth wondered through her tears, as Alda leapt again, missing so slightly that Elspyth heard the whoosh of the blade through the air. Alda laughed harder, whilst Elspyth’s exertions made her blood flow freer. It was running down her back, she could feel it, and her front was splashed with blood from her arm wound.

  The numbness made it hard to feel her hand gripping the blade. That was probably Alda’s intention, she realised, impressed. Not all for show then. Her would-be killer was making strategic wounds, designed for disabling as much as exhibition. No wonder Alda was still alive and on her third fight. No doubt she would make it to the slave boat.

  Or will she? a small voice questioned in Elspyth’s mind. Why must she win? Why can’t you find some spine and at least die attacking rather than be slaughtered mercilessly like a frightened lamb?

  She felt the sadistic bite of the blade again, this time expertly delivered across one breast, rapidly followed by the wet sensation of blood spouting forth in answer to the vicious pain. Elspyth staggered, hardly daring to look down at the ruin of her body. When she did she saw only red, running freely and draining her of strength and the will to remain standing. Opposite her swaggered Alda; no cuts or injuries but covered in blood nonetheless… Elspyth’s blood.

  And then Alda did something which she had no idea would awaken the primeval instincts in her opponent. Responding to the chanting of the male audience, now calling for the end to the young woman who was ragged, breathing hard and bending as if under the weight of her pain and despair, Alda licked at the blood that spattered her mouth. It drove the men into a frenzy of lust and greed.

  But for Elspyth, it helped her find her rage again. Watching that theatrical gesture, as if Alda thought Elspyth was hers to consume, the injured woman felt the searing white flame of anger once more. She straightened, threw back her greasy hair and screamed. And her fury travelled and hit its mark, cutting through the shields of sorcery, streaming loudly into the consciousness of a man trapped in a horse.

  It was as if, just for a moment, he saw it all.

  Kill her, Elspyth, he cried. Survive! And then he was gone, slipping away from her mind like sand through fingers.

  ‘Lothryn!’ she shrieked but silence was all that came back. Thick, dark silence and the sinister presence of Alda stalking her.

  ‘It’s time, Olivya,’ the woman called sweetly, like a mother to her child. Except the sweetness was tainted and false.

  ‘Do it then, bitch! End it!’ Elspyth screamed back over the excited clamour of the audience, who knew the blade would fall only once more.

  Alda was not prepared for this. She had anticipated begging and weeping, but not aggression. Then she frowned to see Elspyth crouch as if in disabling pain and lay her blade in the sawdust.

  ‘I have no more to give,’ Elspyth whispered, ‘no more.’

  Her opponent became angry. ‘You gave nothing! You didn’t even try and defend yourself, you weak fool. Now I have my escape from here. Thank you, Olivya — your life has bought something precious,’ and she quickly covered the ground between them.

  ‘Make it swift,’ Elspyth pleaded
.

  ‘I will,’ the woman said, wiping blood from her mouth, hardly able to see flesh through the red liquid covering her opponent’s body. ‘Bare your throat!’

  Elspyth turned her head slightly sideways, knowing she looked like a lamb with its neck exposed for the quick killing slash.

  In her excitement, all Alda saw was a girl giving herself willingly to death. She did not notice Elspyth’s hand reaching slowly for the blade by her side. Some of the men did, and began screaming for Alda to beware, but she could not hear them in the cacophony. She had eyes now only for Olivya’s creamy throat and raised her blade high into the air.

  Elspyth wondered if Shar’s Gatherers were queuing behind Alda as the woman raised the knife. She watched the weapon reach towards the zenith of its arc… Now! She could not tell whether she said it aloud or just heard herself think it. Whichever it was, Elspyth moved faster than she ever had before. It was a once-only effort and it had to be accurate. Wyl had told her that when you sense the opening in someone’s defences, you have to strike as fast as your body allows and put your full strength behind it — as a cat does when it leaps or pounces. Elspyth was that cat now. She felt her legs push up hard as she poured every ounce of her courage and her love for Lothryn into one savage leap. Propelling herself upwards, she thrust the blade before her and, unbelievably, saw it embed itself in the centre of Alda’s throat.

  Elspyth felt pain as Alda’s knife, intended for her neck, missed its mark and sank itself deep into her shoulder. It hurt, more than she cared to think about, but it would not take her life… unlike Alda, whose spluttering surprise was cut short by a horrible gurgle.

  Elspyth, trembling with shock, knelt beside Alda’s slumped figure and took her hand. She did not want her to go to her god amidst hate. The woman wanted to speak — it was in her eyes, already glazing over. Was it regret that she had lost her chance for the slave boat or sorrow for her cold-blooded actions that had brought her this far? Elspyth would never know, but she felt the slightest squeeze of her hand as the dying woman struggled not to relinquish her soul to the Gatherers, even though she knew she had already lost this fight.

  A hush blanketed the audience in eerie silence. Much money had been lost this evening for the underdog had won against the odds.

  Alda’s blood mixed with Elspyth’s, forming a pool between them. ‘I’m sorry,’ Elspyth whispered, unable to control her tears. ‘May Shar guide you to his peace.’

  Alda died with a crooked smile, as if in thanks for Elspyth’s blessing, and then her mouth relaxed into death and her blood ceased pumping over the kneeling victor.

  The strangled silence of disbelief was broken by the angry shouts of soldiers who burst into the building. One of them was Commander Liryk, roaring orders, but it was Crys who saw Elspyth first.

  The sight of the two bloodied figures in the middle of the makeshift arena horrified him, stopping him in his tracks. One woman was obviously dying, or most likely dead, but the other was sobbing.

  ‘Elspyth,’ he called into the noise which had cranked up afresh. She did not hear him. ‘Elspyth!’ he yelled, fury overtaking him as images of his own dead family scorched a path to the front of his mind.

  She looked up, her body trembling. ‘Crys?’ He saw her mouth move hesitantly, as if unsure what she was seeing was true.

  He was at her side in a few angry strides and scooped her into his arms, the blood that covered her body wet against him. Crys was unable to force out another word, such was his shock. All he could do was bury his face in her lank, bloodied hair and weep with her.

  Kind hands finally loosened his grip on Elspyth and a blanket was thrown around her shivering body. Liryk squeezed Crys’s arms. ‘Steady now,’ he said, and Crys was grateful for the reminder that he must hold his strength in front of the men. He nodded, communicating his thanks silently to the senior soldier. ‘She’s hurt,’ he said, at which point Elspyth sank to her knees.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ Liryk barked to one of his men.

  ‘No, wait!’ she begged. ‘Have you got the leaders?’

  Liryk shook his head. ‘Are you up to helping us with that?’

  ‘Can’t you see her wounds —’

  Elspyth interrupted Crys. ‘It’s all right. Please. Ensuring their heads roll at the swipe of an axe means everything to me.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Liryk said, impressed, for he had seen the woman of Yentro’s injuries and knew most men would be screaming for attention to them by now. ‘Point them out.’

  Crys helped Elspyth to her feet and wiped her face with a damp towel he was handed by a guard. The cool water and the cleaning away of the blood revived her slightly.

  ‘Come,’ Liryk encouraged. ‘They’re rounded up outside.’

  ‘What about the women?’ she asked.

  Liryk gave a low whistle. ‘I’m shocked by this. We had no idea of its extent.’

  ‘You knew about it?’ Elspyth could not help the accusation in her tone.

  ‘Suspected it,’ Liryk corrected. ‘But we’ve been waiting for something or someone to give us a lead to follow.’

  Elspyth made a sound of disgust but said no more, feeling the slight pressure at her shoulder which was Crys suggesting she hold her tongue. She turned to follow Liryk, but when she tried to walk unaided she fell down.

  Crys picked her up gently and Elspyth felt warmed by the sad smile on his face. ‘Let me support you, Elspyth, if you won’t permit me to carry you,’ he said and circled her waist loosely with his arm so she could lean against him as she needed to.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Later,’ Crys replied. ‘Let’s get this ugly business done.’

  Outside, Elspyth pointed out the men who had led the betting and then took much pleasure in asking Crys to take her to where Ericson was trying to stand unnoticed in the mob.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘He calls himself Ericson. He is the leader of this rabble, the one who acquires the women for his sport.’ She said the last word as if it was poison in her mouth.

  Ericson was dragged from the crowd and bound and shackled alongside seven other men who had been involved.

  ‘Is this it?’ the commander asked.

  ‘Yes. The rest are just cruel onlookers.’

  Liryk nodded, as if weary of life. ‘We show each other more respect on the battlefield than they have shown these women. Right, men, hear me,’ he said, addressing the soldiers. ‘I want proof of the name of each man here. If he has no proof, he will be executed. Those who provide proof are to receive forty lashes each. If they survive the whipping, they can drag their sorry arses home and explain it how they will. Remember,’ he said, turning back to the prisoners, ‘we will have a record of your names and the towns you hail from. If you err again, at any time, your family will be stripped of their assets — homes, land, money, belongings. Is that clear?’

  Elspyth saw the men blanch with fear on hearing about the physical ordeal ahead. Perhaps now they might understand a tiny measure of what they had put the captured women through. She had no sympathy in her heart for them. She wondered what Liryk had in store for Ericson and his band of followers. She did not have to wait long, impressed by Liryk’s speed and ruthlessness in meting out punishment.

  ‘The leaders will have their heads removed from their bodies,’ he said, glaring at the cowardly Ericson who visibly staggered at the sentence.

  Silence gripped everyone.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Liryk said calmly to one of his captains.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Do you mean now?’

  ‘I do. All of these men are to watch, as a reminder that Briavel’s Queen will not show any mercy to those who break the most sacred laws of life.’

  Despite her flagging strength, Elspyth still had the energy to feel sorry for the Captain who, to his credit, gave a salute despite his sudden pallor. Liryk was certainly showing no mercy to these evil men and he soared in her estimation. She stayed co
nscious long enough to bear witness to Ericson’s sobs as he was forced to kneel and lay his neck across a log. She looked around for his daughter, but the girl with the singsong voice was nowhere to be seen as the axe fell and her father’s head rolled from his body.

  ‘They say the head knows it has been removed from the body for several seconds afterwards,’ Crys commented absently, still supporting her with his arm.

  ‘Good,’ Elspyth mumbled and slumped against his shoulder.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WYL WAS BROUGHT BACK into the hall of the Donals where an air of expectancy greeted him. He glanced at Aremys’s stricken face and wished he could reassure his friend that death did not frighten him any more. Any escape from the sheath of Ylena’s body was welcome.

  At Jessom’s bidding, and with an awkward silence prevailing, he was taken by the two guards to a spot at one end of the chamber where his hands were tied to a timber framework, no doubt hastily erected for his benefit. His ankles, still manacled, were unnecessarily tied to the timbers as well. This is novel, he thought. Celimus was obviously getting more creative. He stared defiantly at the Morgravian King.