by Sandra Kopp
“Ah, but only a day has passed,” Amata said softly. “Now rest. You have much to look forward to.”
“Might we visit the brooders first?” Nedra queried.
Amata’s eyes narrowed. “After your ordeal I would think you would want to lie down and sleep straight away.”
“Yes,” Nedra conceded. “I am tired. However, I look forward to seeing the charges Lord Ryadok has entrusted to my care. Afterward I will rest.”
“Very well, Favored of Ryadok.” Again Amata’s face softened. Evidently Nedra’s words pleased her.
She turned and stepped outside. Amata led her to the northernmost brooder and opened the door. Nedra winced as a wave of foul, torrid air rushed out to meet her.
“Quickly. Inside. Hurry now,” Amata urged.
With all the grace she could muster, Nedra stepped over the threshold into such stifling heat she felt she would faint. Stone stoves burned in each corner. Rows of straw-filled boxes filled the room. At the very end sat a large brown pile—the food pellets for the young creatures, Amata told her, made from a mixture of blood and the droppings of older creatures—but Kuchka, of course, already knew this.
Little squeaks, growls and snarls emanated from every quarter. Nedra strode to a box in the first row and peeked in. The tiny creature leapt at her, its snapping jaws narrowly missing her face.
“Rashi; peace, my precious,” she said softly. “Rashi.”
Blood-red slits set deep in a coal-black head glared back. Nedra saw the eyes and ears of a wolf, the snout of a wild boar, and a pig-like body covered with scaly skin and sparse, wiry hair. A low growl, much too deep for a creature so small, rumbled from its tiny throat. Slavering black lips rolled back to reveal tiny, razor-sharp teeth. Already four menacing fangs—two on top and two on the bottom—protruded well beyond the other teeth. The monster crouched to spring, the wiry hair on its prominent hump standing straight up.
“Rashi,” Nedra crooned. The growling abated, although the teeth remained bared.
Amata shifted to the third row and pulled out a creature resembling a hairy baby with a goat’s head. Nedra expected it to bleat, but a wolfish growl followed its startled squeal.
“There, precious.” Amata put the goat-child back into its box and crossed the aisle to another. Grunting, she lifted out a larger creature, this one also a hairy human child, but with a short tail and a calf’s head from which protruded the beginnings of a pair of horns. It had human hands and arms, bovine legs, cloven hooves, and male genitalia, as did the goat. The creature bawled and kicked while attempting to gouge the woman with its tiny horns.
“They’re growing.” Amata returned the bull-child to its box. “Too big for the boxes. We’ll put them into the yards after the older ones have been mated and set free.”
“The older ones will not be penned?”
“They can fend for themselves, and so will leave Rissling altogether.”
“Like Baugonril.”
The old chatkah’s eyes glittered with a malevolent yellow glow. “Baugonril cannot be contained,” she said softly. “He escaped, yet reproduced beautifully, even better than we hoped. His premature departure might have boded ill for us, but—”
“But in the end it posed no disadvantage to His Most High Excellency, regardless of what men might think or hope,” Nedra proclaimed triumphantly. “His plan will not be thwarted.”
“Indeed not.” Amata riveted her steely gaze upon Nedra. “Baugonril had a fatal weakness, which we have remedied. Lord Ryadok—as you know, Kuchka—oversees the development of his prize himself.” She gestured dramatically. “He will loose from the castle a magnificent, indestructible creature! As for men—” She shrugged. “They foolishly believe they can slay Baugonril and will recklessly rush into battle with him. And then—” She pounded the fist of one hand into the open palm of the other—“Baugonril will devour them!”
“Oh, yes,” Nedra breathed. “And in the meantime, His Lordship will reward your accomplishments.”
Amata nodded. For a moment he demeanor calmed, but suddenly her eyes gleamed. “Yes, we have finally reached our goal. Our creatures can now mate. No longer must we prepare their seed in dishes. They will engender their own.” She beamed at Nedra. “Tomorrow the largest bulls will be brought into the mating barn and each chatkah can choose whichever she wants. Ah, Kuchka! Your arrival is most timely. We have some magnificent breeders, and as the Most Favored of Ryadok you shall be given first choice. And now I think you had better get some rest.” She burst into a raucous laugh. “For you will most certainly need it!”
THE FALL OF RISSLING
Peter and Hans awaited Charles and Cabe outside the barracks. Charles’ triumphant face answered what they dared not ask. Undetected, he and Cabe had poisoned every pot they found. Only once had a guard asked why they left the barracks, and Cabe had explained they needed to relieve themselves. Moreover, they had discovered Rissling’s main water source: a well situated in the very center of the stronghold.
“But it’s heavily guarded and few allowed near it. I’ll need a distraction,” Charles said.
“Which I can readily provide,” Hans responded.
A third of the granules yet remained. Given their reaction with the water, Charles had deemed only a few necessary in each pot; however, Davon should have provided explicit instructions concerning their use before departing for Castle Ryadok. Charles intended to have a long talk with those Nimbians when this was over!
He smiled wryly at the thought. At Rissling he, Hans, Peter, Cabe, and Nedra withstood a thousand hostiles and innumerable beasts. At Castle Ryadok the Marchants faced Ryadok and his minions alone. More than likely all of them would soon be dead.
But, as Hans puts it, we shall slice off a sizeable piece of Ryadok before we die!
The sounds of awakening soldiers rumbled through the barracks walls as dawn’s first blush lighted the horizon.
“Let’s go,” Peter whispered. “I don’t relish a go-round with these lads, not if they were as drunk last night as I think.”
His comrades needed no urging. With Peter leading, they headed east. Even from a distance they heard the soldiers’ booming voices and raucous laughter. Hans and Charles understood none of the dialogue. But through the pre-dawn haze they saw plainly the tension on their companions’ faces, particularly Peter’s.
They turned into the alley leading to the south gate. Hans surged ahead and caught Peter’s sleeve. “What did they say?” he whispered.
Peter stopped and turned. Fear and fury clouded his face. “The chatkahs are more than tenders of the young. They’re also breeding stock—and it begins today!”
Hans paled and then turned scarlet. “I’ll kill every soldier or beast that goes near her! I swear it!”
Peter laid a hand on Hans’ shoulder. “Hold, friend. We face mortal danger and must carefully weigh every action.” He evenly returned Hans’ stare. “Never fear. She’ll not be touched—not while I have breath!”
Turning to Charles, Peter continued, “I pray, friend, that your efforts last night will bear fruit today.”
Dawn’s first rays peeped over the compound walls, bathing the eastside fences in pale light while leaving their western faces shadowed. The four companions waited near the north end of the alley separating the octagonal paddocks from the long one, watching scores of keepers prepare the morning feeding. Charles stared at the ladder on one fence, suspended by rollers from rails fastened near the top and wide enough that two men with a feed sack or water pot between them could easily climb up together. Someone on the ground then pushed the ladder along as the climbers poured.
A heavy body slammed into a fence. An ear-splitting eruption of roars and bellows followed. Charles listened in horror, trying to imagine what manner of creature could raise such bedlam. More bodies hit the fences as beasts in the other paddocks joined the unrest. Shouting keepers pounded the fences with clubs.
A full-scale riot exploded in the southernmost paddock. Soldiers
and keepers raced to that end, out of the companions’ sight. Seizing his chance, Charles sprinted to the closest ladder and clambered to the top. Below, like a seething stew, restless creatures having men’s bodies but animal features milled about. Hairy and muscular beyond belief, they possessed the hides, horned heads, and bulbous genitalia of wild bulls. They had human arms and hands but bovine legs and cloven hooves.
One beast looked up. Charles cringed under its blood-red stare. “Potchi! Potchi!” the beast bellowed and hurled itself into the fence. “Potchi!”
The force of the impact nearly knocked Charles off the ladder, but he managed to hang on and half climbed, half slid to the bottom.
“Potchi!” Other bulls took up the cry. Tortured wood shuddered and groaned against the grotesque sea now slamming against it.
“Heaven help us!” Charles muttered. “The beasts can speak! And they saw my face!” His hands stung. One bled and he stuffed it into his pocket.
A dozen keepers stormed down the alley toward the shaken comrades. One slid to a stop in front of them and raised his fists. “What have you done?”
“Reporting to the south gate as instructed,” Cabe growled. “We’ve done nothing to upset your beasts.” He glowered back at the speaker until the speaker looked away.
“Be on your way then,” the keeper ordered. “And do not pass this way again.”
“We’ll pass wherever we please,” Cabe snapped back and, followed by his companions, pushed his way through the crowd.
“That didn’t go well,” Hans muttered.
Charles kept his eyes ahead. Curse me! Why did I have to look?
They rounded the corner to the south gate. Charles gasped and stopped short. Pairs of keepers now hoisted the poisoned pots to the tops of the ladders, preparing to pour their contents over the fences.
“Come, we mustn’t tarry,” Peter urged. “At least, not here.”
Gradually the morning mist burned away. The bestial clamor intensified as the bulls, their stomachs filled, sought to gratify their fleshly lusts. Keepers toting bags or boxes jostled older chatkahs slogging through the muck amid the pens, sometimes delivering shoves that sent the old women sprawling. Soldiers strutted atop the outer wall or roamed the compound, trying to keep the workers moving and the pathways clear. Fresh contingents of guards marched to the gates.
Charles waited near the south gate, listening as greedy lips slurped and sucked, sipped and smacked. The hand in his pocket nervously squeezed the pouch containing the remaining granules, and he wondered how soon the poison would take effect. Peter and Cabe talked with guards at the gate, while a short distance away Hans studied a group of soldiers around the well.
Charles scanned the crowd for Nedra while listening for any sound of sickness from the pens. Both efforts proved futile. At noon Peter and Cabe rejoined him, and they positioned themselves on the east side of the long enclosure situated across the alley from the four octagonal paddocks where, Peter had learned, the beasts and chatkahs would be mated. This enclosure, running nearly the width of the stronghold, contained a long barn divided into four compartments: one for feed and clean straw, one for chatkahs giving birth, and two for the pregnant chatkahs when they became too big or sick to execute their normal duties. A narrow yard ran the entire length of the barn. A wall of tall, sharpened poles enclosed both yard and barn. In the western wall, four narrow gates aligned with the gate in the octagonal paddock across from it. Doors in the north and south walls provided additional access.
Charles nervously rubbed his chin. So far the creatures remained unaffected. Several keepers bearing pots rounded the corner and proceeded to the well. Charles glanced around, his face taut. Trying to appear nonchalant, he ambled over to Hans. “I need a diversion.”
Hans brightened. “A fight?”
Charles shrugged. “Whatever. But nothing obvious.”
Peter and Cabe had followed. “It’s time,” Charles told them.
Motioning for Charles to follow, Peter strode toward the well. A guard stepped forward, brandishing his spear.
“My comrade needs a drink.” Peter motioned to Charles. The guard grunted and shouted to a soldier to draw some water.
Hans, meanwhile, wandered through the crowd to a string of horses tied to a nearby rail. What happened next, no one could tell. Two of the horses squealed, whirled, and tore across the narrow yard, scattering the screaming unfortunates in their path in every direction. This further frightened the horses, who dodged and careened, knocking down soldiers and keepers alike. One charged straight for the soldier who was bringing Charles’ cup. He jumped aside, barely in time to avoid being hit.
Charles dodged to the other side, pulled out the pouch, and dumped its remaining contents into the well. Stuffing the bag into his pocket again, he ran a few steps and stopped, looking wildly about as if trying to make sense of the confusion around him.
The incident quickly ended. Two mounted soldiers trotted around the south end of the enclosure, leading the captured runaways. Hans rejoined Peter and Cabe, and the trio stood, listening quietly as a gesticulating soldier loudly interrogated them. The soldier stopped speaking as Charles approached and glared at Peter, awaiting a response. Peter in turn said something to Hans, at which Hans merely shrugged and shook his head.
“Aaaaah!” The soldier snarled and turned away to grab a passing keeper.
Charles stopped beside Cabe, a smile tugging at his lips although he said nothing. The yard gradually settled down.
Suddenly Hans stiffened. His companions followed his gaze. Nedra, accompanied by Amata and flanked by two columns of soldiers, led the procession of chatkahs being escorted to the breeding barn. Her eyes looked almost black in her pale, downcast face.
Charles’ heart pounded as they turned toward the well. A soldier had already drawn water. Charles held his breath, desperately willing Nedra to look at him. She must have sensed his urgency, for she raised her head, turning only her eyes to meet his. Charles put his hand to his mouth, fingers curved as if holding a cup, and shook his head.
Nedra looked away; but she had understood, for when a soldier offered the cup she raised her hand and calmly refused it.
“I am well enough, thank you,” she told the soldier. “I will drink later.”
Impulsively Amata took the cup and put it to Nedra’s lips. Nedra pulled back and knocked the cup from the old woman’s hand. “I said I will drink later,” she repeated, fixing Amata a bold stare.
“This is highly irregular, Kuchka,” Amata thundered, drawing herself to her full height. “This rite has been set forth by Lord Ryadok himself. It must be obeyed!”
“I have taken a potion given me by His Lordship, the effects of which will lessen if I drink. He instructed me to touch no water until the day after I am mated.”
Amata scowled. “I have heard of no such potion.”
“It was an afterthought of His Lordship, carefully prepared from herbs gathered from his garden at midnight in the light of the full moon.”
“I can hardly believe that water from the well blessed by His Lordship himself would interfere with His Lordship’s potion.”
“I know only what His Lordship commanded me, and I intend to obey.” Nedra regarded Amata haughtily. “I have taken the potion. I will touch no water before tomorrow. And now I must be mated only to the strongest and most virile of His Lordship’s bulls.”
Amata’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Of course,” she returned coldly. Lifting her head high to match Nedra’s, she nodded to the soldier and then to the cup, now lying in the dirt at her feet. Sullenly the soldier scooped it up.
Charles relaxed. Beside him, Hans emitted a sigh of relief. The soldier wiped the dirt from the cup with his fingers, refilled it and handed it to Amata. She took a sip and passed it on to the next chatkah, who also sipped before passing it on.
Soon all but Nedra had drunk. Another soldier brought the cup to the front and bowed, first to Amata and then to Nedra, before returning the cup to the s
oldier who had drawn the water. Amata acknowledged with a curt nod.
Nedra remained still, no expression on her stony face. Charles and his companions sensed the storm gathering within her, and it raged within each of them as well. Nedra, they knew, had hidden her full arsenal under her bulky cloak, but that cloak would be taken from her before she entered the breeding yard, exposing their deception.
Charles glanced around. Keepers continued pouring water from the poisoned well over the high walls. The beasts guzzled noisily, slaking ravenous thirsts with no apparent harm.
Hans edged closer to Charles. “When will that magic sand of yours start working?” he croaked.
Charles slumped, drained of all hope. “It seems it will not.”
“Then we’re in for a time of it.” Hans turned away, his jaw set.
How should I have used it? Davon, you said I would know, but the knowledge eluded me. Why can you Nimbians never speak plainly? Why must everything always be a riddle?
Hans pulled in a shaky breath. Charles’ throat went dry as the line of chatkahs filed toward the south end of the breeding pen. Loud bellows and snorts from the paddocks mixed with keepers’ shouts and the noise of carpentry.
Peter spoke to one of the captains, who grunted in response. Peter turned and nodded to his companions. “Come on.”
They hurried to the chatkahs, who had stopped at the pen’s southeast corner. The rear guard whirled, brandishing their spears at the sound of the quartet’s hasty approach, but a word from Peter turned them forward again, and the four passed unchallenged.
“Not good,” Hans puffed. “This pen stretches the entire breadth. Without horses we can’t move quickly.”
