by David Hair
They didn’t remove her Chain-rune; very clearly, they just wanted her womb. But though she dreaded rape, no such thing had happened. Yet. Instead, she discovered she was to be married off, and then raped. That will be tonight, after this sham of a ceremony.
The Sydian mage who’d captured her spoke a little Rondian. His name was Drzkir, and he was a part-Brician quarter-blood, son of a legion mage his mother had lured to her bed forty years ago. It was a Sydian tradition, throwing their women at Rondian mages, deliberately seeking to become pregnant, and each new mage-child added to the clan’s power. Drzkir was chief shaman of the Vlk, and he had seventeen children already – Sydian shamans, like the warriors, were allowed many wives. Though he considered himself educated, he couldn’t read, and he obviously had no idea what the Scytale was. Cym told him it was a holy relic, and he’d accepted that, placing it among his collection of goat horns and necklaces of wolf teeth.
Drzkir had clearly intended to keep Cym himself but a higher power, in the shape of the clan chief, the Nacelnik, had intervened. After walking appraisingly around her, Gul-Vlk had declared that their new prize would marry one of his own sons.
This gave Cym an insight into clan politics: the Sydians might strive to breed magi, but they obviously did not want them becoming too powerful and overthrowing the traditional warrior-rule. The Nacelnik feared Drzkir, so he wanted the fruit of Cym’s womb to be of his own line. Drzkir was clearly furious – he’d been tracking Cym since she left Thantis, he’d told her proudly – but the Nacelnik was clan chief for a reason, so he controlled his anger.
It was an opportunity, and she had taken it. The Sydians spoke a polyglot tongue with enough Rondian and Rimoni words that she could just about make herself understood. She started to try and secure herself by charming Gul-Vlk, treading a careful line between sweetness and pride, praising, not grovelling. He had seven adult sons, all potential suitors – and all were all brutal savages, even the most pleasing of them.
She asked Gul-Vlk for the right to choose her own groom as a way to delay the inevitable. The idea had amused him and he had declared a contest. For the last week, the sons of Gul-Vlk had been displaying their skills in riding, running and fighting – and, to her utter mortification, their sexual prowess. She’d never believed the tales, that for Sydians, lovemaking in front of the entire tribe was part of the evening’s entertainment, but it had turned out to be fact, not fiction. Some of the things she’d seen at Gul-Vlk’s feasts had left her crimson with horror and embarrassment. She’d never thought herself a prude before now.
And tonight that’s what one of these savages will be doing to me, right in front of everyone. She fought hard to stop the tears welling in her eyes. She would not show weakness, however scared she was.
Outside, the night was becoming wilder. As the drums began to roll, sounding like an oncoming storm, so the wind lifted the tent flaps, wafting in the all-pervasive stink of animal dung and unwashed humanity that constantly invaded her nostrils. The women treated her with elder-sister condescension. They tittered as they selected their most revealing dresses. They had a similar caste to their faces: long, narrow noses, long, pointy chins and high, sharp cheekbones. Almond-shaped eyes were set in narrow faces, and their foreheads were all etched with the clan’s diamond-and-wolf markings. Most had tattooed arms too, and some had designs over their backs and even breasts. They have a wild kind of beauty, she thought, understanding why Sydian women were considered a prize by the slave-takers – even though they had a reputation for murdering their owners in their sleep.
Despite herself, her eyes filled with tears. Of all the dreams she’d had, the plans for where her life would take her, it wasn’t to here, to be a broodmare for some illiterate savage. I’m Justina Meiros’ daughter. Papa-Sol, Mater-Luna, please help me.
The tent opened, revealing the hulking form of Gul-Vlk. He’d been delighted to make his seven sons – delivered of seven different wives – scrap it out for this Rimoni divka. It had been a good way to sort out the pecking order and see off any who might be wishing to take on the leadership at too young an age. Two had been crippled in the contest so far, and another was unfortunately dead; it was surely just coincidence that that son had been the most ambitious.
‘Kybelya.’ He launched into what she thought must be a fulsome paean of praise as he walked around her, pinching her bottom and squeezing her breasts, all the while beaming at her. His rotting-meat stench was so overwhelming that she struggled to keep her gorge from rising. The victorious son, waiting outside to claim her, was just as bad, and the temptation to lash out was almost unbearable.
I will escape this, she told herself, forcing her lips into a smile. I must, somehow.
Myrlla kissed her formally on the cheek, then lowered the veil, enclosing her within a tiny lace tent. Then Gul-Vlk took her arm and led her out into the night. The women trailed behind, first giggling in low whispers, then, as the drums roared, wailing as if at a funeral while the men leered and made obscene-looking gestures with their fingers. Cym felt dizziness crawl over her, and she wondered if she was about to faint. Perhaps it would be better if she did.
Torches flared in the darkness beneath the silver moon. Gul-Vlk’s arm was like a tree trunk and she clung to him, barely trusting her legs, thankful for the veil that turned the crowd into just a heaving blur. The thunderous sounds and foetid stench battered her senses even as the bilious taste rising from her throat got worse. Children reached out and patted her arms for luck, and warriors beat sword-hilts against leather shields.
The Nacelnik led her to a wooden stage hung about with cloth of red and white and pulled her up the stairs, growling warningly when her legs almost gave way. Her head swam and she thought again that she might faint, but pride took over. She had always been fiercely independent; she was not going to play the weak maiden now. She raised her head, and stiffened her spine.
I will not be broken by whatever humiliation comes. I am Rimoni. I am a Meiros. I am di Regia.
A towering figure robed in furs and masked by a wolf’s head awaited them. His eyes, mouth and chin were all that were visible beneath the wolfskin. There was a priest too, of the strange variant of the Sollan Faith the clan followed. Then her eyes jerked unwillingly to her husband-to-be. Hyr-Vlk was clad only in breeches, with the skin of a wolf thrown over his shoulder. His naked torso was covered with a tangle of tattoos that culminated over his heart in a startlingly lifelike wolf-face. Its yellow eyes seemed to follow her, just as his did. She was ridiculously thankful for her lace veil, though she knew it would be gone all too soon, as would the thin cotton shift. She’d seen the public consummation of three weddings already; she knew exactly what was in store for her.
Gul-Vlk turned to the wolf-headed shaman and growled something in his own tongue. ‘Call the Gods,’ echoed Myrlla behind her in a quick whisper, startling her.
The shaman turned and held both arms aloft. He bellowed over the masses, ‘Slunzi i mezich, slunzi i mezich!’
‘He calls the Sun and Moon to witness,’ Myrlla whispered as the gathered tribe repeated his words, over and over.
The voice, though oddly distorted by the wolf’s head, wasn’t Drzkir’s, Cym realised dimly.
A bright golden light grew on the eastern hillside, and from the west a white light answered. The crowds hushed. ‘The Sfera create light to call Papa-Sol and Mater-Luna,’ Myrlla whispered reverently. ‘We Sfera are the hands of the gods.’
The lights grew brighter and the clan began to sing a hymn in praise of the Sollan gods. Cym found she knew the tune, though not the words, and she sang along softly in Rimoni as tears began to run down her cheeks. Her hands clasped and unclasped almost of their own volition as an uncontrollable shiver ran down her spine.
I wonder if they will ever let me have my gnosis back? Maybe after the fifth child in five years, when she was too bloated and weak to run even if she wanted to. She stared into the orange glow of the nearest torch and seriously considered trying
to reach it, to somehow immolate herself—
Suddenly the lights on both sides of the camp went out, accompanied by a chorus of distant screams that almost immediately fell ominously silent. An almost palpable uncertainty ran through the gathering as darkness closed in. The hymn faltered, and a murmur of fear rippled among the tribesfolk like wind through barley. As one, they turned to the shaman, who stood with his arms still raised over them, but his voice was now silent. The torches began to wink out one by one and the darkness closed in. Even without her gnosis, Cym could feel that this was not natural. She reached up and wrenched off her headdress, and her husband-to-be flinched at the sight of her face, making a sign to ward off bad luck.
I think you might have more bad luck to worry about than just seeing your bride too soon, she thought with an exultant sense of anticipation.
Gul-Vlk hissed at the shaman, ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Myrlla translated automatically, her voice fearful.
‘THE GODS ARE NOT PLEASED!’ the shaman roared aloud, and Cym went rigid in shock.
The words were in Rondian.
Suddenly dark shapes taller than any man had a right to be emerged from the surrounding night, shrieking unearthly cries and panicking the tribesfolk.
‘Sudicki!’ someone screamed.
‘Demon!’ Myrlla gasped.
Hyr-Vlk went to grab Cym, but the shaman thrust out a hand and the Sydian warrior flew backwards off the stage and crashed to earth among his people.
Gul-Vlk started to shout for calm, but before he could finish he too was hurled into the crowd below.
The shaman’s wolf-head loomed over Cym and an excited but familiar voice said, ‘Shall we go?’
*
Alaron had never had so much fun in his life. The Sydians had been caught totally unaware. Most were unarmed, for it was bad luck to bear weapons to a marriage ceremony, so no one was shooting arrows or waving swords. A few daggers flashed, but the warriors turned out to be almost superstitiously terrified of magi and did not come close.
The pregnant woman who’d been translating for Cym backed away, holding her belly protectively, and Alaron stood back and let her go.
All around him, the lamiae poured into the camp, baring teeth and wielding spears and the gnosis. Fire blossomed in the dark, and mage-bolts blazed at any warrior foolish enough to stand his ground, but there was little resistance. The Sydian magi were low-blooded and badly trained, with little control over their gnosis; they were no match for the lamiae. And the sheer inhuman aspect of the lamia warriors now pouring into the camp was enough to break the tribe’s fighting men before they even raised their weapons. Naugri led the attack, crowing excitedly and followed by a rush of whooping serpentmen. After years of running and hiding, they were delighted to be able to strike openly.
Fydro and Hypollo had carried Seeker on their shoulders and now Alaron turned to Cym, who was still shaking with cold and shock and gaping wordlessly. He threw off the wolfskin and draped it about her shivering body, then ordered, ‘Naugri, help her.’
The lamia swept Cym into his arms and slithered back to the skiff. He lowered her in gently while Alaron leapt to the tiller.
‘Have you heard from Kekropius?’ he asked.
Naugri licked his lips with his thick, reptilian tongue, then said, ‘He has your artefact.’ He looked Cym over, then bowed his head and rippled away.
Cym, still speechless, stared after him in stunned amazement.
Alaron kissed her forehead, drinking her in with his eyes. He hoped the tattoo was something that could be easily removed. His own arms and chin were merely inked, copied from a shaman they had captured earlier. ‘I can’t believe I’ve found you,’ he whispered.
She smiled bravely. ‘Neither can I – you, of all people.’ She peered at the lamiae as they crowded around, so alien a sight that she cowered against his chest, even guessing they meant her no harm. ‘Who are your new friends?’ she asked timorously.
‘Lamia – snake-people,’ he said with a grin.
She blinked. ‘Like in the Lantric myths?’
‘Constructs, made to mirror the legends. I’ll explain once we’re in the air – but right now we’d better go.’ He waved the serpent-folk back, then powered up the keel. Seeker lifted willingly and he turned the bow towards the south. ‘We’ve got to get back to our caves before dawn.’
They talked while they flew. Cym pressed against him as he worked the sails and tiller until she’d stopped shaking, then she edged away, to his regret, though she continued to listen avidly, intrigued, as he explained who the lamiae were and what he’d promised them. She was moved by their plight, and Alaron was reminded that the Rimoni themselves too often found themselves fugitives in the land they had once ruled.
She quickly told him her own tale – the crash on Phaestos, the long months on the road and her ignominious capture – and he thought she sounded more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. He couldn’t believe they’d managed to reach her exactly at the moment of her enforced marriage – it felt like fate, not coincidence. It was almost enough to make him believe in a higher power again.
But then it was his turn again, and his awful duty to report not just the death of Jeris Muhren, but the probable death of her father and his caravan. At first she didn’t seem to hear him, then she refused to believe him, until finally she howled in despair and collapsed in the bottom of the hull, screaming and wrenching at her hair, a harrowing sound that twisted Alaron’s own gut. He couldn’t leave the tiller, so all he could do was murmur weak sympathies as tears ran down his own cheeks.
Eventually she subsided, but when they landed, she stayed curled in a foetal position, refusing to speak or to move, until a group of young female lamiae crowded about her, murmuring and stroking her. To Alaron’s surprise, Cym let them take her away. He guessed it was some kind of female thing, but whatever it was, he was grateful.
*
The lamia war party arrived back just before dawn. Kekropius came straight to him, his eyes shining. ‘I am proud, Milkson. Your plan was a success, and not a single one of our people was injured. You led us well.’
Alaron felt himself blush. He’d not had a lot of praise in his life and he still found it hard to know how to react to it. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.
Kekropius pressed a cylindrical leather case into Alaron’s hands. ‘This is what you sought?’ he asked with a note of anxiety in his voice.
Alaron removed the cylinder cap and tipped the greatest treasure of the empire into his hands. He’d glimpsed it only briefly in Norostein, back in Junesse, a lifetime ago. It looked the same, as far as he could tell. ‘Yes, this it,’ he said, and Kekropius beamed proudly. He turned it over in his hands disbelievingly.
‘It was right where the tattooed man said,’ Kekropius told him.
‘Well done,’ Alaron praised, and the lamiae about him hollered triumphantly. At that moment it was easy to believe that they really were all so young in years.
They were currently based in a limestone hill riddled with tunnels south of the Imperial Road. Before resting, he and Kekropius went to find Cym, to make sure she was all right. They found her staring into space in the small chamber they’d prepared for her. Alaron wasn’t sure whether she’d be in tears, but to his surprise she was sitting wrapped in a blanket, hugging her knees, pale, but otherwise calm. She looked Kekropius over curiously, but it looked like she had adapted to the reality of the lamiae with remarkable equanimity.
‘I always believed the Lantric myths were real,’ she said simply. ‘I was right.’
‘But they’re constru—’
She put a finger to his lips. ‘Real.’
Kekropius took in her words with an odd look, then bowed from the waist. ‘Lady Cymbellea, all we have is yours.’
Cym smiled slowly. ‘That, Alaron, is proper manners.’
Alaron rolled his eyes. Then he pulled out the leather cylinder. It was about a foot long, a rod of wood plated with curved bone panels onto which w
ere etched all manner of Runic symbols. Thanks to Turm Zauberin, Alaron was familiar with some of them. Attached to one end were eight two-foot-long leather straps, each tipped with a coloured bead.
‘This is the emperor’s treasure?’ Kekropius mused. ‘A strange thing. Do you understand it?’
‘A little,’ Alaron said slowly. ‘A scytale is an encryption device – they were invented by the Rimoni legions to send coded messages. But no one uses them any more. We only learned about them at college because of this one.’ He pointed. ‘Look: they used to wrap these cords about the rod in different configurations so you knew how to match certain letters with others. That way, so long as the sender and receiver knew the configuration, you could write a short note that would be nothing but nonsense to anyone else.’
‘Impressive,’ said Kekropius, wonderingly.
‘Not really, not once you know the secret – they were already obsolete by the time Corineus came along. I guess they were too easy to decipher. I wonder why Baramitius used one at all? It seems an odd choice.’ He twisted one end thoughtfully, just to see if it would move, then gasped as it clicked and the runes on the shaft changed. ‘Look!’ he cried, ‘these runes are only visible through holes in the outer bone shell – if you twist it, you get different runes.’ He whistled softly. ‘This isn’t so simple after all.’
Kessa slithered from a cavern and came up to him. She touched her left breast and then his lips. ‘Milkson,’ she said without any visible emotion.
Alaron’s fingers went to his lips. By Kessa’s standards, she’d practically danced a jig.
She peered at Cym curiously. ‘Your woman is well?’
‘I’m not his woman,’ Cym said quickly, to Alaron’s discomfort, but Kessa merely blinked and left again, moving with sinuous grace.
