by J. L. Doty
Rhianne realized then that, in the past, with extremely serious wounds, their only recourse had been to simply amputate. But they didn’t have power and magic to aid them. “No,” she said angrily. “The hand, maybe. But the leg, definitely not.”
Fat John frowned at her suspiciously, and considered her for a long moment. Then he shrugged and said, “You’re the healer.”
“Exactly,” she said.
They set up one of the tables as a place for her to operate. She instructed Braunye and the innkeeper in how to prep the wounds, then she and the innkeeper set the one man’s broken leg, though he screamed with pain in the doing of it. She used one of her special potions to clean the wound so it wouldn’t fester, then she went to work on the hand.
She’d barely gotten started when they brought more wounded in, and the night drifted slowly into a blurry haze of blood and broken bones and torn tissue. She did manage to save the one fellow’s leg, but not the other’s hand. In fact, she saved quite a few limbs during that night and the following morning, limbs that, without her present, would have been lost to the bone saw.
About noon, exhausted and almost falling asleep standing up, she asked Braunye, “Who’s next?”
“That’s all, mistress,” she said. “There ain’t no more.”
Rhianne staggered across the common room to a bench set in one wall, plopped down onto it and took stock of herself. Her simple homespun dress was a ruin of blood and bits of bone and flesh, her hair matted and sweat soaked. She’d come quite a distance from being a princess of Elhiyne.
Fat John handed her a clay cup of ale. She downed it hungrily, and asked him, “Why were they working at night, in the dark?”
“The whitefaces are coming,” he said, as if that explained everything. And when he saw she didn’t understand, he added, “We trade with them for their steel. One of them whiteface blades—a full sword—that’ll fetch them a half ton of coke and two stone of smelted soft iron or pig iron.”
Rhianne looked at the empty clay cup in her hand and realized her mistake in drinking it as the alcohol hit her and added to her weariness. “I’m going to rest for a moment,” she said, and lay down on the bench, too weary to even bother cleaning up.
She must have fallen asleep, for a gruff voice awoke her. “This her?”
She opened her eyes. Fat John and a miner, covered from head to toe in black dust, stood over her. “Ya,” Fat John said. “She’s the one done it.”
Done what? she wondered.
The miner nodded, turned and walked away without another word. She sat up and asked Fat John, “Who was that?”
He merely said, “Mine foreman,” then he too turned and walked away.
Nothing more was said. She checked on the injured, applied more potions to prevent festering, staggered back to her hut and fell asleep.
The next morning she wandered down to the stream, lowered herself into the chill water still wearing the bloodied dress; both she and it did need cleaning. She wrung what water she could out of the dress, wore the damp thing as she walked back to her hut, but found a crowd of miners gathered there. As she approached, the crowd parted and she found herself facing the mine foreman. He looked at her disapprovingly, looked her up and down and said, “You need a new dress. We’ll have to see to that too.”
As he growled orders at his men, Braunye came out of the hut. “Mistress, come see.” She grabbed Rhianne by the hand and tugged her into the hut. “Look,” she said, pointing to a full coal bin. “They said we’ll never have a cold night again. And look at this.” She spun and opened their meager larder, and in it hung a full ham, and two wheels of cheese, and vegetables and flour, and dried beans. That night she and Braunye ate a wonderful dinner, the heartiest she’d had since coming to Norlakton.
The next morning one of the miners delivered three new dresses; one for Braunye, and two for Rhianne, homespun, but clean and fresh and new.
~~~
Once in the forest the Benesh’ere relaxed a bit. Fantose told Morgin, “Bloody Kulls got rotten forest skills. Every now and then one or two try something, but most of them know not to, and them that don’t end up dead real quick.”
Jack the Lesser asked Morgin, “Heard you handled yourself pretty good?”
“Right he did,” Fantose said. “He can smell them Kulls like no one I ever seen. Warned us in advance several times—only a couple of heartbeats, but it made the difference. Killed his share of Kulls, he did.”
Delaga added, “He took his share of hurt too.”
Jack wrinkled his nose and sniffed at Morgin. “You didn’t let Delaga put any of that stink grease on you, did you?”
Morgin grimaced. “Just at first. And it does work.”
Delaga said, “See, I told you.”
Jack shook his head. “I know it works, but it stinks enough to drive away nether demons.”
Fantose added, “But it don’t stink no worse than Delaga, so it don’t make no difference for him.”
Jack took notice of a large bundle Fantose had slung over his shoulder. “What you got there?”
“Hoods.”
“Kull hoods?”
Fantose nodded. “Yup.”
“You must have killed a lot of Kulls this year.”
Fantose shook his head. “Nah, they ain’t mine. They’re the Elhiyne’s.”
“Then why you carrying them?”
Fantose looked at Jack carefully. “Jerst—well, Blesset actually—won’t let him collect hoods.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “But he killed ’em, right?”
“Yah, he did.”
“Looks like he killed quite a few.”
“Yah, he did.”
“And Blesset still won’t let him have them?”
“No, she won’t.”
Jack went silent and mulled that over for a bit. Morgin noticed that several other warriors walking with them had gone silent as well, and seemed to be considering what they’d just heard. Morgin broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, “I shouldn’t have insulted Jerst the way I did in your camp that night.”
Jack considered that for a moment, then nodded and said, “No, you shouldn’t have.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Any way I can make it up to Jerst and Blesset, get them to forgive me?”
All three of them considered that for a moment, then shook their heads in unison as Jack said, “Nah. Blesset is too cold-hard mad for any forgiveness.”
“Then how do I get her to not kill me?”
Fantose said, “That’s an easy one, man. She can’t kill you ’cause Jerst is going to kill you first.”
“Well then how do I get him to not kill me?”
Again, the three whitefaces considered his question as they traded glances among themselves. And again Jack answered, “Kill him first, in fair combat.”
Morgin doubted there was any likelihood of that. “I doubt I can.”
Jack threw a comradely arm about Morgin’s shoulders and they began walking. “Ya, there ain’t much chance of you winning any battle against him. And I was starting to like you, too. Shame, ain’t it?”
They all agreed they were beginning to like Morgin, and it was a real shame Jerst would soon kill him. A real shame.
~~~
Morgin moved silently through the forest, using Morddon’s memories and reflexes to move with the stealth of a Benesh’ere. It was the first opportunity he’d had to try the ancient warrior’s forest lore, and it amazed even him that he moved so silently. He had thought it would be difficult to translate those memories into this smaller, shorter body of his, this non-Benesh’ere body. But, to his surprise, like so many other of Morddon’s ancient skills, it came naturally, almost instinctively.
He’d stepped away from the Benesh’ere column and into the forest to relieve himself, and once alone had instinctively shifted to the stealthy movements of a whiteface—when alone in the forest, silence meant survival. He hadn
’t even realized he was doing it until he’d traveled some distance from the main body of the Benesh’ere march. And he’d done it without shadows. It occurred to him then that his shadow magic and the Benesh’ere forest lore would be a powerful combination, and he wondered if the Benesh’ere didn’t have a little magic of their own. Perhaps they weren’t completely bereft of their magic, but retained something subtle that allowed them to move with such silence.
He found a good spot and relieved himself against a tree. But while doing so he heard a twig snap nearby and he froze. He dropped into a crouch, wrapped a shadow about him and danced among the shadows of the forest, moving about ten paces then freezing again. If some enemy had meant to sneak up on him, they wouldn’t find him where they thought.
He heard another twig snap, saw a shadowy figure moving through the forest undergrowth. The figure approached the tree where Morgin had been only moments ago, and he recognized LillianToc, Jerst’s youngest son.
LillianToc stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. “I thought he was here.”
About five paces from LillianToc, Jack the Lesser stood up and said, “He was.” Morgin hadn’t seen or heard Jack approaching. “But he disappeared, and not even I could follow him.”
He pointed a finger at LillianToc. “And you need to make less noise. He heard you.”
Clearly, Jack was training the young boy in forest lore, so Morgin dropped his shadow magic, stood and walked toward them. “I did hear you.”
LillianToc said, “Morgin, you move like a whiteface.”
Jack frowned at that comment and said, “Yes, you do. Why is that? No plainface moves like a whiteface.”
Morgin shrugged. “It was my shadow magic.”
Jack shook his head. “No. You didn’t use your shadows getting here, and I didn’t hear you approach. No, you move through the forest like one of us.”
At the unasked question that hung between them, Morgin said, “I learned it in a dream, long ago.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s not an answer I like.”
“Nor I,” Morgin said. “But it’s the only answer I have.”
~~~
Chrisainne lay with her legs spread while BlakeDown lay on top of her and pumped in and out of her, grunting and sweating and abrading her cheek with his beard. She was careful to cry out with pretended pleasure, “Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling!”
He hesitated for a moment, looked in her eyes and grunted, “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Damn! she thought. He’d stopped, which meant this might take longer, when all she wanted to do was get it over with. “Oh no, my darling. You’re not hurting me, though your manhood is certainly of a size to do so. No, you give only the greatest of pleasure.”
He didn’t say anything, buried his face in her hair and resumed his pumping and grinding. He made love like a man pumping water from a well: push-pull-push-pull-push-pull. It was monotonous and without pleasure, like the man himself. She lay beneath him as he ground away at her, tried to pretend he was that young stable boy with the broad shoulders she so wanted to seduce. But with BlakeDown grunting in her ear, that fantasy brought her no pleasure.
Eventually BlakeDown’s pumping grew almost frantic, until he growled with pleasure and climaxed. She cried out, timed her fake orgasm to match his peak of pleasure. Afterwards, he lay on top of her, his spent manhood slowly shrinking and sliding out of her. As always, he lay motionless for quite some time, and she prayed he didn’t fall asleep on top of her.
Finally, he put his hands on the bed on either side of her chest and pushed upward. He paused and smiled at her, and she beamed back at him.
He said, “You enjoy that, don’t you?”
She blushed, a trick she’d learned long ago as a young Vodah maiden. She could blush at any moment she chose, and used that ability to her advantage now. She looked aside, pretending embarrassment. “Women are not supposed to enjoy such carnal pleasures.”
“But you’re no ordinary woman,” he said as he climbed off her and wiped his penis with her bed-sheet. As he put on his clothes he said, “I think I’ll encourage your husband to spend more time at Castle Penda. And of course, you should accompany him.”
She gave him a coy smile. “We would be honored to accept such an invitation.”
While BlakeDown pulled on his clothes she threw on a robe, and once he was gone she retrieved that odd little coin from her purse. She’d been married off to a middling Penda lord, whose holding bordered on primitive, though it would have been worse without Valso’s contribution to her dowry. Her husband knew full-well she’d seduced BlakeDown, was fully in favor of such a liaison if it advanced his standing in the Penda Clan, though she and he both pretended he didn’t know. But Chrisainne’s agenda did not include advancement in some backward Lesser Clan.
She sat down in a chair, then kissed the coin and closed her eyes to wait. That coin was a rather powerful spell-casting she could not have replicated.
Yes? Valso asked in her thoughts.
“The meeting of the Lesser Council will end tomorrow with little unity among the clans. And I think I can take some credit for that, Your Majesty. I’ve carefully fed BlakeDown’s paranoia and his natural distrust of Olivia.”
And after the Lesser Clans depart, will you be in a position to continue assisting me?
“BlakeDown wants my husband to bring me to Penda more frequently.”
Good. But what about your husband? Might he be a problem?
“He’s perfectly aware I’m spreading my legs for BlakeDown, and hopes it will improve his standing in the Lesser Clans. He’s not able to look beyond such meager rewards.”
Very good. I am pleased. Be assured that your rewards will not be meager.
Chapter 11: Fire From the Blood of Our Kin
At the end of the second day marching through the forest the Benesh’ere arrived at their destination, a large rambling village sprawled along the eastern shore of the Lake of Sorrows, though the word village seemed rather inappropriate since it must house the entire tribe of more than seven thousand men, women and children. On the other hand, it had few permanent structures, though when Morgin saw the Benesh’ere pitching their tents, he realized it would not be in the heart of the Benesh’ere to live within wooden or stone walls.
He’d only seen the Lake of Sorrows once before, and then it had been by moonlight on a dark night, and he’d not grasped the size of such a body of water. Standing on the eastern shore, he could barely make out the far western shore, would have seen nothing had the day not remained clear and bright. He saw a rather large village—someone had mentioned it was named Norlakton—sprawled along the north shore a short distance away.
“Come with me, Elhiyne,” Chagarin said. “We can use your strong back.”
The Benesh’ere called the largest of the few permanent structures the Forge Hall, for it contained a dozen forges and was the smiths’ hallowed domain. They put Morgin to work helping them unload their smithing equipment from the pack horses, though there wasn’t enough left of the day to do more than pile the stuff against the back wall of the Forge Hall. Morgin and Baldrak then led the horses across the village and turned them over to Jack the Greater, who was busy overseeing a group of whitefaces repairing a large corral and stable.
Back at the Forge Hall they ate a quick dinner, then went to work cleaning four large anvils, each of which easily outweighed a grown man. In the Fall they’d packed them in grease before returning to the sands, and they worked late into the night scraping off the grease, wiping them down, then lifting and mounting each on a heavy oak stand next to the largest of the forges. At one point, sweating over one of the big anvils, Baldrak said, “You seem to know what you’re doing around a forge, Elhiyne. Not like some novices I know. Where did you learn smithing?”
Morgin hadn’t thought about it while he’d been busy bending his back to the labor of setting up the forges. He’d simply done the work that needed doing, had just known what needed doing
without being told. He gave Baldrak the only answer he could, the same answer he’d given Jack the Lesser. “Long ago, in a dream.”
Behind Baldrak, Chagarin frowned and looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned and went back to work.
The next morning at dawn Baldrak shook him awake. “Come on, Elhiyne. After all that work last night, I need to work the knots out of me muscles.”
Baldrak led him to an open space behind the Forge Hall. They spent a few moments stretching and limbering up, then squared off, and as always, when sparring, they traded a few blows at half speed. But immediately Morgin noticed a fundamental difference. Each time his sword met Baldrak’s, the ring of the steel had a harsh and uneven quality to it, a tone that irritated Morgin and grated on his nerves. It took more than a dozen blows for him to realize what he heard: the sound Morddon had identified as the ring of a flawed blade.
Morgin disengaged and back-stepped a few paces. “Do you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Baldrak demanded, catching his breath.
Morgin pointed at Baldrak’s sword with the point of his own sword. “That blade, where did you get it?”
Baldrak frowned and said, “Just a spare blade lying about in the Forge Hall. And its weight and balance are right for me,”
“Have you used it before?”
Baldrak shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t really recall. It’s much like many common blades.”
“But it’s flawed.” Morgin regretted the words as soon as he spoke them.
Baldrak’s frown deepened. “And how would you know that?”
“I can hear it.” Morgin extended his hand. “Here, let me see that blade.”
Baldrak reversed the blade and extended the hilt. Morgin took the sword and held it up, looking at it closely. He saw nothing unusual or improper about it, but he couldn’t deny what he’d heard. He tucked his own sword under one arm, lifted Baldrak’s blade, and flicked the steel with a fingernail as he remembered Morddon doing so long ago. The blade gave out the faintest ring, a sound barely loud enough to hear, but buried deep in the sound Morgin heard the angry grate of the flaw. It resonated within his soul, and as he remembered Morddon doing, he took that sound into his heart and amplified it, let it grow until he identified the exact location of the flaw. But he didn’t let the sound grow until the blade melted as Morddon had done. Once he knew the location of the flaw, he allowed the sound to die away, though a trace of it hung in the air about them both.
