In the Days of the Witch-Queens
Tales from The Veldt 1
by
Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
Text copyright © 2016 Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
All Rights Reserved
Cover designed by designers__hub.
After the lions of the Veldt first became people, things went well for many generations. Some say this time was a golden age of peace for the prides, an era without conflict or strife. Others say that their new way of life as people merely distracted the lions from war for a time. Still others say that the small struggles of this early period were simply forgotten in the aftermath of the great conflicts that followed.
Whatever the reason, there are few stories of war from that age. Then, as with the first signs of the winter rain, the stories of conflict begin. One drop, another, a third. Then a deluge. The River rises and overflows its banks, threatening to drown the world in chaos.
And running hunt with the chaos of the storm came the witch-queens...
* * *
Even here, deep under the earth, he smells it. The stink of blood. The cloying, sticky scent of death.
“I hate them. Hate them all.”
The young lion’s voice cracks, and he curses his weakness. He fists his paws against his eyes and wills himself not to cry. Crying won’t rebuild the huts or restore the flocks. Crying won’t turn the she-devils away. Crying won’t bring the dead back to life.
He feels a roar build deep in his chest, a roar of utter grief. A paw rests on his arm, and he stops himself. He is not alone. At least he was able to sneak the pride’s shamaness, Lady Irula, to safety.
“Still your hate, Farinoor.”
The name once stung. Farinoor. Little cub. He was a runt and came into his adulthood late. Now his head brushes against a ceiling five cubits high. There is tenderness in the female’s voice. What his pride-brothers had meant as an insult is now a gentle call to center himself. To be humble and bide his time.
He forces himself to take in slow breaths through the mouth. He can taste the blood in the air, the blood of his pride. Aunts and sisters, uncles and brothers. The youth who once teased him, dead in the mud. Even the cubs, dead. Even his womb-brother.
His grief washes over him and his knees give way. He sinks to the floor of the dirt cave.
Lady Irula hisses at him. “Enough. You are not a cub.” She takes hold of his ear, claws prickling against its tenderest parts. “I know what happens when you lose control.
Her words are a slap in the face. It was his fault. All of this, the destruction of his pride is his fault. The wrath of the Ancestors rained down on them all for what he has done. For what he is.
Irula’s tone softens. “All is not lost. Your pridemother has escaped, her eldest daughters with her. We do not know how many others.”
“That’s no comfort to the dead.” He stares at the entrance to the dirt cave where they hide like rodents. “I want to kill them all.”
He is angry no longer. He is beyond anger. Black malice gnaws at his heart, as if he had swallowed a flame made of ice. No longer the fury of a wounded animal, his desire for vengeance burns cold within him.
He opens his eyes at the sound of the female’s curses. At the tips of his claws dance green flames. His ears glow in shame and the green fire dies. The darkness of the cave seems even greater with its absence.
Even in the dark, he feels the shamaness’s calculating eyes on him. He knows what she must be thinking. A male with the taint of male magic. He is cursed beyond any hope of salvation.
At last, Irula speaks. Her words surprise.
“This revenge you seek. There may be a way...”
* * *
Diata cursed and attempted to shake the rain from her fur. It made no difference. The rain still fell, even though it should have been summer, the dry season. The weather did not matter so much to her, but it would make things difficult for her army. So she had chosen to accept this challenge to a one-on-one duel. Good for morale when her army saw her win.
Her opponent was a weather-witch, twisting the wind and the rain to her will. Powerful magic, though Diata knew her magic was stronger. She just had to wait for her opponent to slip up. She scented the air and smelled only rain. Diata did not like waiting. She cursed again and shook what rain she could off her ears. Her tail flicked. A challenge was a challenge, and easier than a drawn-out war. But she would much rather be in her camp tent with the warm body of a young male or three next to her.
“Diata!” The wind itself seemed to howl out her name. More weather magic. “I didn’t think you would leave your pleasure tent to face me.”
Diata cupped her paws to her mouth and called out into the rain. “Show yourself, Nasha. Or is your challenge all bluster like this storm?”
Lightning flashed three times, leaving the impression of a white, leafless tree burned into Diata’s vision. More distractions. More posturing. A single thunderous crash, and Nasha was there. The storm billowed off her, blowing about her loose garments of midnight blue. The female had been attractive, once. Now her age showed in the shake of her paws, in the drooping of her whiskers, in the patches on her face bare of fur. Too much magic had wasted away her frame.
She was a weak and dying female, afraid of Diata’s rising power.
Only her eyes suggested otherwise. Even at the dozen or so paces that separated her from her opponent, in spite of the unnatural twilight caused by the storm, Diata could see Nasha’s eyes. The whole orbs were black as pitch with white flecks of lightning. They radiating waves of hatred and determination. She was deep into her magic. This would be the deciding moment, then.
Diata’s tail twitched behind her in anticipation. She held her paws at her sides. Let her opponent think she was unprepared. Nasha thrust both paws out, lightning shooting from her clawtips. Diata raised a shield of magic around her, intentionally not making it as strong as she could. She just had to draw the weather-witch closer. Her fur tingled as the lightning raced toward her.
The power of the blast knocked Diata to the ground. Her chest ached as she struggled to breathe. The reek of burnt hair and seared flesh assailed her nostrils. And the pain. The awful, glorious pain... She almost blacked out from the pleasure of it, but she willed herself to remain conscious.
Nasha laughed a wild laugh and drew closer. Within one pace of Diata’s body. Diata willed herself perfectly still. She did not even breathe. She tried not to smile.
“So falls the mighty Diata. Diata the Conqueror, they were calling you. Bah. Just another strumpet whose fame was greater than her abilities. May it be thus with all who oppose Nasha of the Storm.”
* * *
Farinoor waits until nightfall and creeps out of their shelter. The sere grass lies trampled by the wtich-queen’s army. He finds a bare patch of dirt made muddy by blood. Bile churns in his empty stomach at the death-stench, but he forces himself to wallow in the mud, camouflaging his tawny hide in the blood and earth of his pride.
Clouds race over the stars. Though the darkness will only help him, he frowns. The rainy season is many moons away, yet the fur on the nape of his neck prickles. It will storm, if not tonight, then soon.
In spite of the darkness, he moves quickly. Once he could have made this journey blind, finding his way to his village by scent alone. Now the scents of fire and decay hang over everything. He startles a group of crows over a grizzly meal, but they do not even cry out. They simply hop to the next corpse.
He is beyond feeling now. He must be, if he is to carry out Lady Irula’s plans. The corpses here on the edges o
f the village seem too far gone. He crawls closer.
He bites his lips hard enough to taste blood. It is the only way he can keep from crying out. He had not expected his village to look like this. The ring of huts are like the broken, rotted teeth of a grey-muzzle. Those not blasted by the witch-queen’s magic lie burned by her army’s fire arrows. A pride is not its possessions but the heart of its lions. Still, this hurts, more than he expected.
A sound startles him and he crouches down into the dirt. A low moan of pain comes from ahead of him, followed by a couple of rough chuckles.
“I guess the fight’s all gone out of this one.”
“That’s the way with these small prides. They just roll over and take it up the arse.”
More laughter. “I just wish they had more plunder than this shite.”
Farinoor crouches deeper into the shadows as two warriors in the enemy’s colors pad past him. He clenches his paws, claws digging into his palms. Killing them would not bring the vengeance he sought.
No matter how good it might feel.
He waits until he no longer hears the warriors. Then he waits a hundred-count more. He inches forward, only to freeze at what he sees.
In the center of the village, impaled on an ironwood spear, is Kaardok. Farinoor’s brother.
* * *
Nasha drew her foot back to kick her fallen opponent. Diata’s paw shot out, grabbing the foot at the tendon. Nasha winced in pain and stared down at Diata in disbelief. If she had launched her lightning again, perhaps Nasha might have truly defeated her. But she was too preoccupied trying to discern what had happened. That hesitation, that curiosity was her undoing. From the twisted and blackened heap that had been her body, a white crescent split Diata’s face. She smiled at last, a smile all teeth and malice.
“Poor, ignorant Nasha,” mocked Diata. “If I were you, I would have made sure of my opponent’s abilities before challenging her to a duel.” Five claws sank into Nasha’s ankle. Red rivulets of blood ran down onto Diata’s blasted arm. She severed the tendon for good measure. “And I would have made quite sure she was dead before I started gloating.”
Nasha’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She watched in mute horror as the blood running down Diata’s arm was absorbed. The blackened body drank in the liquid like thirsty ground. The blasted form shimmered as in a haze, and new, unburned fur burst into life on Diata’s body like a field bursting into flower. The growth of new fur traveled up Diata’s arm, up her neck, clothed her merciless smile in her former beauty.
Diata released Nasha’s ankle and rose to her feet. The weather-witch fell, her eyes wide with disbelief and confusion. Diata’s tail thrashed behind her. The singed remains of her garments gave her a savage appearance. The other witches claimed the title of queen. She was a queen in fact. The world would know it soon, starting with Nasha.
“The energies of magic run in different channels. In another age, I might have been a healer. But the same energies used to heal can also be used to destroy.”
Diata reversed her palm, extended her claws, and sliced upward. A pace from her, Nasha’s skin split, ripped away from her body, and flew out into the dwindling storm, revealing the muscles and tendons beneath. Only then did Nasha realize what had happened. She screamed.
Diata laughed and strode up to her flayed adversary. She laid a paw upon Nasha’s chest. The sternum and ribs parted. Diata reached in and pulled out Nasha’s still-beating heart. Diata’s flesh drank in Nasha’s blood as the other witch sank to the ground.
Diata always found duels of magic such hungry affairs. She sank her fangs into the organ throbbing in her paw. When it was gone, she looked down at the body at her feet.
* * *
The two males seem to be the only enemy warriors left in the ruined village. When they still do not return to their impaled captive, Farinoor darts forward. Claws dig at the base of the spear until it topples over. Kaardok moans. Somehow he is still alive.
Farinoor looks around, eyes wide, ears sensitive to every sound. Nothing.
“Be at peace, brother.” He whispers the words through clenched teeth. “You will soon be safe.”
He slashes through the thongs binding Kaardok’s paws with his obsidian knife. Then he looks at the spear still transfixing the other male. He frowns. After a moment he cuts off the bottom edge of his loincloth, trying to make the strip as long as he can. Then he takes hold of the spear in both paws.
“I am sorry, brother. This will hurt.”
He yanks out the spear. The scent of blood and feces assails him. The bastards have pierced his intestines. Farinoor’s stomach sours. Kaardok cries out in agony, while Farinoor wraps his improvised bandage around him. Then he places a paw over his brother’s muzzle until he quiets.
It isn’t enough.
“What have we here?”
Farinoor whirls around to see the two warriors standing over them, smug looks on their faces. He knows how he must appear to them, a weak young male, the last runt of a backwater pride. He had been looked upon in that fashion his whole life. The smallest, the slowest, the weakest. Even at seventeen summers he still does not have a full mane.
But he is through being the target of everyone’s insults. He’s had enough with being a victim. He is no longer anyone’s “little cub.”
He grabs the spear that had impaled his brother, bringing the end up to knock the wind out of the one who spoke. That gives him enough time to get to his feet. He blinks for a moment in surprise. He’s taller than either of the enemy warriors.
With a curse, the other male draws his sword. The shaft of the spear dances in Farinoor’s arms. The vibrations hardly jar him as the sword strikes hardened ironwood. He shoves the sharpened point into the gap below the enemy’s breastplate and rams the end into his comrade’s stomach again.
He whirls on the downed male, sees fear in his eyes for the first time. He drives the point of the spear into his throat. He stands on his foe and rips out his stomach with his footclaws. He wants to roar out in triumph and only just catches himself.
The enormity of what he’s done hits him and he starts to tremble. He doesn’t have time for that either. He places the spear in the paws of one of the males. Perhaps whoever might find them will think they killed each other fighting over the spoils of war. He takes the time to re-wrap his brother’s stomach, this time with the cloak of one of the enemy soldiers. Then he begins the arduous process of dragging Kaardok back to the cave where he left Lady Irula. Lightning flashes in the sky, and before they have gone far, they are both drenched in rain.
* * *
Perhaps an hour later, Diata was grooming her whiskers as she made her way back to her army’s camp. The storm had blown over with the passing of its mistress, and the sun was nearing the horizon. Tomorrow plans would have to be made to consolidate her hold on the territories formerly controlled by Nasha. When news of the defeat of the weather-witch reached Nasha’s warriors, she imagined they would fall over themselves to ally with Diata. Politics could wait for tomorrow, though. For the evening, Diata was satisfied. In most ways. She smoothed the ruins of her garments over her curves, remembering the thrill of pain that had rushed through her body. Violence always woke other passions in her too.
She strode to her tent at the heart of the camp, ignoring the warriors who knelt as she passed. Males were only good for two things, and given her...exotic tastes, her soldiers had a better chance of survival on the battlefield than in her bed. Diata threw back the flap opening of her tent and unceremoniously stripped off the remains of her clothing.
Kiya, Diata’s aide, slipped a robe over her shoulders without being asked. Purple silk, from the southern continent. It glided over Diata’s fur, tantalizing her already heightened senses.
“Does my mistress wish to be groomed?” Kiya came from the Breastless, female warriors who gave up childbearing in service of the pride. As a sign of their decision, they cut off their own breasts and wore the subsequent scars as a mark of honor
. Diata surrounded herself with the Breastless, trusted them more than the typical simpering female or muscle-headed male.
“Perhaps later, Kiya.” She could still feel her flesh tingle where it had drunk in Nasha’s blood. Diata let out a sigh as she sank back into the pile of cushions that served her as a bed. “For now, I am in the mood for...entertainment...”
Kiya smiled without mirth, an echo of Diata’s own smile. “I know just the thing, mistress. I shall return shortly.”
Diata rested back against the cushions, her mental map of the Veldt turning in her head. From her homeland at the base of the mountains, already she had reached out to tame much of the lands along the River. Two dozen full prides acknowledged her rule, and she had treaties with a dozen more. Whipped dogs she could bring to heel any time she wished.
She fielded an army of five thousand warriors. Already they knew her name across the ocean. The other witch-queens feared her. Or foolishly thought to challenge her as Nasha had. And soon...
* * *
The storm helps and hinders Farinoor in turn. Sometimes he loses his grip on his brother’s rain- and mud-soaked fur. But when he can no longer carry the other male, the soft earth makes it easier to drag him.
He shivers in the cold rain. He talks to his brother as he labors, more to keep his own mind occupied than because he expects any response.
“Do you remember, when we were little, and Aunt Soola had set out those strips of goat meat to dry in the sun? She sure had us by the tails when she caught us trying to snatch pieces from the drying racks. And wouldn’t Lord Tularion have been surprised to see me handle that spear?
“The cubs too. I remember how many of them followed you back from weapons practice, wanting you to chase them, or even just to notice them. You always said they annoyed you, but I know how proud you were that so many of the cubs looked up to you...”
In the Days of the Witch-Queens (Tales from The Veldt Book 1) Page 1
