“Boo!” The voice was youthful, more enthusiastic than forceful. Judging from the sounds of breaking branches, someone with a very large body pushed forward, but Belynda was startled to look up into a boyish face, currently locked in a petulant frown.
“I said ‘Boo!’ Aren’t you frightened?” The mystery of the tall youth was solved when he stepped all the way out, his equine body emerging from the bushes that had concealed his hooves and broad chest. The young centaur pawed the ground and snorted, then crossed his arms over his human torso. “You should be frightened.”
“But why?” Belynda asked. “Surely you don’t intend us any harm!”
The young centaur sniffed. “Maybe I do. What if I did?”
“Why, then, of course we’d be frightened,” Belynda said. “After all, you’re quite large… and, I should say, there’s a rather fearsome aspect to you.”
“There is?” The centaur smiled broadly. “Well, that’s better.”
“I am Belynda Wysterian, and my companion is Nistel, called Blinker.”
“Hello Belynda, and Nistelblinker. I am Gallupper, of Clan Blacktail.”
“Does your clan dwell in this part of the Greens?” Belynda asked.
Gallupper looked sad. “They did,” the centaur said, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears. “But they’ve gone, now… they went with the Crusaders.”
“The Crusaders?” Belynda was immediately alert. “Tell me about them.”
“They’re not at all friendly… they know how to frighten you, for sure. It was them that I tried to learn from… but they wouldn’t teach me how. They-” Abruptly Gallupper was crying, and Belynda reached out to pat his shoulder.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “Not unless you want to. But would you like to come along with us?”
“Yes!”
They started along the trail, the young centaur sniffling, then brightening as he fell into step between his new companions. Belynda noticed that the sun had begun its Darken Hour ascent, and she looked with apprehension at the shadows thickening in the woods.
“I have heard of these Crusaders,” Belynda noted after a few miles had passed under their feet. “Do you know where they live? Where they can be found?”
“They live everywhere!” Gallupper said grimly. “But you can’t find ’em.”
“Why not?”
“They hide! They’ll find you, soon enough. But when they want to. Like they came and found my Blacktails.”
“Well,” Nistel said hopefully, “maybe we should just find a nice inn-let them find us there! It would be more comfortable than marching up-”
The gnome never finished, as two large figures burst from the woods to either side of the road. They swaggered forward brandishing large clubs, completely blocking the path.
“Giants!” squeaked Nistel.
“Crusaders!” gasped Gallupper. The centaur whirled on his rear hooves and dashed back along the track, so fast that his black tail streamed straight behind him.
“Who dares to enter the realm of the Holy Cross?” demanded one of the giants, raising his club.
Belynda was stunned into speechlessness. Nistel, meanwhile, turned and sprinted away after the young centaur, and the sage-ambassador belatedly decided to join them. She, too, whirled about, but before she could take a step, another great figure burst from the woods, blocking the gnome’s retreat. This was a full-grown centaur, the great horse-body bashing aside small trees as one of his human hands wielded a large club. That weapon came down sharply on Nistel’s forehead.
Belynda gasped as her companion tumbled to the ground, blood spurting from a deep gash in his scalp.
“Here, now, witch.” The centaur’s face was screwed into a ferocious grin that was somehow more frightening for all its apparent good humor. “Let’s say you’re going to come wi’ me, all quiet.”
Before Belynda could reply, she felt strong arms wrap around her, knew she had been seized by a giant. Without ceremony, the big creature threw her across the centaur’s broad back. Ropes quickly lashed her wrists and ankles, and then they were on the move, pushing into the underbush, leaving the still and pathetic form of the gnome lying in a spreading pool of blood.
“M ore witches, lord,” declared the centaur Sir Christopher had named Sir Gawain. The messenger paused in the doorway of the tent to bow respectfully to Sir Christopher.
“This hellish place is crawling with them-they’re like lice!” declared the knight, rising out of his camp chair with a groan. For a week now his army had been on the march, and he was forced to make do with rudimentary comforts such as his folding chair and small campaign tent. “How many this time?”
“Two of the humans, ones that call themselves druids, captured together. And an elfwoman, lord, caught on the Ferngarden trail,” replied the centaur. “She’s got that gold hair, that stiff look, of a real witch, she does, lord.”
“Prepare them for burning. I shall inspect them, and they will be consumed.”
The two druids were, not surprisingly, young and handsome humans who had come to dwell together in the Greens. The knight took little note of the third captive, the elf held off to the side, as he allowed Gawain to fill him in about the humans. They were male and female, each forced to stand upright, suspended by hair held in the firm grasp of a giant. Blood streaked down the chins and chests of each-standard procedure required that their tongues be cut out to prevent the casting of magic.
“They was taken from a house over that last stream we crossed,” the centaur explained. “After they came out to find us when we killed their cow in the pasture.”
The two humans, battered and barely conscious, gaped at Sir Christopher with haunted eyes and those bloody, cruelly gashed mouths.
“Your cow will be the feast tonight-and your deaths the entertainment,” the knight informed them.
The man tried to flail against the grip of the giant, but Sir Christopher merely laughed and cuffed the insolent wretch.
At that, the female screeched at him, opening the gory well of her mouth, and the knight’s eyes crinkled in disgust. He dropped his staff at her feet. Gawain stepped back as the shaft of wood suddenly twisted and coiled. It became a serpent, hood spread wide as the head lifted from the ground. The snake struck, burying sharp fangs deep into the thigh of the female prisoner.
She screamed and thrashed futilely at the serpent. Sir Christopher watched impassively as she gasped for breath. The man’s eyes blazed with unspeakable pain as the woman twisted and moaned, kicking reflexively with her visibly swelling leg.
“Throw her on a fire,” Christopher decided. “Right now, before the venom has a chance to kill her.”
In many respects a dead witch was a dead witch, but insofar as possible the knight preferred to have them slain by fire. It was his strong belief that even the black magic of this satanic cult could be broken by the crackling purity of flame.
“Make him watch her end,” he added.
The male druid watched in numb horror as his wife was dragged out of the tent and he was pushed roughly after. Nodding contentedly, Sir Christopher touched the snake, which again hardened into a straight shaft of wood.
“And the elf?” he asked, only then noticing Belynda standing near the tent flap.
“She is over here, lord,” said Gawain. “We left her tongue in, in case you wished to interrogate her.”
“Yes, perhaps,” the knight said. He wasn’t worried about a little elf magic-save for the enchantresses, they knew only feeble and showy spells. It was the druids, with their raising of earth, their command of wind and waves, whose powers frightened him.
Now he didn’t have the heart for a long conversation with one of these ignorant elves. The routine was becoming predictable: No matter how patiently he explained the nature of Purgatory to them, they persistently refused to understand. The myth of Nayve was nothing if not pervasive.
But, as he narrowed his eyes and studied her, something about this elf caused him
to hesitate, made him think of her as more than just an enemy, a tool of Satan deserving only destruction. Her eyes, green and deep and wide-set, stared at him with an expression he allowed himself to believe was awe. They followed him as he walked slowly closer. He was certain that his first impression was correct.
This woman, this elf, was different. Her beauty choked his breath in his throat, sent the blood pulsing through his temples. Her eyes were almost hypnotic, and the gold of her hair was like an angel’s halo.
Caution whispered a warning: Was she merely another temptation? Or had God at last sent him a true angel? He would find out, and quickly.
“Your gown,” he said, mesmerized by those eyes. “It is like a witch’s… yet you are no witch.”
“No, I am not,” she agreed, her voice level and those eyes as intent as ever. “I am a sage-ambassador of Argentian.”
“But you are not like the others, “Sir Christopher said fervently. “For you know of the glory of God, do you not?”
Her expression was puzzled. She paused, then spoke carefully. “I know of many glories… and I know of the Goddess Worldweaver, who dwells at the Center of Everything.”
“You must know that is blasphemy!” Christopher growled, shaking his head, clearing away the fog that had been settling over him. Maybe she was evil, as wicked and vile as any of the others. Or even worse! He saw it now: The witch had been spellbinding him even as he talked to her. It was the only explanation that made sense. But her eyes… they drew him in so.
Abruptly he reached under the throat of his tunic, clasped the stone on its golden chain. He pulled it forward and saw her gasp, an expression of fear that confirmed his suspicion. This woman was not here to test him-she was an angel of purity, a vessel of his reward.
“You know the power of the Holy Cross,” he said. “Do you yield to me?”
“What is it you wish of me?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the stone.
“I wish your help in bringing the true word to this pagan place… Help me share the joyous news of our Savior’s reign! And scour the stain of Satan from every tree, every cursed house of this forsaken land!”
With obvious effort she tore her eyes from the talisman, and when they fixed upon his face they were full of anger and scorn.
“You are the stain on the land!” she retorted with surprising vehemence. “You are the evil that should be scoured!”
He raised the staff, ready to drop the wood to the floor, when something, that glimmer of vitality in her eyes, once more stayed his hand. She was teasing him, taunting him with the illusion of wisdom-as if she were the one who understood him.
“You think to tempt me… to be granted a rapid death. But I tell you now, witch… you will suffer-you will suffer as only the chosen few of my captives suffer!” He turned to Gawain, who still loomed just inside the entrance. “Leave us-I will be alone with this captive.”
With a flick of his black tail, the big centaur quickly ducked out.
The roaring in Christopher’s ears was a thunder as he seized Belynda’s small body in both his strong hands. Her beauty taunted him, another magic trick, he knew, as he tore away her gown to reveal the revolting contours of her body.
“You could have been an angel!” he croaked. “Instead you are the serpent, disguised with lips of seduction, eyes of deceit!”
He threw her down. Death was too merciful, a relief from the suffering that a righteous God desired, nay, demanded. She would pay dearly for her deception.
And then his own tunic was off, and he fell on top of her. She screamed and struggled, but she was like a child and he was a powerful man-a man blessed by the strength of a Holy God, given the tasks of an Immortal Avenger. She twisted frantically, but he tore the rest of her garment away, roughly parted her flailing, kicking legs.
He used his weight to hold her down as he penetrated her. His own body was a weapon, a sword and a spear and a knife. He pushed and cut at her, relishing the sounds of her pain, laughing as she shrieked, wailed, and sobbed, cherishing the agony he inflicted upon her. By the time she lost consciousness, he was nearly finished with his punishment, and when the moment of release came he saw the full glory of his righteousness, and he knew that vengeance was his, and would be complete.
T he small figure pushed through the underbrush, making a careless racket, moving like a thing that feared nothing-or else was so intensely panicked that all rational caution was overwhelmed by the press of unspeakable dread.
Nistel was alive, though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. His head remained sticky with blood-blood!-and one eye had swollen shut. The other stared wildly straight ahead, and the terrified gnome gave no thought to anything other than a path to escape the danger certainly lurking behind.
He had been running for only a minute or two, the time since he had awakened in the forest to find himself lying in a pool of his own gore. The shock had spurred him to his feet, and then set those feet into motion. But now, as his lungs strained for air and his bloodshot eye revealed only a tangled expanse of bramble and woods, he stumbled into a walk, then finally halted, sitting on a stump while he very slowly caught his breath.
And only then did he remember Belynda.
“Oh!” he cried. He popped to his feet, and then began to cry. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably, even his swollen eye leaking big tears.
What could have happened to her? He tried to remember… he was pretty sure that she hadn’t been anywhere in sight when he woke up. Of course, he remembered with a pang of guilt, it’s not like he had thought to look around very much.
He knew then that he had to go back to that awful place, to see if Belynda was there. If she was not, he had to… to do what? How could he decide? There was no one to ask, and nothing like this had ever happened before. What could he do?
The gnome decided to worry about that part later.
It was pretty easy to see the path he had taken through the woods. Broken branches, trampled ferns and smashed flowers all left an indication of a gnome-sized tunnel bored through the entangling growth. Nistel retraced his steps, tripping over vines and roots, pushing branches and thorns out of his way, wondering how he had ever been able to run through such a thicket.
Many minutes passed before he saw the glimmer of daylight ahead, and then stepped out of the brush onto the forest road. He shuddered as, once again, he saw the dark pool that was his own blood. Searching up and down the road, he peered into the underbrush, kicked through the tall grass in the ditches flanking the track. He returned again to the place where he had awakened, having seen no sign of Belynda. Despairingly he looked down, saw the black patch of gore on the ground, and shook his head.
“I must look a mess!” he realized, with a gasp of dismay. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief, but now, the blood coagulated and caked with grime, he couldn’t really do much to clean off his face.
Squinting upward, he decided that he could see a little bit with his swollen eye, but only if he was looking directly at the sun. It was then that he realized that full daylight blazed around him.
“How long did I lie here?” he wondered, asking the silent shrubbery. “It was getting dark, but just, when…”
And finally his thoughts came hard against the reality of the previous evening. Belynda and he had been attacked, violently, in the Greens of Nayve! He, Nistel, had been nearly killed by a centaur’s club. As to the sage-ambassador, he couldn’t think what had happened to her. He knew that she wouldn’t have run away and left him there-though he remembered with a moan of despair that, in his initial panic, he had certainly been ready to run off and do just that to her. That memory triggered fresh sobs, and raised horrible questions in his mind. Where was Belynda? Was she hurt? The possibile fates of his friend were terrible to contemplate, but they all involved her being taken away by the centaur and those two giants.
“I’ll rescue her,” the little gnome said-or started to say. It seemed that the whole sentence just wouldn’t work its way out of
his mouth. Probably because he knew it was a foolish fancy. What could he, a pitiful, half-blinded gnome, do against centaurs and giants and who knew what else?
“Then I’ll have to go get help!” he declared, and this time there was force behind his words. He looked up and down the road. He was pretty sure that he and Belynda had been going that way, so he turned in the opposite direction. Ferngarden with its comfortable inn was a day’s walk away. At least he could tell someone there what had happened.
Nistel started off at a run, but quickly slowed to a bouncing jog. A minute later he was walking, but still following the road back to the village. He remembered that inn… it was a nice one. He would certainly cool off with an ale when he got there. Of course, that didn’t make what happened to Belynda any easier to stomach, but still, the innkeeper had known how to brew a nice barrel…
“Nistelblinker?”
The gnome nearly jumped out of his boots at the whisper coming from the underbrush.
“Ga-Gallupper? Is that you?” he asked, trembling. “Where did you go?” he demanded more sharply when he saw the young centaur between the branches of the shrubbery.
Gallupper came forward. “I’m sorry I ran away,” he said. “It’s just-those Crusaders are so frightening!”
“I know,” Nistel replied. He sniffled at the fresh memories. “And I think they took Belynda! Do you know where they live, where they might have taken her?”
“No,” Gallupper said, shaking his head. “Their lord came and called to my clan… and they went away with him. But they wouldn’t take me, and I don’t know where they went. Are you looking for them?”
Nistel looked down. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t think I could rescue her by myelf. So instead I’m going for help.”
“I’ll come with you-you can ride on my back, and we’ll travel much faster.”
“That’s a good idea,” the gnome said. “Can you help me up?”
He stepped toward the centaur’s side, but before he could mount, a big shadow moved beside the road. Nistel turned around with a startled yelp, but he was too slow to run. By the time he saw what was happening, a pair of hard-eyed elves had him by the scruff of the neck.
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