Mistress of the Gods

by Rex Sumner

  “Aine? Well I never,” said Annette. “Heard she was back, I did. We’ll see the great wyrm again soon, I ‘spect, Fiotr will come back now she is abroad again.”

  “She is with the Gods, with Crom himself,” said the Elf, for once not singing and would say no more, despite the king’s eagerness.

  Marshal Roberts cut across the questions, his face contorted. “Sire, I rather think that is a euphemism for being dead. How else can you be with a god?”

  The Elf smiled, and sang, a mournful ballad of the fairy queen, who bit off the usurper king’s ear as he raped her to deny him the throne, for only those whole of body could rule, and she returns to the land of men at times of need. The ballad described the fairy queen, described her blue eyes and blond hair, her ethereal beauty and the king slumped in his bed as the last notes of the song died away.

  “Leave. Leave me,” he said, waving a hand. “Do what must be done. You too, Asmara.”

  The boys left first, the Elf right behind them and the others filed out as Annette changed the poultice.

  *

  Dawn crept over the city, revealing smudges of smoke rising from several places, ruined villas at their base. The marshal sat at a table in the Manor garden, steaming mug in front of him and waited while his officers assembled. Jeremy arrived last, his honour guard with less woad, restricted to breast and face and now wearing short skirts, their swords scabbarded on the left hip and crossed knife belts in faithful imitation of their charge.

  “Damnit, man, can’t you put some clothes on them? And where’s your blasted brother?”

  “I rather like it,” said Jeremy accepting the tea given to him by one of his girls. “Go find Lionel,” he said to another and she left at the run.

  “Damned disconcerting the way they don’t talk,” said Colonel Drummond watching her rotating rear.

  “We need to ensure the city is running properly,” said the marshal. “Wallace, have you manned the gates?”

  “We have, sir, but not sure who to let in or out.”

  “Free passage,” said Jeremy. “Don’t antagonise anyone.” The marshal nodded in assent and continued.

  “Drummond, what have you found out about the dead duke’s barons? And their families?”

  “Nothing, sir. All gone, as if they never existed. Not even a body to show. Every house of theirs is a smouldering ruin.”

  “We’ll have trouble down south. People will want to know what happened to their families. Who the hell are you?” This directed at a lancer coming up to the table and pulling up a chair.

  “I’m Matt,” he said with an engaging grin and eyes twinkling through a bearded face. “Robbie heard there was a meeting and sent me to tell what we are up to. Ooh, is that tea? Yes, please. Five, Jez? Greedy sod.”

  “Six, actually. One is looking for Lionel. Their choice. Where are the boys?”

  “We’ve got patrols out sweeping the countryside, making sure we know what’s there. Nothing, I reckon, but we have one report of Count Rotherstone, who is heading south at speed. Cut and run, he did, when he saw it was all going tits up. City is safe, you just shout Crom Brionne at anyone looking threatening and they give you uisge. There are gangs of likely lads wandering the city, but the girls are doing their bit to get them off the streets.”

  “What about the churches?” Colonel Donnell was used to irregular reports.

  “Oh, they’re fine. Few people spent the night in them, and are heading home now. Most of the lads are coming back on duty, now. One helluva party last night, they sure know how to have a good time here. I haven’t slept.”

  “We need to locate and discuss the situation with this Armstrong. Anyone know anything about him?”

  Jeremy turned to his girls. “One of you go and get him.”

  One of them stood up and stretched. “He’s my brother. I’ll get him, will take me half an hour.”

  “Oh great,” said Colonel Wallace. “Great start for the new duke, to discover you’re shagging his sister.”

  Four pairs of eyes frowned at him, hands going to their swords. “It is an honour,” said one, and the colonel squirmed under their gaze. They continued to view him with a mistrustful eye as Lionel arrived, the grey-eyed girl in tow, while Asmara browbeat him. Matt repeated his report while he drank tea and the others waited.

  “Your lads are going to need to learn discipline,” said the marshal, to nods of agreement.

  “Stow it,” said Lionel, not a morning person. “We’re irregulars and we’re effective. When we fail to do our jobs, then you can complain.” The officers sat back in their chairs, not certain how the marshal would respond, but Lionel continued. “Matt, get somebody responsible, Matty or Henry, to take a strong column north, two hundred troopers. They can split up and I want them back within the week. They are to take the word to the hamlets about the new Lord of the North and bring me a report back as to each lairds’ complaints and wants. I’m not interested in their petty squabbles, they can keep fighting with each other and they can raid for cattle as long as the raiding party is small and not organised. Tell each castle that we require a barracks and lodging, for we will be patrolling the roads of the north and hanging brigands who prey on merchants and travellers. Don’t care about moss-troopers from either side, as long as they play with each other and not innocents. Further tell them that we will stop them from taxing the merchants too much, we expect a small share of the revenue and they must keep up the roads. The extra trade will make them more money.”

  He swigged his tea. “Yes, yes, Asmara, your damn fair. Tell them the King’s Fair will be held in Hardenwall at the end of August, prizes for the best fucking donkey or whatever they want to show. You know what the princess wants to do. We’ll hold a games alongside; riding, archery, wrestling, anything they want. We’ll need somebody to run it, Asmara.”

  One of Jeremy’s girls leant forward, eyes gleaming. “Our John’ll do that, he will. Loves it, he does. Will be the best games ever, we’ll have dancing too; and the pipes and drums.”

  “Who’s John?”

  “John Armstrong, the new Duke.”

  “Fine. Now, guards. We’ll need to recruit a new garrison. John can take care of that, but he’ll need to work with us. We need to look at the money, too. Did the Chancellor get chopped last night? Is there still a Chamberlain?”

  Blank stares answered him and one of the girls stood up. “I’ll find out.” She went out the door while Lionel ran a hand over his head and Jeremy stroked a girl’s rump with an absent-minded hand. The marshal spoke, leaning back in his chair.

  “You seem to be taking on a lot more than running a regiment, young Lionel. I thought Jeremy was Lord of the North.”

  “He’s not going to fucking do it, is he?” Lionel was in excellent spirits. “All he knows about money is how to spend it and will spend all his time testing the uisge and shagging.”

  Three hands went to their swords at this outrageous insult to their glorious leader, but Jeremy laughed and clapped Lionel on the back.

  “That’s what it’s all about, little brother. I get the glory and you do the work. Just as we agreed. Now you’ve got it all in hand, I’m off back to bed. My head is killing me.”

  “The hell you are. You need to meet your new duke and he’s on his way.”

  The marshal barked a short laugh. “Well, you two have it well in hand. I shall leave you with Colonel Drummond and his battalion. Wallace, you will return to the capital with me as soon as the King is well enough to travel. Donnell, do you want to stay here and get your network back up and running, or do you need to get to the capital?”

  “I should stay, sir, but I am worried what Rotherstone will get up to in our absence. I suggest that I leave tomorrow with the princess. That gives me a day to debrief my officers, introduce them to Lionel and then I will be able to get the princess up as regent running the country.”


  “Makes sense. I need to stay with the king,” said the marshal.

  “I want to stay with my father,” said the princess.

  “The country needs you in the capital, noblesse oblige. Your wants don’t matter very much, princess.”

  Trapped

  Gloom filled the room, not just from the thick drapes obscuring the light, but something else, something wrong. Susan peered, just able to make out a bed, with a hump in the middle. Even in the aether she could smell putrefaction.

  She glided towards the bed, seeing a figure under the covers, tossing and turning on occasion. As she neared she shied away, realising the shadows around the bed were alive. Dark clouds, billowing and changing shape, each with a tendril reaching out towards the figure in the bed.

  The shadows emanated evil, silent and disgusting. She shuddered in revulsion.

  A sound from the corner of the room caught her attention, and she discerned a priest sitting in the corner, half asleep while he clicked through his beads and muttered a prayer, surrounded by a sweet and sickly incense cloud. Her mouth twisted, this was the way the Church treated invalids. No wonder it didn’t work, she thought, considering the shadows anew.

  The figure turned, the arm over his face falling away to reveal King Richard.

  With a gasp, Susan ran forward, batting away at the shadows in fury.

  “Get away, you filthy things, leave him alone.”

  The shadows swirled and retreated, emanating consternation. She hovered over the bed, her astral body glaring at them, and they retreated further, uncertain before her anger and the glowing light coming from her body as she opened her portals without a thought.

  A dark chuckle came from the corner of the room, opposite the priest.

  “So, a little bird comes from the light. You think to upset my servants, do you? Who are you, girl? Hmmn, no protection, an innocent. Just learnt to travel, have we? Well, that was a mistake.”

  An astral figure uncurled and slid into view, revealing a dark person, whom Susan felt she should know. Grim and tall, he strode closer, while Susan quailed at the touch of his power, but refused to budge from her position of protection.

  “Why, I know you,” said the figure in wonder. “You are little Susan Taylor, the slut who interfered with the kingdom. I thought we disposed of you quite neatly. No matter, now you are here, you cannot escape. I shall take your soul, take it home and we shall imprison you in torment. I have many friends who will enjoy you over the eons to come.”

  Susan blinked at this recognition, a quick glance down revealing that her astral body retained her old shape rather than her new magnificence. The words about protection resonated, and she clamped down on her portals, while feeling for the energy she secreted in her stomach. She stuck out her little chin and glared at the man.

  “What evil creature are you, that should attempt to murder our king in such a foul and corrupt manner? You are Harrhein, I know it, yet you do this? Know you not the good he does? For the kingdom and the people? He unified the kingdom, made it the strong safe place to live that it is today.” She placed her most winning smile on her face.

  The man threw back his head and laughed, delighted by her innocence.

  “Oh, little waif, you are a treasure we shall enjoy. Good? The people? He is an interfering idiot with no understanding of the powers in the realm, as were you. The people don’t matter, they are sheep for the shearing. We don’t want the country safe, we want it malleable, bent to our will, and always fighting each other and conspiring, so they don’t see what we do.”

  He moved a little closer, eyes gleaming in his dark astral head. Susan jerked a little as recognition surfaced.

  “Why, you are Bishop Schofield! I’ve seen you with the Archbishop.”

  “Indeed I am, little one. I have spent years with the Church, and next year we shall slaughter the good Archbishop and guess who will succeed him? Now, enough of this, time for play.”

  He motioned with his arms, and a spectral shadow shot forward, leering into Susan’s face from mere inches away, the shadow turning into a death’s head complete with little horns. Susan jumped back without thinking, finding herself off the bed and retreating till she bumped into the wall, quivering. The spectral shadow started to dance, a rhythmic, terrifying motion with every gesture sending waves of terror into her. Susan moaned, her hands rising to ward it away, wishing for her something, anything, with which to protect herself. She thought of her staff, resting beside her bed in her room back in reality.

  A swish through the aether and something thumped into her hands, the astral energy of her staff feeling smooth and solid in her grasp. Taking heart from this secure and well-loved friend, Susan launched a quick double tap attack on the shade, which seemed to shrink in front of her, backing off.

  She followed up her blows, moving forward away from the wall to give herself room. She felt another shade move round behind her, and swung the staff by one end in a circle around her head. Well and truly angry now, she realised her fury kept the shades at bay and advanced on Bishop Schofield, who frowned as he came past the bed with the sick king.

  “You think to frighten me, child? You cannot touch - aagh,” he said, as Susan’s staff slammed into his midriff and he staggered back. He rubbed his belly, not comatose as a real creature would be, just furious at this attempt to block his playtime. He advanced with more care, deflecting another blow with a thought, and Susan backed up again, wary but looking for an opening.

  She feinted at his head, pulled back to avoid his counter and swept his legs from under him, smacking him on the floor. She danced in triumph, moving round to place herself between the bishop and the king, ready for his next move.

  The door to the room slammed open, unguarded, and soldiers streamed in. The priest jumped up, to be slammed against the wall by a brawny Pathfinder. The windows flung open and an officer bent over the king. A small figure dashed in, distracting Susan further, and a girl threw herself onto the king.

  Something cold slammed into her shoulder, her arm turning to ice and she moaned. The bishop rose from the floor and with a gesture of his hand sent the staff spinning to the side, where a shade jumped on it. Susan turned her head to see a darker, more intense shade latched onto her shoulder, eyes grinning malice at her while imagined teeth sank deep into her astral flesh, spreading cold and ice through her body.

  She sank to her knees, only to be ripped to her feet by the bishop grabbing her hair, the pain intense. He dragged her off to the corner, while she twisted and moaned in his grip, the pain in her scalp covering the ice in her shoulder.

  Bishop Schofield held her insubstantial body down, while checking on the room. His eyes narrowed at the sight of soldiers surrounding the king, who seemed to be coming awake. A dash of his hand sent his shades streaming back to feast on the king, where they gathered around his body like a flock of vultures, all scrabbling for their share of his essence.

  Susan struggled beneath him, and he returned his attention to her, a grim smile stretching across his pallid face. He slapped her, and the shock of the blow was like nothing she had ever felt, echoing not through her skull but through her very soul, shaking her into immobility as she gazed at him in terror.

  His hand rose in front of her eyes, long nails like talons looking black in his grey, grim astral body. She quivered, expecting them to rake out her eyes and she wondered if she would be blinded in real life - if she could ever get back to her body.

  Back to her body, of course! She reached for her cord, her anchor, to pull it and escape the horror. He chuckled and a shade slid over her hand, swallowing it with an intense sensation of freezing and the feel of slime and horror welling up her arm.

  The hand came down, oh, so slowly, to rest on her face, one finger sliding into her mouth, avoiding her teeth, before sliding down her chin to grip her throat, the sharp nails scratching at her tender flesh. A sud
den motion, downwards, and the nails ripped through her white silk robe, slashing it open and revealing Susan’s shrinking body.

  The nails scored her flesh and she screamed, her cry pulsating through the room and turning into a sob of anguish. The fingers probed lower, prying and parting her flesh, an action which caused her to relax slightly, bracing herself for the rape to come.

  The Bishop chuckled again. “You think I want your filthy slit, slattern, whore? Well, think again. You might enjoy such congress; aye I can make you screech in pleasure. But you hurt me, girl, and I want you in torment, not pleasure, before I take you home and deliver you to the dark. So it is not your little crevice which I want now, oh no. I have a more subtle and delightful aim.”

  Her flailing thoughts wondered how a man of God could act like this. God? Her mind grasped the thought and she spoke without thought.

  “Oh Lord and Mighty, hear my prayer, succour me now in my distress. Praise God, release me from this torment and ...”

  The bishop was delighted, his laughter cutting across her prayer, causing her to falter to a stop.

  “Silly girl, I am the Vicar of God here. Pray to me, I shall pass on your prayers.”

  As Susan’s desperation re-awakened, a sound came across from the real world. A song. In Elvish. It spoke of times of trial, and calling for the Gods, calling for Crom and his Brionne answering. Susan’s head jerked sideways and she saw an Elven girl, long haired and large eyed, standing by the bed, singing while a man played a fiddle. She looked straight at Susan, her ability to see her obvious.

  Strength flowed into Susan and she prayed again.

  “Crom! Here I am, in need. Danu, Diane, Diana, rescue your child, your beloved.”

  “The Old Gods?” Bishop Schofield sneered. “Long dead too, you have no safety here, child, not from me.” And he bent his head to her face.

  She clamped her lips shut, determined not to let him kiss her, but he clamped his hands to her jaw and fastened onto his real target, her nose. Breathing out a powerful gust, she couldn’t stop him, her lungs empty from her prayer and his breath filled her, inflating her lungs and burning like acid dripping through her throat.