Women of Wasps and War

by Madeleine D'Este

  The Duchess squeezed her hand. 'Good luck. What you are doing is right.'

  Sira nodded, her stomach did not agree.

  Snuggling into her boiled-wool cloak, Sira secured the plum cake under her arm as the cart rolled out of the town Square. Sira had cornered Stali the butcher during his late delivery to the kitchens and slipped him a copper for his trouble and his silence.

  'I'll take you as far as the valley,' Stali had said and he stayed quiet during the ride, only bidding her farewell as she slid off the back of his cart at the crossroad where the valley met the hills. She hoped the copper was enough to hold his tongue, otherwise stories of Sira's late night visits to her goat-herder lover would be all over Ambrovna by midday service. But there were far worse sins to be accused of.

  The hills rose sharply and Sira started up a winding path between the rocks. The sky was strewn with wisps of cloud, pin-pricked with starlight. The autumn wind carried stray sounds towards her, singing and laughter from the herders' huts, barking dogs and clanging goat bells. Sira climbed higher with only the wan moonlight to guide her. She squeezed through the narrow passes between boulders, every single footstep requiring concentration. The craggy terrain was perfect for goats but one fumbled step and a tumble and she'd be lost up here alone and injured until a goat boy found her – if the wolves did not find her first.

  Sira had once known these hills. While her Pa earned a decent livelihood as a rope-maker, he had enjoyed hunting like his Pa before him with Wisia, Rabel and Sira tagging along. He said trapping rabbits brought him closer to the Father. Sira and her sisters were of little help, which gave Pa another excuse to lament his lack of sons so he left them to amuse themselves. They'd wander among the rocks, picking wildflowers, singing songs and playing make-believe. Wisia came alive in the open air. The hills were her place. In the town she was withdrawn and dreamy. She worsened as she approached womanhood, always in trouble for her queer ways and absences.

  Then one day Wisia had left, never to return.

  Over the years, Sira heard rumours about Wisia's whereabouts. Her sister had been seen frequenting Guts Alley, making coppers the only way a desperate woman could, or she'd married a goat herder and now hid away in a hut in the valleys, or even the elegantly dressed Wisia had been seen in the court of the dead King Rados, living a grand life as a successful and influential silver merchant. But the most popular story was that she was a Wasp Woman living in the hills.

  Sira had kept her word and never sought out her sister. Somehow within her bones she knew that wherever Wisia was, she was safe. She was home.

  Sira rested her aching calves and looked back over Ambrovna and the castle tower silhouetted against the sea. Tiny specks of light flickered in keep windows. Her home and the town was so far away. The wind moaned through the crooked trees and squat shrubs. Something screamed in the distance. She shivered, hoping it was a fox. The keening sounded similar to a child in pain. With a gulp, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and set off again.

  Many years had passed since Sira's childhood walks and the hills had a way of changing. Boulders had slipped down slopes, trees had grown tall or rotted and fell, paths had been washed away by rain and forest fires had destroyed everything in their path. The hills felt familiar and confusing at once, like grasping for meaning inside a dream, but Sira pressed on, higher and higher. She felt she'd been climbing for hours, yet she was no closer to the Shimmering Spring.

  A blister burst on her heel and she slumped on a rock, head in her hands, mouth sticky. Was she mad? Wandering out in the hills at night on a whim? Was Wisia still out here? Twenty years was a long time. What if she couldn't find her? Was she still alive? The longer Sira sat alone in the dark, the more she convinced herself she was destined to fail Rabel all over again.

  A stream of air rushed overhead and Sira ducked. A white owl swept through the night, over the red boulders and scrub until it landed on a tree in the distance. Her heart leapt as she scrambled to her feet and hurried to the owl perched on a gnarled walnut tree. She patted the corrugated bark as if greeting an old friend.

  'Thank you,' she whispered to the owl. Now she knew exactly where she was. The owl blinked its black eyes in reply.

  A smile spread over Sira's face as she passed the last boulder, glimpsing the calm waters of the pool and the cliffs looming on three sides. She didn't know if the spring had a proper name. It had always been the Shimmering Spring to Sira, Wisia and Rabel.

  Sira bent down, trailing her fingers through the icy water, stinging her teeth as she took a sip. The waters reflected the stars and moon above but there was no sign of Wisia or a dwelling: only black water, green reeds, rumbling frogs and red rocks.

  Sira unlaced her boots and dipped her aching feet in the water with a half-relieved, half-frustrated sigh. This was a foolish trip.

  She leaned back on a rock and clenched her jaw. There was nothing here and it would be a long journey home to the castle by foot. She sighed. What would she say to Rabel?

  Sira switched the plum cake from hand to hand and wonder whether she should take a bite, when a tune popped into her head. The old song burst free from the back corridors of her mind, her lips remembering every word.

  The Sun, the Moon, the rain, the wind,

  The life, the flowers, the trees begin,

  The leaves will fall, they turn to earth,

  There's always death and there's always birth.

  Sira sang Wisia's little song as she dried her feet on her cloak and gathered her strength for the long trek home. There would be no sleep for her tonight.

  'Here you are, dear sister.'

  Sira jumped as a woman appeared beside her, her skin crinkled and bronzed by the sun, her hair cropped short against her skull, her wiry body wrapped in goatskins but the eyes and the grin were the same.

  'Wisia.'

  'It's been a long time, beloved Sira.'

  Sira breathed out. 'I am so happy to see you. I thought you were gone.'

  'And yet here I am. Come. I've been waitin'.' Wisia held out a grubby hand and helped Sira to her feet. Sira rushed into her boots and followed Wisia between the rocks. They traced the shore of the spring, a hut came into view, set against the furthest rock wall.

  'That hut was not there a moment ago,' Sira said, pursing her lips as they approached a windowless pile of mismatched stones with a grass thatched roof.

  'Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps you weren't lookin' properly,' Wisia said, pushing open the door made from bundles of birch trunks.

  A fire snapped in the corner and goat, fox and rabbit pelts hung from the beams. Fresh scented rushes lined the floor. The hut was more comfortable than the horse stable Rabel called home.

  Wisia gestured to an upturned log and Sira sat, pulling the plum cake from beneath her cloak. 'I brought this for you.'

  Wisia hesitantly took the cake and inspected it from all angles before lifting it to her nose and taking a long sniff of the crust. 'So many years since I've seen one of these. One of Majvi's?' She smiled with a raised eyebrow before snapping the cake in two and handing half to Sira. 'Now, tell me why you've come to me, dear sister. Why tonight?'

  Sira shifted on her seat. Wisia stared unrelentingly as she tore into the cake. Sira averted her eyes and squinted at the collection of skulls on a shelf high up on the wall. Not all the leering jaws were animal shaped.

  Sira cleared her throat. 'You said you were waiting?'

  Her sister reached over and stirred the pot on the fire. She pulled a handful of dried leaves from a sack and crushed them in her palm, tossing the flakes into a wood-hewn cup. Then she scooped something pink and soft, suspiciously like animal innards, from the steaming pot into the cup.

  Sira sniffed hesitantly as Wisia handed it over. 'What is this?'

  'The Great Mother shows me many things.'

  Heart thumping, Sira took a sip and the hot tincture blasted her nostrils. She spluttered and her sister chuckled, her open mouth lined with perfectly white tee
th.

  Sira rubbed her watering eyes and noticed strange rusty-red markings on the walls. She peered closer. The first painting was of a woman with her legs spread and all her sinful parts on full display. Another showed the outline of a dog or a fox sliced open from mouth to tail, all its bones and guts documented. Over in the corner, under a sketch of a ghoulish grinning face, the blade of a scythe glinted in the firelight. Sira gulped, her hands clammy despite the heat.

  'You haven't answered me, sister. Why now?'

  Sira's heart pattered in her chest. Wisia's stare was like the Scion's. She looked straight through her, past her mask and into her lies, seeing the true sin inside. Sira swallowed, her mouth sour with the tincture. 'I need your help.'

  'But not for yourself? This much I know.'

  'I need your knowledge.'

  'Ha.' Wisia barked and bit into the cake. 'I live in the hills like an animal. An ignorant sinner. Isn't that what they say? Isn't that what you think?'

  'I never...I have come for your wisdom: knowledge which is lost to the rest of us.'

  Wisia raised her eyebrow with a smirk. 'Knowledge not respected in the town. But you need me?'

  'Rabel.'

  'Our other dear sister.' Wisia nodded wistfully. 'She's in pain?'

  Sira smiled weakly and Wisia wolfed down the rest of the cake, licking the crumbs from her fingers.

  'She's sick? You need medicine?'

  Sira's throat was tight, the words reluctant to come out. 'Not quite,' she cleared her throat and croaked. 'Her husband.'

  'It's his life you wish to save?'

  'She needs to be...' Sira shook her head and chewed her lip. 'Rid of him.'

  'Ah.' Wisia raised her eyebrow. 'And you think I can help?'

  'I hoped.'

  'Tell me more.' Wisia wiped her mouth and pointed to Sira's untouched half of the cake. 'You want this?' Sira shook her head and Wisia grabbed the cake.

  'He is a bad man, a bad father. He gambles away all their coins, and leaves Rabel's family poor and hungry.'

  Wisia scoffed. 'Coins. Such a cause of pain. Scraps of metal, they mean nothin'.'

  'He went to war but came back in one piece, only to start his gambling again. Yesterday, he tried to hand over his own daughter to a flesh merchant to repay his debts.'

  'And you think I can help? Remove him from Rabel's life? Take the annoying little thorn from her paw?'

  'It is more than that!' Sira blurted.

  'She should run away from him. But of course, your Fatherhood and his blind children wouldn't approve. But you know the Father doesn't know everything. Not like they claim he does.'

  'What would she do? Hide in the hills, like you?'

  Wisia shrugged, waving her hand around her hut. 'I'm free. I do as I please. I'd never return to Ambrovna.'

  'We need your help.'

  'You underestimate yourself, sister. You never listen to the truth in your heart.'

  Sira suppressed a gasp and shifted in her seat.

  'You want to meddle with life and death? The Father might spread his untruths about everlastin' life but everythin' must die.'

  Sira leaned forward, her eyes large. 'Can you help?'

  'Of course.' Wisia said, settling back with her arms folded, chewing the last mouthful of cake.

  Apart from the fire crackling in the corner and Wisia smacking her lips, the hut was quiet. Sira wrung her hands.

  'But will you help?'

  Wisia smiled. 'The right question, sister. You took your time but you finally reached it.'

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The battalion of Vorosy Clansmen faced their Hende enemies on the low foggy plains of Truinn. Since first light, the battle had raged, black tunics versus red. The clang of forged swords against thickened shields, the frenzied battle cries and gurgled death rattles. On a hillock, the mounted Duke peered through the smoky gloom, his heart in his throat, his eyes blurry and burning. His man-servant, Wladek was out there, somewhere on the plains carrying a message back to Prince Absalom and likewise, his best friend Lord Kalin had insisted on leading the first phalanx into the fray.

  It had been a simple plan: push the Hende men back towards the Persilek River and fence them in, freeing the Eastern passage along the plains into Sulun. Other Clans were known for their cruelty or their brute strength but the Hende bred the most skilled craftsmen in the kingdom. The black-clad soldiers were always the first with new weaponry. In comparison, the Duke's men were everyday men conscripted from towns, farms and villages. Most were without a single day of training. They fought with sharp scythes, heavy hammers and barbed hooks: whatever weapons they had brought from home.

  The Duke rubbed his hand across his face. The dry yellow grass was splattered with blood and entrails and red-clad bodies littered the ground. To the South, a handful of red uniforms fled from the fight into the thick forest.

  'Deserters, my Lord?' stuttered Curtnas, the long-haired squire.

  The Duke chewed his lip, his heart wrenching as he watched another sword slice through one of his men. The Hende steadily encroached, taking back precious land, one body at a time.

  'My Lord? What is your command?'

  The Duke gulped and slumped. He stood out of reach without a scratch while the blood of his men flowed freely. Why was he so weak?

  'Do we retreat, my Lord?'

  The Old Duke had raised him on tales from the last Civil War but none of his father's stories had prepared him for defeat. The other nobles and squires on the hillock watched, judged, waited. If only the Old Duke was here by his side.

  Digging deep, he found his voice. The fear of appearing cowardly and the sideways glances of his peers were greater than his fear of death. 'No,' he said vehemently. 'We must reach the barricades. Prince Absalom is relying on us.'

  'But, my Lord?' the young squire said, his voice crackling with fear.

  He tried to fill his lungs with courage. 'Onward,' he called in the loudest voice he could muster. 'Towards the river.'

  The squire blasted his horn.

  With a gentle touch of the reins, his steed Mortu charged into the crowd, never shying when sharp blades met soft flesh. If only his horse's fearlessness would rub off on him.

  Swallowed by the blanket of smoke, the Duke could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Black and red shapes swarmed. Grunts and roars sounded from all directions. Steel clashed against steel and the wounded wailed for their mothers and pleaded for the Father's mercy.

  Mortu crashed into a throng of brawling men. The Duke clutched his sword tightly as faces and swords emerged out of the fog. A black-clad soldier ran towards him and the Duke swung his blade. The sharp edge hummed through the air and slammed into the Hende man's neck. The man hit the grass with a wet slap. One down.

  Up ahead a red-clad man was winning against three men dressed in black, swinging his sword with a grin.

  'Well done, my good man,' the Duke cheered, foolishly taking his eyes off his own surroundings. The pain was the first thing he noticed.

  The blade sliced through hose, skin and meat, shuddering to a stop when the metal collided with his thigh bone. The black-clad man drew back his sword and the Duke fell from his saddle, crashing to the hard-trampled dirt.

  'Physician,' the Duke croaked but the swordsman lunged again, this time slashing at Mortu, sending the white stallion toppling to the ground.

  Lying on the ground, Mortu thrashed and whinnied beside him, blood frothing around his muzzle. Tears clogged the Duke's throat as he reached out to stroke his beloved horse. As he moved he saw the blood, darkening and saturating his hose leg. He fingered the warm red liquid and his mind scrambled. Mortu's blood or his own?

  He tried to move his half-severed leg. As he tugged, he felt no pain, only a gnawing, spreading cold. His leg obeyed reluctantly, his useless foot trailing along the grass like a sulky child.

  'Physician!' he called again but his voice was drowned out by the chaos of battle.

  The man in black loomed over him,
his twisted smile showed broken brown teeth. The Duke tried to drag himself backwards but the effort ripped his wound wider. The pain hit like a torrent, overwhelming and blinding. His skin blazed hot but his body trembled, sweaty and feverish. This must be a dream, a nightmare and he would soon wake safely tucked up in his castle bower.

  Mortu flailed his last, his intestines spooling onto the dirt and the man lifted his sword above his head. The Duke's eyes widened, mesmerised. Caked with blood, the weapon looked ordinary but it had carved effortlessly through both man and horse. What chance did he have against this special blade?

  'I have coin,' the Duke spluttered.

  The man guffawed. He was not big or intimidating; if anything he was smaller than average and somehow this made it worse. 'I want your head on a spike. That's worth more than any of your Vorosy silver.'

  'You know who I am. I am rich,' he replied with a wince, unable to stop the words tumbling from his mouth. 'Please. I would be a valuable prisoner.'

  'It's time to meet the Father.'

  The Duke braced his arms over his head and waited for the blow. 'Please do not kill me.'

  'Coward.'

  He was supposed to be a nobleman, the leader of a battalion and yet he whimpered like a maiden. All his life, swords had felt heavy and awkward in his hands but he'd had no choice. He was born into this life. Perhaps, deep inside he'd always suspected his life would end this way. His privileged life about to be cut short by a small man with rotten teeth and a sharp sword.

  'Please,' he said, sickened by his own pathetic voice.

  The man laughed. The Duke shut his eyes and waited. He deserved nothing better.

  There was a clash of swords and the Duke prised open his eyes. A red-clad soldier had come to his rescue. The wiry hero brandished a dagger half the size of the frightening broad sword. He darted left and right, dodging blows before kicking the swordsman's legs out from under him and swiftly slitting his throat. The man in black gurgled and clutched at his neck, his blood spilled down his shirt like an overfilling goblet.