The Isle of Ilkchild (The King of Three Bloods Book 4)

by Russ L. Howard

  “And if I don’t,” Mendaho asked, “what then? What will you do to me?”

  “Oh, I always get what I want. You see those poles over there? I take what I want. You should get used to that.” He issued a croaking laugh. “But it would be so much nicer if you cooperated.”

  “But what would be the fun in that,” Mendaho said, wondering what in the hell did Zoot mean by waiting til deep dark. It is certainly deep dark now. Where in the hell is he? And what is he going to do? Get me a knife. And then what?

  “I knew you had spunk. You would have disappointed me if you gave in easily.” He staggered towards her, drunkly fumbled with his buttons. She tried to think of some way to forestall him, but he just kept stripping down. His disgusting fat hairy belly and flabby muscles practically made her retch. And his manliness was certainly less than most boys she had seen naked.

  “May I ask you a question first?” Mendaho tried to slow him down.

  She was answered in the most condescending and sickeningly childlike voice she had ever heard come out of a man. “Certainly, my little red bird. What is it she wants?”

  “What animal do Pitters find the most disgusting?”

  “Well, a sheep, off course. Why?”

  “Well, I find a hog the most disgusting. And I’d rather make love to a pig than you. You damned ugly, puny dicked, fat-bellied, pitiful excuse of a man. You are nothing more than a bald, disgustingly fat swine-bitch. If it were in my power, I’d roast you over a fire.”

  Zorn dropped the soft veneer in an instant. His cruel demeanor had only been hid by his pretentiousness. A demonic rage entered his eyes. His nostrils flared, and he snarled through clenched teeth.

  He back handed her. She winced and tasted blood in her mouth. Though drunk, he was powerfully strong.

  “You bitch!” Foul spittle flew from his mouth. “After all the trouble I went to for you. I treated you like a queen. This is how you re-pay me!” He shouted loud enough that the guards laughed outside the tent. “You owe me a hell of a sight more than this and dammit I’m going to collect every single solidus right now. No more niceness for you. You got that?”

  “I don’t owe you anything. And you’ll never get what a woman is capable of giving in a thousand years.” She licked the blood from her bleeding lip, realizing that she had prematurely awakened the rage of this boar hog. His face was twisted and beet red. A fury burned in his blood shot eyes. She backed away from him like she would an enraged boar in rut.

  “You don’t know anything about a woman. Do you? You’re just a mean pervert who has to take what he wants because no woman will give it to you of their own free will.”

  One of the guards shouted, “You alright in there, Captain Gore Tooth?”

  “Hell, yes! Go the hell away and don’t disturb us anymore. Get the hell out of here! I don’t need guards, for God’s sake.”

  Mendaho tried to distract him. “And you know what, Zorn Tooth?”

  He shook the anger from his face as if she had offered him a crumb of hope. He stumbled a little closer to her in his drunken state, as if expecting her to have changed her mind. “What?”

  She said very slowly, “No—woman—ever will.”

  Mendaho realized she had shamed him and that the guards had overheard it all. In all likelihood they were rushing to one of their campfires to laugh about her spurning their captain and she knew it, but worst of all, so did Zorn Tooth.

  Zorn’s nostrils were flaring as he approached her once again with teeth clenched so tightly the veins in his head looked like they were going to explode. His fists were both drawn tight. His jaw muscles twitched with anger. She just kept inching backwards till she hit the fabric of the tent wall. His eyes flared. He bore his teeth in a triumphant grin. He had her trapped between the wall and the door and they both knew it.

  * * *

  Trumpets resounded throughout Godeselle. Taneshewa stood numbly with her sister, Sparrow Hawk and her three girls in the crowds that lined the newly laid cobblestone streets of Godeselle as Pyrsyrus and his Pyringian pirates paraded triumphantly through the streets. People hurled leaves and grains before them and laid mistletoe in the streets. When the Overo had returned to Godeselle a week earlier, Taneshewa learned from her father that Meny had been captured and whisked off to Copperopolis. Still she had hoped that Meny would be returning with Pyrsyrus, but she did not.

  “Oh mighty Thunder Beings, watch over my dear friend, Meny. Protect her from harm’s way. You, who can do the impossible, deliver her safely. And I pray that Hartmut will safely rescue her. Mother Freya, please send the Wose with his knife of death and cut her out of the enemy camp.”

  The crowds were overjoyed at seeing the Pyringian pirates returning with such great boodle, but her heart was broken for her friend. Even though Pyrsyrus had returned with his pirates from the many campaigns against the Zongos in the Mexus, and the people celebrated his saving the captees; for Taneshewa it wasn’t a complete triumph, as the jewel of the victory, Meny, was still missing.

  Behind Pyrsyrus, his two commanders, Shug and El Yid, were borne on litters as a show of honor for their successful campaigns against the enemy pirates.

  Oarsmen bore the two champions through the streets teeming with well-wishers. Crowds shouted. “Shug has slain his hundreds and El Yid his thousands. Shug has slain his hundreds and El Yid his thousands.” A large number of giggling Jywdic maidens had gathered to feast on El Yid’s handsomeness. Taneshewa, too, was impressed, especially with his sharp black mustache, his royale, and the long black cloak he wore, which gave him the added air of mystery and excitement. It was all it took for him to charm his way into their adoring eyes. El Yid was the Jywdic counterpart to Ilkchild, but unlike Ilkchild, he had yet to choose even his first wife. He could easily choose from either side, Jywdic or Herewardi maidens, for from the looks of it they were all moonstruck.

  Behind them came the cart train pulled by mules, piled with booty, gold, and goods they had taken in their sweeping raids. The crowds roared with shouts, whistles, and cheers. But Taneshewa found she could not celebrate. Tears filled her eyes for Hartmut and Mendaho. Taneshewa reached down and grabbed a handful of soil from the ground and let the wind carry it towards the sea. Once again she prayed. “Grand Mother, protect Mendaho and the Black Hatter. Please, gods that love me, bring my friends safely home.”

  Chapter 26 : Mendaho’s Struggle

  His rage boiling over, Zorn fell to the bed in his drunkenness, tore the blanket off and threw it, but kept his eyes nailed to Mendaho. He awkwardly recovered his balance and approached her with clenched fists and gritting teeth. He tried to curse her, but only sent out a spray of saliva and uttered something too slurred for her to make out. She could see blood pumping through the veins of his bald head. The smell of his foul breath caused her to retract. His eyes were now seething cauldrons of shear demonic madness bent on scalding her to death. He was going to crush her.

  It was impossible to back up any farther. His face was so close it strained her eyes to focus on it. His hard fist pound into her stomach so forcefully it made her double over in pain and nausea. Before she could strike back, he backhanded her face and swiftly grabbed her hand to bind it with a conveniently hanging rope.

  “You bitch!” He yelled. His disgusting spittle hit her face again.

  Her eyes swimming, she struggled for focus. Breath came in painful gasps. Somehow she managed one last insult. “You... ugly swine-bitch. I spit on your mother’s grave, if you even had one, you black-hearted son of a whore.”

  Fully enraged he struck her square in the face with his fist.

  When he bound her other hand with a rope she had no strength left to resist. Now she understood the purpose of those rawhide ropes all too clearly, he had used these ropes for this very purpose before. He was well rehearsed in torture. He returned to the bed and fetched a whip that laid beneath his dirty pillow.

  “The one time I decide to treat a woman right and this is what I get for it,” he mutt
ered, slurring his words. “You sheep-eating little hussy. I’m going to make you pay dearly now.”

  “There is nothing in this world you could ever do to make me want you.”

  He looked at her strangely, almost admiringly. “Do you not understand? I am destined to be a powerful commissar?” Zorn stared at her in disbelief. “What kind of man does a woman want?

  A strong voice reverberated from behind him, “This kind of man.”

  Zorn twisted around in shock. Mendaho saw the blade of a kukri pierce through his back and then withdraw. Zorn fell to the ground in a dead heap. There he was, the Black Hatter, standing in front of her, dressed in the hooded burlap cloak of a Pitter slave. He held a bloody blade in his hand and wore a fierce look on his face.

  “Oh, Hartmut, my love!” She managed to gasp out through swollen, bloody lips.

  Hartmut moved over to her and gently kissed her on her cheeks. She wept for joy as he cut her bindings. “Ssh! We’re going to get thee out of here,” he whispered close to her ear. “Wear this. It’ll make them think we’re slaves.” She saw a small figure likewise dressed in burlap sackcloth rummaging through Zorn’s tent like a chipmunk in a cache of nuts.

  “I’ve got the money bags,” the boy said. “They’re really heavy. We’ll have to come back several times, and you’ll have to help carry them.”

  “Ssh! Keep it low. Good job, Zoot,” Hartmut said. “Come, we must meet up with the Wose.”

  Mendaho held to the post fighting to stand upright, wondering if this wasn’t some sort of delirium she was in. Through swollen lips she muttered. “Is this real, are you truly here.”

  Hartmut turned from helping Zoot to transfer the money bags into leather water buckets that they’d brought for just that purpose. He leaned in close to Mendaho. “I’m real and I don’t want us to be separated ever again. Where thou goest, I go, from now on.”

  Once she regained her strength, she was able to carry a half filled water bucket in each hand, while Zoot and Hartmut carried the others. With Zoot in the lead they walked out into the Pitter encampment and became like so many other heavily burdened slaves. In the darkened camp, no one paid them any mind. They did not exist. They were invisible underlings to avert the eyes from.

  Mendaho’s heart was racing as they made their way through the tents to the stream beyond. With each step she took, the buckets of gold grew heavier. Once they made sure they were not being followed, Hartmut led them into the safe cover of the trees. When they were beyond the sight of the camp, Hartmut lit a small lamp and showed them to a hogan hidden under overhanging boulders. There they met up with the Wose and Chise. They deposited the buckets of gold on the ground before Wose.

  Wose stood with crossed arms as if satisfied that all went well. “I see, your mission is accomplished, Brother Quailor.” He shook his head. “What a man won’t do for love, Mendaho. I offered to rescue you, but he insisted he be the one.”

  “Well,” Hartmut said with a grin, “I was tired of thee doing all the dirty work. It was time I pitched in.” Hartmut pulled Mendaho to him and kissed her long on the forehead, then tucking her under his arm, he dabbed her split lip with his bandana.

  “Thank God, thou art still alive, Meny. I cared for little in this life, but now that I have thee I shall care about much more.”

  Meanwhile Zoot had run to Chise, “I’s so worried about you, brother.”

  “And I was so worried about you.” They smacked hands and grinned with identical grins.

  Hartmut said, “Boys, we are going to see to it ye get to safety. I’ll make sure ye get back to your home in the White Mountains if I have to take you there myself.”

  “We know you will.” Zoot said, “The Wose is Herewardi and we know them to be our friends. Father will be glad we are still alive, but very sad that mother and our two sisters are dead and our other sister, Tree Song, has been sold into slavery by those bastards.”

  Both Hartmut and Wose looked surprised, “Your sister? Perhaps she is in this camp somewhere.”

  “No,” Chise said, “they gave her into the hands of Sanangrar to give to the Mexus pirate so that he could transport her.”

  Zoot nodded, “I would have known if she were here, I’ve been to every slave compound in Copperopolis searching for her just to make sure.”

  “I am very sorry for that,” Hartmut said. “Perhaps Pyrsyrus hath located her in his raids into the Mexus Zongas.”

  Wose declared, “If I only knew where she was, I’d go this moment to rescue her, but she could be just about anywhere from here to Guatemala.”

  For several hours, Wose, Hartmut, and the twins went back and forth to the tent of Zorn and hauled the gold back to their base camp with ne’er so much as a suspicious look from any Pitter guard or soldier.

  It was the darkest hour of the night when they secured the final bag of gold to the mules Zoot had stolen.

  Taking great care, Hartmut lifted Mendaho to the back of one of the lead mules. Chise was to ride in front and Zoot would bring up the rear.

  Wose said, “I sure could use you Hartmut, you have the same fire and singleness of purpose Ludwig had, but you all must be off as quickly as possible. Keep your sackcloth clothing on and robbers will ignore you. The Pitters aren’t even going to know Zorn Gore Tooth is dead until morning. Then, I’ll lure them away from you. They will think it was the boy and Mendaho that killed him. Just head due north until you come to the rolling grasslands of Zamora, but build no fires until you get there, for roving robber bands may do you great harm should you draw undue attention. The mules will do fine if you feed them oats every three hours and let them graze a bit. Once you get to Zamora, light a signal fire atop a hill, and the fyrd will lead you into the Stonyford stronghold. When you get there, have them send a message to Sur Sceaf and tell him the gold monies are all retrieved and that Mendaho and you are safe and that you will deliver the gold monies to him.

  “Tell Surrey that so far the Cha’Kal has thirty-six legions under his command and that the Skull Worm is due with sixteen more, plus a host of Growlings and Vardropi are headed this way. Tell him I have heard there are so many enemy coming that they have drunk rivers dry and trampled the sage brush down to bare earth. Sur Sceaf must make ready for a total siege. It will most likely be coming in the spring of next year or later. Tell him, the enemy is building up for a major attack to be directed at him on the isle and that they have even hired out hundreds of ships from the Mexus, the Friscans, and the Citriodorans for what they think is a full-scale secret invasion of the isle. The only ray of hope is that the Citriodorans and Friscans are stalling by sending their ships to other ports. They keep coming up with reasons why all their ships cannot be used just yet. But I suspect, by and by, they will have to yield.”

  “Consider it done, Wose.”

  Mendaho piped up, “Wose I must convey what I learned in the camp of the Cha’Kal. I overheard him say Standing Bull is a traitor and is spying out the isle.”

  Wose responded, “We are well apprised of this. But say nothing to anyone. Surrey will handle it. I have faith that the Elf Father is with our high lord.”

  Mendaho moved close to Wose and reached down her hand to take his hand in hers. “I am eternally grateful for all of your help. My people have always sung your praise. And now I know how good deliverance feels.” She squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

  “There is one more thing,” Wose said.

  “What is that?”

  He reached into the pocket over his heart and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Carry this letter to a silver rider going to Fort Rock for me. Have it delivered to the Cat-Queen of the high desert.”

  * * *

  Long Swan’s Log: It is the twenty first day of the Dark Moonth in the year 584 H.S.O, which the Herewardi call Mother’s Night, the day before the solstice when the Goddess Sunna returns to restore light to the world, when we descend below all to arise above all and hope for the bright return of the Sun King and a heavy sheaf in
the coming year. I am staying with my brother, the high lord Sur Sceaf, at Neorxnawang. We just received messenger pigeons that Hartmut and Mendaho have escaped the Pitters and have successfully arrived in the Stonyford stronghold. They will soon return here with all the gold solidi we had paid out for their ransom monies. I have never seen Sur Sceaf so delighted as when he received this message. His love to Hartmut and Mendaho is great.

  In the folk moot Sur Sceaf discussed the plans to eliminate the threatening beasts from around our settlements, and the need to prepare for a possible full-scale attack from the Pitters. Still, we must discover and fortify the rest of the isle as soon as is practical. We await Flammalf’s return with maps of the outer perimeters of this isle, so as to plan out the exploration parties Sur Sceaf will send out in the spring. New settlements must be charted due to the crowded population in Godeselle. And the palace and fortress are almost complete and the explorer’s are waiting for the Mud Moonth to search out the rest of the isle.

  We discussed the need for a comprehensive history of our age before we begin to settle the isle in its entirety. And before the coming war that is to likely ensue. Sur Sceaf charged me to render a record of the Syr Folk, which he said, ‘Must be worthy of all acceptation, but be told like a tale.’ As Sur Sceaf and I sat reviewing my writings, he said, ‘Long Swan, if we have a story, it is possible to speak to all generations, forever. Upon your tongue and pen the Syr Folk will ride to heaven’.

  The End

  Author Biography