The Black Dragon
The cold grey dawn sent tendrils of light under the door, whispering at Susan’s lashes till she awoke, blinking sleep away. Her dream faded, along with the dancing light in the glade, and she moved her hands up to her chest, feeling the unfamiliar lumps blossoming on her chest. Her breath tightened and she gasped, sitting up in bed and pushing the blanket down to gaze at her burgeoning breasts.
They were bigger. She was sure they were bigger, grown larger and more obscene during the night. She cupped them, and they spilled from her hands, straining high and proud. She hated them. Every day for the last month they had grown, swelling so her clothes no longer fitted and now nobody looked her in the eyes, instead they stared at her chest, transfixed. Everybody was the same: Elves, Tuatha de Danann, Humans, girls, men, even the bloody animals.
Despair and despondency washed over her, and a tear slipped from her eye. A straining hand found the long bolt of cloth by her bed, intended as a hair covering. With feverish haste she wrapped her chest, strapping down the monsters only for them to pop out the side leaving her even more misshapen. Her hands dropped away and she cried as her breasts surfaced in triumph, pushing the cloth away in the dash for freedom.
A hand brushed the nape of her neck, stroking with firm gentle hands, soothing her ragged sobs.
“Hush, darling, I’m here,” said Fionuir in a whisper.
Susan pushed her hand away. “Stop it. You’re the same as everyone else. You just want to look at them and hold them. Go away, I hate you.”
“I love you, darling, and I love your breasts, they are part of you. I love every part of you.” Fionuir pulled her into a hug, taking care not to touch her breasts, crushing her shoulder against her own. She began to sing, a little lullaby to comfort children.
“Get off me, and stop that stupid noise.” Susan pushed her arms away and stood up, stamping over to the bowl and pouring water before splashing her face. “Get away from me, don’t touch me. I remember what you said last night.”
In her passion, Fionuir had started talking to Susan’s breasts, telling them how much she loved them. She regretted that now as she tried to ease the girl’s troubled spirit. Wild eyed, Susan dressed, yanking on her clothes and selecting a cape with which she covered her entire body.
“I’m going for a walk, don’t you dare follow me.” She stormed from their room.
Susan did not appear at breakfast and with their lesson fast approaching Fionuir enlisted the other students in searching for her. They found her sitting in the privy, holding her stomach, crying.
One of the girls tried to cheer her up. “Aren’t we lucky, Soo Zann, to be here? We are Acolytes, Acolytes to the Gods! I never dreamed I could be so lucky. We shall spend every day with the Gods, or helping ordinary people worship. Imagine, seeing the Tuatha de Danann at first hand, talking with them, doing their bidding for the good of all.”
“Fuck the bloody twats,” said Susan, unimpressed. “I don’t want to be a bloody acolyte. We’re just going to be their slaves, doing whatever they want so they can sit on their fat asses and laze about drinking mead.”
“They are the Tuatha de Danann, it is not respectful to shorten their name.”
“Well, I think they are all twats and it is a good name for them.”
“Now, now, don’t speak that way. You know how special they are, and we are here to serve, it is our duty.” The girls weren’t really listening to Susan.
“You are so grumpy today, darling, I’m worried about you. What is the matter?” Fionuir showed a fraction more understanding.
“If I’m bloody barren, why do I still have such awful monthly pains?” She snarled at them, smacking with ineffectual swings at their hands. “I’m not going to their stupid lessons. I want to go home. I haven’t got a home. I want to die!” She wailed as she let them drag her to the healer, who shooed them away.
“Your body is changing, girl,” said the old woman, peering at her through rheumy old eyes from her dark brown face. “Happens to us all, but for you the gods have chosen a special fate. Your body is becoming that of a goddess, no longer will they call you Aine, for rather you are becoming the very embodiment of Danu. Here, drink this tea, it will help.”
She left Susan to sulk in her misery by the fire, wondering what it meant to be the embodiment of Danu. She feared she didn’t want to know.
*
A despondent Susan came into the clearing to find all the acolytes with their tunics up and inspecting their private parts. Susan groaned, she so was not doing this today. Every wretched fold claimed its own name and the instructor expected them to be able to move it independently. She backed away, intending to escape but the instructor, relatively young for these Tuatha de Danann, spotted her and waved a hairy arm at her.
“Susan, I have good news for you. A great honour, you are selected to partake in the dreaming ceremony tonight with the Umpir herself, the Royal Queen-Priestess Danu. You are excused the lessons and must go to the bathing house for preparation.”
Well, that was better than a lesson, and preparation in the bathing house sounded rather fun. Nevertheless, experience showed trusting the Tuatha de Danann led to disappointment.
“What is the Umpir?” Susan tried to keep her suspicion out of her voice.
“She is the Overlord, the High Priestess, the Goddess Danu.”
A small young Tuatha de Danann awaited her at the bathing rooms where she first plugged Susan’s menstruation with a waxed cloth before allowing her to luxuriate in a hot bath steeped in herbs and flowers. A long massage followed, fingers working deep into her muscles. Dressed in a pure white robe, another dark-skinned girl teased her short hair into a shape reminiscent of a helmet. The girl pursed her lips at the results, unhappy with the shortness of the hair. They fed her with lamb’s liver lightly poached in ewe’s milk, not allowing her to touch the food but placing it in her mouth, before escorting her to a Sidhe, one of several in the town. This one stood stark against the evening sky, made of dressed granite blocks, built in a pyramid. The Sheelagh na Gig above the entrance caught Susan’s eye. No rough figurine this, but an intricate carving of a young girl with long hair, in exquisite, perfect detail, beautiful and dramatic, but still reaching under her legs to open her vulva wide.
“This is the Rath,” said her guide, leading her inside by the hand where a tall, regal girl awaited her. Her guide left, and the girl smiled at Susan, who gaped at her and her dress. Tall, slim and red-headed, with a flawless white skin and a high forehead, this was no Tuatha da Danann. She wore trousers with scales sewn into them, so they looked like a large fish and she realised they were armour. Her bodice consisted of a leather harness, beautiful designs worked into the leather and a glowing golden jewel hung between her eyes from a thong. She clasped a short, savage spear in her right hand, while the left beckoned Susan to follow her.
A short passageway, lit by a single burning brand, opened into a large room. In the centre, a circle shone in the light of candles around the side of the room. Three figures sat cross-legged inside the circle, and Susan returned their gaze with interest. Again another race, like her guide, tall beautiful women. In the centre sat a lady, long red hair failing down her back with golden serpents worked into bracelets on her arms and legs. An intricate woven gold necklace hung between prominent breasts, sagging a trifle, over a kirtle of woven gold. A band crossed her brow with a jewel the size of a pigeon’s egg glowing from the centre. The figures on either side wore less jewels and gold. Hard put to take her eyes from the majesty of the central figure, Susan realised that the woman on the right was old, her breasts hanging free and down but her hair still bright and vibrant in the candlelight. On the left sat a girl, her slim waist and small breasts proclaiming her youth.
The sound of a zither played through the room, a young man sitting in the shadows while beside him another raised a low voice in a language she did not recognise. The hand maiden led Susan to a stone table, on which waited a stone goblet. Susan drank deep as instructed, before her guide gestured for her to lie down. She did so, her limbs feeling heavy and her eyelids drooping.
The hard stone dug into her back and she tried to shift into a more comfortable position only for her body to fail to respond. Her hand maiden left, the replacement another of these beautiful people, long red hair falling past white shoulders down a white robe, embroidered with symbols. She ran her hands over Susan as the song became a hypnotic chant, into which her attendant joined.
A curved red knife appeared in her hand, the candle light winking off the blade causing Susan’s heart to miss a beat. Her body might not move, but her mind still worked, taking in the room again, now seeing bones and corpses at the rear in the deep shadow and the awful realisation she lay on an altar, not a table, swept over her.
Her scream echoed through her skull while her lips moved not at all, and her eyes swept to the doorway, wondering who would come to save her from sacrifice at the last moment. King Richard? The Pathfinders? How could she have been so stupid to leave them? Oh, what had she done? Why did these awful things always happen to her?
Her attendant’s body moved now to the music, swaying in the candle light, the knife moving in intricate patterns in front of her face, now dropping to touch her chest, now rising high. She moved round behind Susan, out of sight though the knife kept appearing in front of her terrified eyes, still moving with the music. She felt a touch of cold against her neck before agony blossomed as the music rose to a crescendo and she felt her life’s blood pulsing out of her veins, trickling down her neck.
Numbness crept over her, the light fading as she searched for the light circle, the gate to the next world. Her spirit tugged at her bonds, seeking release, ready to move on, when a firm hand on her neck brought her back, fingers pinching at the wound. A momentary sear of pain followed by blessed release and she could no longer feel the blood pulse out of her.
Her attendant came into view, chanting, holding a bowl up in front of her as she made her way to the opposite end of the altar. Reverently placing the bowl between Susan’s legs, she whisked up her pure white robe and insistent fingers probed into her, finding and releasing the wax plug. Susan felt the contents of her womb trickle out, a spurt at first before a steady flow, mortification added to the tumult of emotions racing through her.
After an age in which Susan died several times, she felt the prying fingers return, first to push her stomach and pulse out the last remnants, then to replace her plug. Hands smoothed her robe down and the music dropped to a low, steady beat.
A firm grip on her legs swung her body round and pulled her to her feet where she stood, somehow upright, and followed the tugging to the circle. The three women sat with eyes closed, lips moving in soundless chants. Susan collapsed in front of them, closing the circle. Something pushed against her back, supporting her, and the attendant swayed into the centre, holding the bowl full of blood high as the song started again. She swayed and turned before settling down in front of the Umpir, the bowl held forward in supplication, lowering at a slow and gentle pace till it just rested on her hands.
Danu raised the bowl to her lips, and her throat worked. The eyes shot open, the pupils contracted to a pinprick, unseeing in the gloom. The attendant repeated the process, first with the crone, then the maid before turning to Susan. Just a gulp remained, warm and clotting as it flowed into Susan’s mouth like fresh honey. She couldn’t control her throat and she swallowed.
Her vision blurred and fled, darkness coming around her, but she was not alone. A bright flame pierced the darkness, revealing Danu, the light pouring from her body, her aura pulsing like a living thing. She floated in the air, one hand outstretched to Susan who rose and took it, finding herself floating in the room, a light blue cord running down to a white robe on the floor containing flesh. Danu soared and she followed, sensing the crone and the maid beside her.
They flew for an age, circling mountains and skimming over trees, before settling beside a waterfall from which a fine black dragon emerged, fire flickering from his maw. The dragon saluted Danu, who now wielded a shining sword which she thrust into Susan’s hand.
The dragon snarled at Susan, bathing her in flames which slid round her, and she faced him, unflinching. He scuttled forward, opening his mouth wide to engulf her and her body followed the lessons learnt eons ago in the Pathfinders’ training grounds, lunging forward with her foot stamping. The golden blade disappeared into the roof of his mouth, her strike sure and smooth as it penetrated to the brain and the monstrous lizard arched his back, thrashed twice before dissolving into smoke, eddying away.
“Fiotr?” Susan whispered after the last wisps..
“No, child,” said a golden voice in her ear, for Danu had gone. “You slew your fears and doubts. Now, return.”
Susan looked around her as the waterfall slowed to a dribble, to see her blue cord entwined round her ankle. Without conscious thought, she grasped the cord and pulled, flying through the night while the landscape turned to a blur. She crashed back into the room and into her body and all went black.
*
A wet world greeted her eyes, grey and dank from the window, yet her spirit soared and sang as she jumped out of bed, realising she slept in a different room. She sang as she splashed her casually naked body with water from the jug by the bowl, selecting a beautiful light blue gown from the rack in the corner. She admired her prominent breasts, the way the gown enhanced and revealed them. She threw open the door and bounced into the corridor, following the scent of fresh bread to an airy room where a red haired girl, tall and willowy, rose from the table, indicating she should sit beside her. She thought she recognised one of the attendant assistants from the previous night.
“Good morning,” the girl said in Elvish, “my aren’t we looking happy this morning.”
“Oh, I feel wonderful,” said Susan. “Can I have some bread? Who, and what are you? I have not seen you people before.”
The girl smiled. “We are the Siddhi, the Scythians, or the Tuatha de Danann as the Elves call us.”
“But I thought the instructors, Arthur and Oona, they said they were Tuatha de Danann and you are so different.”
“The Brownies?” The girl sniffed in disdain. “They are the premen, who do our bidding. They fetch people for us, till the fields and provide the food. Good workers, but they wish to better themselves and be like us.”
Memories from the previous night drifted into Susan. She smiled at the flying, the slaying of the Dragon of Doubt, before the act of swallowing bread brought back a different memory. She gagged. The girl smiled.
“Finish your bread. I will not explain; it is not my place. The Goddess awaits.”
“Goddess? The Umpir? She drank my blood! Like a vampire, wait, what?”
“Come,” said the girl, rising and would say no more as she hurried Susan along a corridor. They scaled some stairs to reach a small, circular room at the top of a turret, where the maid from the previous night sat cross-legged on a pillow, her palms resting on her knees and eyes closed.
Susan took the proffered cushion in front of her, accepting a mug of something hot from the attendant who left without a sound. As the door closed, the girl’s eyes opened, and Susan could see the eyes roll down to focus on her, blinking a couple of times.
“Soozann,” said the maid, her attention focusing. “Welcome to our palace, the home of the Goddess Danu, the Umpir. You are the first of your race to join us, and we speak not your language. Elvish will suffice.”
Susan smiled in pleasure as the maid poured herself a chalice of water from a golden ewer. “Thank you, Elvish is fine, I speak it quite well. I am still in shock at finding you here, beautiful, red haired people where before I had thought the, ah, Brownies were the Tuatha da Danaan. May I ask your name?”
The maid paused, studying Susan intently, this confidence and poise unexpected. She was used to the elves being subservient and scared of the Goddesses. “I am Diana. We are Royal Scythians, the Tuatha d’Anu, the Children of Danu. We are seekers after truth, exploring the mind and the mysteries, adepts of that which went before. We help people understand and grow in wisdom.” She sipped her drink, green translucent eyes considering Susan.
“Tuatha d’Anu? I thought it was Tuatha da Danaan?” Susan asked.
“I speak of my family only, the Royal Scythians. We are the living embodiment of the Feminine Divine, the teachings passed from mother to daughter. We show people how to touch the infinite. Our people came from a sea far to the east, after a war between a red-haired, bronze-skinned race of horsemen who came from the rising sun and the new yellow-haired, white-skinned people who came up from the south, the first of their kind. Our people, the Scythians, the Tuatha da Danann, arose from the ashes.”
“Yellow haired? Like me?” Susan’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Diana, considering her. “In truth, I have no idea. This is what we learn, an oral tradition, part of our history, the very beginning. Just a few words.”
“So, you are talking about a very long time ago,” said Susan, thinking maybe as long as five hundred years, an incredible amount of time.
“I can’t tell exactly, as the older the stories, the longer ago it happened. But at least five thousand years ago, maybe as many as twenty. Nobody really cares, to be honest. I expect it took a little while, it didn’t just happen. Anyway, we were beside the sea for a long time, thousands of years, studying the lore and the mystery of this world and the other worlds behind the veil, before we were driven from our homes by a wild race of warriors, multitudes of them, the Aryans. We are few now, and no longer exist in the outer world, residing here in secrecy. The people of the world remember us not, instead turning us into myth, legend and gods.” The maid smiled, a secret laugh.
“Wait,” said Susan, still having difficulty with the scope of the story. “You mean that you escaped, and came here?”
“My ancestors did, and others went elsewhere. Many people were happy to take us in, for they revered our teaching and consider us gods. The Brownies welcomed us at first, before our cousins, the Milesians, came and drove us out. We hid here, led by Manannan mac Lir, whose knack with water enabled him to hide us, with the aid of Fiotr, the Black Dragon.”
“What happened to the Milesians? I’ve never heard of them.”
“They slaughtered the Brownies, who came to us for shelter, before they settled and became the Elves over the millenia. Now they remember us as gods, not people, and worship us.” Diana laughed, a pretty silvery sound. “They seek our counsel and we take their promising youth to train and enable them to become seers, priestesses and healers, for the betterment of their people. In return they provide us with gifts and offerings for we love not to labour in the fields. Our Brownies do this work, although we must chide them for they are not human, but pre-men, the Mother’s first attempt at creating a wondrous creature, from which she learnt enough to create ourselves. Elves and humans rose later, perhaps by mistake, and sought to destroy us for they feared us, we who taught and raised them.”
She drank again, and meditated for a while, before continuing while Susan sat entranced.
“Our numbers are few, and remain few for our blood is precious and not to be contaminated. Beneath us are our artists, artisans, poets, singers and warriors. You will meet them. You know of us, but think we are legend, yet we persist, here in the Other World. My name,Diana, is not forgotten in your world, Harrhein?”
Susan’s eyes widened and the maid smiled.
“Sh, sh, should you not have a bow?” Susan cursed herself for stammering, but it wasn’t every day you talked to a Goddess.
“Good, I am pleased you recognise me. I don’t carry a bow, I’m not very good with one. The legend persists because my ancestor gave the Milesians the bow. We brought the skill with us from the Far East.”
“Your ancestor? It was not you?”
“Oh, we are not immortal. We just like people to think we are, so our names are titles, really. When my grandmother dies, my mother will become Dianne and I shall become Danu. We haven’t decided who will be the next Diana. Several of my sisters are training, and I will have a daughter soon. Danu will know when she becomes Dianne, for then she will be able to recognise the spirit in the child.”
Diana sipped her tea, eyes twinkling as Susan tried to take it all in.
“Why did you send for me, bring me to this place and gift me this knowledge?” Susan’s world had not been kind, and she didn’t believe in altruism. These goddesses wanted something from her.
“There is change in the world. We know this, for we follow events in your Harrhein and further afield, through the power of the dream world. In every city there are holy places, where the Old Gods, ourselves, are still worshipped and the Druids who lead the worship, unknowing of the truth, are a locus on which we can focus to see the happenings.”
Susan nodded, though her mind reeled and she wasn’t at all sure she understood. Something about the maid changed, Susan noticed a stiffening of her supple body and a sharpening in her eyes.
“Man has long corrupted our knowledge, which should be open to all. He created religions, invented new gods, male gods in his own image, all for the purpose of controlling people rather than allowing them access to the infinite. For many years, this did not matter. For much of the teachings, though warped, were inherently good.”
Susan nodded, this struck a chord and she thought fondly of the Venerable Reinard and the Archbishop.
“Amongst the good, something evil is stirring, as it tries to gain control.”
“Yes,” said Susan, her jaw tightening. “I have met this evil, and I destroyed it.”
“You did well,” Diana nodded. “Your actions brought you to our notice and we watched your triumph with joy. But you killed a small head of the Hydra. And did not notice when another, larger head came back and bit you.”
“What? No, it was not like that. The king showed his true self, and I could not stay.”
“It is subtle, this evil, and knows us too well. They used the king’s pride, yes, and yours, to destroy by stealth what they could not do any other way. But you still fooled them by fleeing to Coillearnarcha, which they did not expect or know. Death waited for you back in Galicia, nevermind in Harrhein.”
Susan’s mind reeled. She didn’t like being manipulated and wanted to know more, but Diana continued, ignoring and talking over her attempted questions.
“Your Church interests us, for we see in it the hand of our cousin, Magda, who many years ago went south. She sought to amend the teachings of Thoth, a legendary Tuatha d Danann of great power, who built an empire based on the old knowledge in the South, long ago, eons ago. It appears to be the same story, but amended for your people. We want you to return, guide and teach, bringing the Church back to the Mother.”
“I am not well informed on the Church, nor do they trust me,” said Susan, speaking in some alarm. “I would have a time of it teaching people to drink blood! People are scared of the night, the dark and drinking blood. They believe it comes with witches, evil and death. And why is the title of the goddess Vampire?”
“Umpir is an old word, a title, from a time long ago and lost to our memories. The title will have been corrupted by the men with their religions and changing the reason for drinking the blood. Probably didn’t understand. Our power, our abilities, the other religions fear. And they invent stories to show us as the opposite of our true selves.” The maid nodded, unworried. “Does your Church not drink wine, holy wine, in its ceremonies?”
“Well, yes,” said Susan, her eyes reflecting her shock as she remembered what the wine represented.
“Indeed,” the maid nodded, recognising Susan’s thoughts. “We see the hand of our cousin here, but her family will have long fallen and died for their teachings to change so much, without their guidance. The Church’s practices will not open the mind to the depths required to find true knowledge and peace. But it helps. The trouble is, they fear and fight the power of the Mother which they need for true balance, love and understanding.”
“Most people in the Church bear no love for me,” said Susan.
“No, you cannot return as you were. Although the Venerable Reinand loves you.”
Susan stared, wondering how they could know.
“What do you remember from last night?” Diana changed the subject with aplomb.
“I thought I was being sacrificed,” Susan whispered. “I was so scared but I couldn’t move. The girl cut my neck and drained my blood.” She felt her neck, seeking the point the knife bit but found nothing. Diana nodded at her to continue.
“I came to the circle with you and we all drank my blood.”
“Not just your blood, all our blood was in the Grail. This is important. When we mingle our essence, it allows us to accompany you on your exploration of your soul. Our blood is within you now, and will stay with you for seven years, for which time you are Tuatha d’Danu. Continue.”
Susan hesitated a moment, trying to take this in and make sense. “We, we flew, and there was a dragon, and I killed it, and your mother said it was my doubts and fears.”
Diana smiled, the radiance filling the room with warmth, light and laughter. “This is what we do, child. See you now, unworried and happy. Contrast this with your feelings yesterday.”
Susan stared, her hands going to cup and hold her impressive, beautiful new breasts, remembering how just yesterday she hated and feared them as grotesque monstrosities.
“Enough,” said Diana. “I wish to meditate and there is much you must learn. You are now my Sheelagh na Gig, and must study to enable you to serve in the correct manner. I give you to my grandmother who will introduce you to the mysteries and our court.”
Her guide from earlier stood beside her and Susan rose, nodding to Diana who closed her eyes as she moved her feet up onto her thighs and sat like a stone statue. Susan followed her guide down the winding stairs from the tower, thinking to herself that she didn’t believe a word she had just heard, despite the uncomfortable way it resonated. She didn’t know what these gods wanted, but it certainly wasn’t for her to change the Church.
‘Be careful, Susan,’ she told herself.
The Power of a Promise
The troop cantered three abreast down a wide path along a wide valley, stretching down to the sea with rolling pastures and fields, small villages and crofts off to the side. The inhabitants came out to watch them pass, unmoved despite many of the lancers waving to them. On occasion a rider on one of their small horses would start after them from a village, but each time the speed of the troop left him far behind.
Lionel changed the speed every now and again, judging the time by the passage of the sun through the sky, not helped by the constant drizzle. He did not allow them to gallop, but alternated from walk through trot to canter, every now and again putting them into the glide. Asmara knew of the glide, but this was the first time she had seen and indeed ridden it. A fast, flat, smooth gait, designed for horse archers, she failed to see the need when there were no archers amongst the lancers.
“It’s an Elven trick,” said Jeremy. “They have archers, but not lancers. We adapted it for lancing. With light horse like ourselves, speed and accuracy are our main weapons. We go into the glide from the gallop at the last moment, enables us to be absolutely precise in hitting tiny targets with the lance at high speed. You see these big knights on their heavy horse with heavy lances, they need to be really strong and to move with the horse. Even then few hit what they aim for. In the glide we can hold the lance straight on the eye, which scares them, and drop it for the throat, belly or even arm. We can hit whatever we want, not many can say that. Thanks to the glide.”
Asmara digested this, her eyes registering Jeremy’s strange waterproofing. Everyone else wore furs; in constant argument as to which fur proved the better. But Jeremy wore something without fur, almost transparent.
“What are you wearing, Jez?”
“This? A present from an Elf. He travelled far to the north and spent time with the ice people, brought several back. It’s made from the stomachs of sea dogs, sewn together and the seams are sealed with bone glue. I added the leg guards from cow stomach to make it suitable for riding, though I don’t think my glue is so good.”
“It looks so light. My furs are so heavy.”
“That’s the idea.” Asmara noticed Jeremy never looked at her while riding, his eyes moving in a ceaseless pattern across his arc, front to side. “I can wield a lance or throw a knife in heavy rain, and I am only a little less effective than on a sunny day. Not the same for knights, they are finished if it is raining, particularly if they rust up.”
The road raised and swept away from the river up a gentle slope to a low pass. As they neared the crest, a scout appeared, waiting just below the skyline.
“Hey Pat, what’s up?” Lionel greeted him.
“Town ahead, boss. Big one for up here. Guarding a bridge over the river. Your little river joins a big one up ahead. There’s a stone fort overlooking the town, but there is no wall. We can’t cross the river downstream, but above the town about five miles there is a ford. Might need to swim a bit, the lads are checking. Don’t go over the pass, you will be in plain sight of the fort.”
“How many warriors in the fort, or in the town?”
The scout shrugged. “No way to tell. It’s big, so could be there are a thousand people here, maybe a couple of hundred?”
“Do we have a route to get to the ford?”
“Matty should be along in a moment. He’s checking it out.” Pat turned to look along the side of the mountain.
“That’s a long way to the next pass,” said Jeremy. “We will need to go through the pass and slip off to the West. How’s the tree cover?”
“Should be fine if you go one by one, but not as a troop.”
“Hang on,” said Asmara. “Why can’t we just go through the town?”
“Because of the fort,” said Lionel. “We don’t know how many men are in it.”
“Does the road south go through the fort?”
Pat shook his head. “No, it follows the river, a short way from the fort.”
“Arrow range?”
“No, a good five hundred paces at the nearest point, where it turns south after the bridge in the market square.”
“Market? Is it market day today?”
“I dunno, but there are some stalls and people selling. Quite a few people there.”
“That’s settled then. Lionel, I want to go to the market. Take me, please.”
Lionel considered her, while Jeremy laughed aloud. “C’mon bro, this will be fun! I bet that we turn up so fast they don’t know what to do. The laird will shit himself and hide in the fort. The villagers will hide in their houses, or some will stay with the stalls.”
A smile spread across Lionel’s face and he turned in his saddle. “Robbie! Make sure each man has some coin. We are going through the town, past the market, and anyone can buy anything they want from the stalls. If they buy booze, no drinking till we are back at the Hardenwall. Report when ready. Pat, go round up the scouts, I don’t want to leave anybody behind. Get everybody back here as fast as you can. Matt, get a brew on, pass the word, we will be here at least an hour till the scouts are back, so everybody can have something warm to eat.”
*
The troop cantered down the road leading to the town, covering the ground in long, mile-eating strides. Within less than five minutes they slowed down as they passed the outlying homesteads, ramshackle hovels made of stacked turf. All weapons sheathed or at rest, Robbie sported a pennant fluttering behind the Princess.
Few townspeople walked abroad in the lower town, those that did rushing into their houses, slamming the doors behind them. Up in the fort figures milled on the parapet, ignored by the lancers. As they clattered over the bridge, the great doors of the fort clanged shut, a few late warriors rushing inside.
In the market the townspeople watched aghast as their protectors fled to the fort, leaving them and their wares to the mercy of the rabid southern troops. A few mothers fled to their houses, babes in arms, but most stood watching. A group of children moved to one side, mouths open as the horses rode past.
Lionel raised a hand at the corner of the market and the troop came to a stop. He remained on his horse, as did the last man, while the others dismounted, every fifth trooper taking the reins of his fellows. Asmara led the lancers into the market, Jeremy and Gordie by her side, Matt trailing behind.
The first table presented cheeses, small round circles piled high. Asmara made for it, sniffing the air as she approached.
“Hello Goodwife,” she said with a cheery good humour. “Are these sheep or goat cheeses? May I taste one?”
The farmer’s wife stared at her for a good moment, before closing her mouth with an audible snap. “Sheep, mum. From me own farm they be. ‘Ere, a special ‘un, try a piece.” She cut off a generous slice and Asmara popped it into her mouth. Her eyes widened.
“Do you know, that is unlike any other cheese I have tasted. I rather think I like it. I know my father would adore them. How much for a basket full?”
“Well,” said the farmer’s wife, preparing an extortionate fee in her head, before her eyes fell on Gordie, taking in his plaid and narrowed eyes. “Eee, mum, take them for free, please do.”
“Nonsense. We will pay. The Starrs do not steal from the poor. Gordie, what is a good price?”
“Give her a crown, more than enough for this rubbish,” said Gordie, dismissive of these lowlander crafts.
“A crown?” The woman screeched in dismay, all fear of soldiers disintegrating in the face of an insolent Highlander. “They’re worth twice what you hillmen can make, they have flavour from the crafting, not stuffed in as an afterthought.”
Asmara laughed. “Jeremy, give her two crowns. Thank you, Goodwife. You should enter the cheese competition at the Royal Fair in Hardenwall this autumn, I think you would have a chance of winning.”
“Hardenwall?” The woman stopped, her voice a little muffled as she bit into a crown presented by a scowling Jeremy. “That be a long way, and dangerous too.”
“Nonsense. My Pathfinders will guarantee the safety of all who wish to come to trade and compete.”
A man from the next stall started at this, scrabbled at his table and rushed over with something resting on clean cloth. “Ma’am, please try my smoked ham, from hogs fattened on acorns and beech mast for a fuller flavour.”
“Oh, what a delicate flavour. I must take a ham.”
“Is that right, ma’am, we can come to the fair? Can we sell our produce to the southern buyers at the fair?”
“Of course you can, why ever not?” Asmara presented her best guileless face, eyes wide and innocent.
“Well,” said the man, thinking it through. “I don’t rightly know. We’ve never been to that fair, but my cousin from Tweedside sells his hams down there and gets twice my price, not such good hams neither.”
“Yeah,” interjected another trader. “I hear there’s buyers up from the south, will take all you got to offer.”
“But is it safe?”
“What about taxes?”
“We’d get robbed on the way back.”
By now the traders were leaving their tables unattended to join the discussion and Asmara listened to them all, giving her full attention to each in turn. Jeremy and Gordie needed to glare at not a few and one importunate fellow received a hard stamp on the toes when he dared to lay hands on the Princess’ arm. Asmara spoke to one trader in an undertone, he nodded, cleared some items off his table and she jumped up, turning to face the gathering crowd.
“Good people of the north, I am, as I am sure you are aware, the Crown Princess Asmara, Heir to the Harrhein Kingdom and Lady of High Reaches.” The crowd stirred and muttered, a few edging to the back and casting concerned glances at the Lancers, all busy consuming various titbits purchased from stalls.
“This year I decided to enhance the Northern Fair by bestowing prizes for various competitions. Not in feats of strength or arms, but in what matters most to a peaceful people – your goods and wares, the produce of this land from which you sprung and feel the pull of kinship. We seek to find who breeds the best doddie, from whose sheep springs the finest wool, the best spinners and weavers, cheesemakers and pie bakers.”
The crowd nodded, entranced at the thought, weighing up each other as potential adversaries.
“The Northern Fair will take place at Hardenwall, where the Duke laid a bet with me that his people will win the most prizes, that his people are the best craftsmen in the north.” The crowd shifted on their feet, not happy with this suggestion. “I have tasted your produce, I have seen your doddies and sheep. I think you can win me my bet. Will you help me take the Duke down and show off your produce at the same time?” The crowd milled a bit more, unconvinced. “The buyers from the south will be there, they will pay the highest prices to those who do well in competition, and I shall bring judges from the south who care not whence the produce comes.”
She measured the crowd, taking in the uncertain looks, and ramped up her argument.
“I heard you worry about taxes, and I don’t understand. Your Duke, your Laird in the fort, he levies taxes upon you. It is not for the crown to add to your burden, rather it is our task to ease it, to make you safe and wealthy. You will not pay further taxes to us. We own the market, and the fees you pay to trade there are more than sufficient recompense.” She waited now, as the rustling of conversation grew into a short storm, and the black looks thrown up at the fort told her all she needed to know about the Laird’s taxation practices.
“Many of you come from far afield, and will not enjoy this Laird’s protection. Be assured, my Lancers and Pathfinders will patrol the roads to ensure your safety from brigands and cut-purses. If you petition the crown, we shall provide escorts for caravans of goods. There is no charge for this service, though I am sure the soldiers involved will appreciate a bite of your fine fare.”
The crowd perked up at this point and started to break up as discussions arose all over the market. Asmara became annoyed, and prepared to speak again, searching her mind for another tempting offer, when Jeremy caught her cloak and tugged. Annoyed, she pulled it from his grasp and turned back, only for his grasp to become insistent. She glared at him, and he motioned for her to get down. She jumped down beside him, her eyebrows raised in enquiry. He leant forward and whispered in her ear.
“Well done. You’ve done it, they will come, now let’s get out of here before the Laird arrives. Men leaving the ramparts, he’s probably preparing a sally.”
She digested this, still unaware of the effect of her words, and allowed herself to be guided back to her horse. The lancers mounted and she waved to the crowd, who cheered her as the troop trotted down the path, soldiers waving on both sides. Her brow creased to a frown, as she tried to understand, still thinking she hadn’t managed to get her message across, and moved smoothly into the canter as Lionel took the troop out of the town on the south road. He laughed as he did so.
“Ha! The Laird is just waking up to what is happening. He’s stormed out of the fort and is rushing down to the market. He won’t like the mess you’ve landed him in, Princess.”
“Aye,” said Gordie from behind them with a laugh. “That tax comment was genius, Princess. Stirling will be red in the face. He says he wants the money to defend the folk from you, Princess, and here you go offering them money! Talking to them like they’re important to you, while he talks to them like they’re sheep droppings.”
Asmara reacted to her horse, moving with the gelding, as she allowed the words to sink in. Jeremy spoke in a low tone, enough so only Lionel could overhear.
“You did good, Princess, but you must learn to read the people. You nearly over-sold them, gave them too many reasons. You might have told them how bad their current situation is, how Laird Stirling takes advantage of them and levies unfair taxes, and done that to start.” He paused at his horse stiffening without breaking stride, as a dog raced alongside barking. The Princess nodded and Lionel spoke.
“You might have given them too many good reasons to come, the Fair is going to be heaving with hairy Highlanders now. The other thing worth doing is asking questions as you go. Get them used to answering you and saying what you want them to say. Even if they don’t say it out loud, they are thinking it. Then at the end you can tell them you will see them at the Fair. Make it like a command, a friendly command. They’ll come.”
“How do you boys know all this stuff?”
“Elves,” said Jeremy with a grunt. “They love this, reckon that all forms of conversation are like warfare, the most important part of warfare, as you can solve problems without people getting hurt. Like you did here today. Without saying a word about nationality, without anybody dying, or getting hurt, you’ve made all these people your subjects and destroyed the power of the Laird.”
“I have?”
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but you watch what happens. Make sure this Fair is big and important, lots of prizes. You’ll make the money back in trade, for sure. Nothing will keep these Uightlanders away, especially if you make a big fuss about the Wall Angus being better than their doddies.”
The sun was out, Asmara noticed, as she felt the warmth across her shoulders and the movement of her horse soothed her, and she basked in this feeling of success. She went over her words again and again, picking out the more successful and replaying the audience reactions in her mind. She wondered if she could persuade the boys to take her to Coillearnacha. She felt it would be a good finishing school.
*
Bill slouched on the battlements of Hardenwall, trying to keep out of the driving rain. Wherever he stood, damp managed to pour down his neck. He cursed this filthy country, wondering why he chose to join the Lord’s Watch. He’d prefer to be back in his village, an hour’s ride from Praesidium. Just the previous month, after the carthorse trod on his foot and his father belted him round the ear for ploughing a crooked furrow, he’d taken to the inn for a pint and his mates persuaded him to join up with them. The lure of the lawless frontier, loot, women available for the taking, willing or not. Respect from the peasants, free booze and lots of food.
All a bloody lie. The peasants were animals, who respected him not a jot. They laughed at him. As for the women, well, his virginity didn’t look like going anytime soon. They terrified him, big strapping women with bouncing breasts, some of them with big wobbling bottoms which fixated his eyes. Until they noticed and scowled at him. One monstrous woman had even rolled up her sleeves and advanced on him, causing him to flee back to the barracks.
Burt Fletcher, a big man who treated Bill as his personal slave, claimed to have had a woman last week, but Bill wasn’t sure he believed him. The locals didn’t talk to them, ignored them. He hunched his shoulders as a drip found its way down his collar, but the drizzle seemed to be easing. Was that blue sky over there? Wonder of wonders, the first he’d seen this week. And this was spring!
His thoughts went back to the disaster of the previous night. Burt had encouraged them to celebrate the victory over the Spakka and after lubrication on the local uisge in the canteen, four plucked up the courage to try the Hanged Spakka, a local haunt with music and women. He knew their mistake the moment they entered, the music stopping and an ethereal girl on the stage checking in mid-song, her mouth snapping shut while eyes the colour of the storm-tossed sea riveted his soul, transfixing him in mid-stride. A massive man, bare chested with tattoos whorled across his chest in a startling blue, met them before they had fully entered the room.
“Youse are not welcome heeya affa dark like,” it said. “Nou fuck off back te yuh bloody lair before ah tek yer heeds off an shove em up yer arse.” An aggressive belly, not an ounce fat, pushed them hard but they were backing up and out of the door in haste, even Burt’s bravado deserting him.
As they trailed down the street, Bill in the rear, alcohol dispersing at speed, a hand came out of a shadow and grabbed his arm, causing Bill to leap in the air like a startled pheasant.
“Alreet canny lad are yuh looking fer a good time pet? Ah’ll tek yuh ta heavin an back, Ah wull, an’ suck yuh as dry as a witch’s tit.”
A girl gripped him, pulling him towards a doorway. He couldn’t tell what she looked like, transfixed by the breasts straining to escape a barely buttoned tunic and his resistance evaporated, his steps following her to the door.
“Ah’m Kels, howay an a’l make yuh so happy, bonny lad,” she said as she eased the door shut before turning and slamming an iron fist into his chin. “Silly fucken’ soft suthern wanka, think yuh can get yuh filthy mits on this sacred body. Ah divn’t think see, a’l teach yuh a lesson yuh’ll niver forget like.”
In moments she stripped him, shoving him bare-assed naked from the door which slammed firm behind him, the drizzle turning to rain, sluicing down him bringing him back to awareness. Running barefoot and naked through the rain to catch up with the ridicule of his friends and safety from the laughter of the locals.