experiments – Page 2 – three good words

Trigger Warning: SA
Please Do Not Proceed unless you are in the right place mentally.

It was abrupt, a rough hand at her wrist, wrenching the dagger away. Bara jumped to her feet, kicked, scrambled, tore away, there was a sharp thud. How he had managed to leave the tent and slip back in, even steal himself behind her, Bara did not now. It was all too quick, too sudden, and before she understood, their leader was at her side, holding her wrist wrenched behind her back, his hand at her throat. Her heart nearly stopped beating altogether. He only needed to squeeze to end her life that moment. Such things were done, she knew. Water dripped onto her shoulder, exposed from the sudden grab. He moved then, and she felt him press his face against the curve of her neck, breathing in heavily before licking her skin up to her ear.

Bara fought to free herself but his grip was like iron clasps. There were arms around her next, hands on her breasts, squeezing, before he pushed his right between her thighs grabbing what he found there. Tears poured down Bara’s face, her mind screaming for escape, but she was too horrified to move. He spun her around roughly and right then Bara remembered what she had once been taught by a brother long dead. She lifted her knee and would have succeeded if he hadn’t stopped her, quick as a flash, his hand like a pincer in her flesh, yet it did not kill the fight in her. The unrelenting grip of shock broke away and her strength was freed. Bara bit, kicked, slapped, fought, but all that did was that he picked her up like a sack of corn and carried her to the wide bed where he threw her onto the peacock-feathered covers.

She did not know when he finished. All she heard were grunts and heavy breathing. He stopped, then waited, then moved from her. He removed it and got off her. Bara remained as she was. She could not think. Thinking required comprehension, and that was beyond the possible. The tears had dried on her face, tightening the skin. There was pain. She heard something, a bark of something. She felt a hand on her thighs, rough and ruthless, spreading her legs further apart. Darkest dread filled her like winter ice but there was no strength left in her to fight, all had been broken and destroyed. She felt fingers, there in that unmentionable place, and closed her eyes, waiting for worse to come. She should have prayed to die quickly.

Next thing she knew, he grabbed her face painfully, shaking her. He did not stop until she opened her eyes. She at first did not comprehend. She saw his hand, thrust before her, and it was covered in red. Blood, yes, there would be that. She knew that much. Bara closed her eyes, he shook her again and would not stop until she opened them. What brutality was this to show her his triumph? Was it not enough that he had destroyed everything? The tears were instant, but the beast wouldn’t let her even succumb to that. He shook her, forcing her to look at the blood on his hands. There was fury in his eyes and it was lethal.

‘Never with man? You?’

It was a growl, sharp, menacing. It took a moment for Bara to understand, but with the blood and the fury in all his hateful features she understood. She could not speak, there were only tears. She heard him curse, for the bark was too full of wrath for words. There was silence. It lasted long, so long that Bara felt her exposure. She would have to move. She would have to face the rest of her existence. Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet. She reached the vulgar silver jug in tears, but she reached it. Shreds of her dress still hung from her shoulder. There was nothing else she could use. She tore off the piece of cloth with shaking fingers and tried to lift the heavy jug but her hands had lost all their strength and the thing crashed to the floor, the water flooding the carpet. Bara knelt to gather the water, aware of the fruitlessness of the attempt yet unable to stop, trying to save the water from seeping into the cloth but the patch grew wider and wider until all the water was gone.

She was still trying to stop the water, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her away. She lost her senses and screamed, ‘No! No!‘ but she was lifted and carried and even words were lost in her screams until a large hand clutched her throat, choking her to silence. She clawed at the hand but it was relentless until her sight blurred and everything turned black.

It was raining still, though the light was getting less grey. They drank the broth silently, both doing their best to make the driedfruit bread last as long as possible. Gav saw how the girl stared into the fire. He should probably think of her as a woman. She wasn’t as young as she looked, he had known that even the night before. It was her eyes, they were so large, they made her very young. When she opened them in full, she looked as if she was too surprised for words. Lainhaven. That was many leagues away. A week down the river in the old days, much longer now. What had brought her to this shed, so far west? He would have asked if he thought she would answer. As they were, he tended to the fire and marked in his logbook what rations had been used, aware of the girl’s watching gaze. Once written, he checked on the horse, but all was well. The girl joined him while he groomed what he could, carefully touching the animal who did not mind her approach, one shy, the other shyer, but neither unwilling. Gav left them to commune among themselves, and searched more wood for the fire.

The night was black. The rain had lessened, but you only knew it after ten days of rain. It would stop by morning, maybe midday. He would have to collect water rations. Lying back in the dry hay, Gav thought of what he had to do once the rain ended. He had three more weeks until he reached the High Hills, four if the high road was crowded and he had to use the by-ways. He fell asleep considering how best to proceed, especially if the girl agreed to join him. She would not want to stay here.

Gav woke up soon after feeling something heavy on his chest, only to realise it was the girl, fast asleep, using him as a pillow. He could not say how she got there. She was still in his shirt and her underskirt. She lay curled like a child against him. Her breath was even, she was deeply asleep. He laid a hand on her shoulder and carefully stroked her back. She was small but warm. He could feel her breasts pressed against his side. He brushed her neck and felt soft skin and strands of hair.

Once touched, Gav could not stop reaching into her hair. It was thicker and softer than expected. Her head was small in his hand. He gently massaged her scalp, combing through her hair now and then. It wasn’t something he got to touch often. Lainhaven used to be part of the Old Kingdom before it broke apart into waring fiefdoms, now that the young king was dead. Gav’s liege had sent him and his own out east to support those who had sworn allegiance to the broken throne, though that was suns ago. Allegiances had shifted so often since, Gav hardly knew who was loyal to whom anymore. It was enough to see a familiar face from the Green Hills of Ghón, where the red soil dusted the sandy walls, and the thúk trees threw long shadows across the swept courts, their heavy fruit falling in sharp taps onto the flagstones. He still had bright memories of Mon, laughing as she sat in their mother’s lap, her dark eyes dancing in her little face.

He could not have been past his seventh, he had not yet been allowed among the men. For a moment, the scent of his mother’s hpnet oil stole itself into his memory, the one she used when the sun was so hot, even the thúk trees could only give so much shadow. He remembered her night songs, he remembered his father’s deep laughter. Those were days of sun, before the decree was made, and all were called to arms. Gav had not written in suns and there was no place to receive any kind of missive, since all messengers were either to the legions, waylaid by robbers, or cut down by the enemy. He hoped they still lived, and if alive, safe. He could not hope for them to be well. The Green Hills, Gav knew, were green no more. Ghón had fallen to the Demon Horde a week before Midsun five summers ago, the thúk forests, it was told, burning from coast to coast. That was after the Tyr was sunk with fire and storm, when the snowdogs started hunting in the Lows.

Gav made himself think of other things, the dry hay, the bright fire, the girl’s neck, surprisingly soft under his hand. He ended up tracing her jaw line as well, marvelling yet again at how fragile a body was. Thus minutes passed to more minutes by the clock, and Gav spent them stroking the girl as he had not done in weeks, simply lying in peace and holding a living body that was neither cursed nor possessed or otherwise a threat to one’s life and sanity. A memory of Jirigan tried to ruin the peace Gav was in, but he pushed it out and away. He had survived. That, as he knew, was all that mattered now. All else was the Beast raging on.

The girl curled closer right then, Gav stopping his quiet touch to see if she would wake, but she slept on. He continued, from her head to her waist, watching the flames throw lively shadows against the walls, while the rain fell without ceasing beyond the broken door. There were days in his life where such simple peace as this was unthinkable. Days of madness, weeks of despair. And yet, he survived, and by whatever luck she had, so had the girl sleeping at his side, her skin smooth, her body warm, deeply shaken, but alive.

The rain had stopped by midday. The sun was out, the surrounding countryside steaming. Gav had filled all his waterskins after daybreak, the girl helping him carefully. They had left the shed the moment the last drops fell. The sun came out soon after, everything in mists around them. There had been a short, largely silent dispute when they reached the high road which Gav ended by picking up the girl and setting her on the horse. She cried out in surprise but did not protest again.

There was no one on the road for many leagues. They rode without stopping till midday, the sun shining hotter and brighter, the landscape a unified green. That was the single advantage of the long spells of rain, everything grew quickly. If the rain didn’t stop in time, however, everything started to rot and the air was full of that sickly smell.

At midday, they stopped at an apple grove where the girl slipped off the horse and disappeared, only to return with her skirts filled with apples. There was no farmer about, nor any hands to stop them, but they still continued until they were well away. Resting in the shadow of a tree, they ate the apples and drank the water collected during the rain, the horse as happy for the fruit as Gav and the girl. A carriage with a team of four could be seen at the closest crest, but they were out of sight by the time they moved on.

They did not talk. Gav would have asked questions if he had thought the girl would answer. The silence, however, was filled with sound. There were birds in the trees, zipping from branch to branch, chattering brightly, gnats peopling large pools in clouds of black, the buzzing loud. In one shallow ravine a colony of frogs chorused across the silence until three herons swooped in, disrupting the peace. There were none other on the high road, however, an absence that was a true relief.

They reached a small town with a tavern before nightfall. Like all towns this far inland, there were no fortifications yet, for the battles were fought elsewhere. There was a high wooden fence, however, and standing guards at the watch towers Gav could see in the gloom. One such tower was foolish enough to have a candle lit, but they would learn from their mistake one way or the other.

Gav paid the night fee by nearly killing the watchman who saw he had found more than his match. Gav had no time for undue bribes. He would pay the due fee and not more. The watchman only understood after he lay crumbled against the wall, his face bloodied and his pride bruised. Once past the watchman, it was not far to the first tavern. The houses were heavily steepled, the windows deeply set and high above the ground, the walls square rather than round, which was still an oddity to Gav’s eyes.

The Wyvern was part of an inn, which was fortunate at least. After the innkeeper saw Gav’s sword and livery, he gave him an adequate price. As it looked like, the legions were still respected here. The innkeeper thought the girl was bound to him and since she was silent nothing needed to be said. Once all was decided, Gav made sure the horse was stabled well, handing the stablehand a copper coin to keep his loyalty, the boy beaming with avaricious delight. With the horse taken care of, Gav took his saddlebags and joined the girl in the room.

A maid had already brought food, yet the girl did not touch it until Gav returned. He had to tell her twice to eat. She picked carefully at the fresh bread and took slow spoonfuls of the hot stew, thick with beef cuts and carrots, spices and cárn roots cooked to a soft gold. She spent many minutes eating her slice of blackberry pie, savouring each bite. She hardly touched the wine, however. It almost seemed as if she did not know what to do with it. After all was eaten, the girl looked at the table top as if willing the food to return. Gav wondered when she last had a full meal.

January 30, 2025

The Cup and the Sword Part (3)

Read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Warning: The following may be triggering for some individuals. Proceed with caution.

The rain poured on. The girl had crept to one end of the shed, still close enough to be warmed by the fire, but as far away from him as possible. He watched her through the corner of his eye as she ate. She was not as young as he first thought. He saw her scratch herself every now and then. He wondered when she last washed. It was strange how, with all this rain, people became shy of water. But at least he could try. He couldn’t afford having lice himself, it was an inconvenience he didn’t need added with the weather. He finally got up and found his cake of soap. He walked to her, she huddled close, her eyes filling with terror again. He crouched down before her, reached out and took her hand. He felt her jump and heard her gasp. Under her slim wrist, her pulse was racing. She was shaking like a tree in high wind. Ignoring her fear, he opened her hand and placed the cake of soap in it.

‘Wash yourself,’ he said, pointing to the rain. ‘That will stop the scratching.’

She stared at him. Gav made the motions to explain. Then he went back to his log and continued drinking his tea.

It took long until the girl got to her feet, but she finally did. She went into a dark corner where she carefully removed her clothes standing with her back to him. He could see her ribs and the knots of her spine. There were stretch marks at her hips. Her rear was as pale as the rest of her, but firm. Her legs were well shaped, probably due to all the walking. She rushed out into the rain, where she washed herself quickly, the water plastering her hair to her skull. She was shivering when she rushed back into the shed, her eyes looking larger than ever. He had found a log for her to sit on and dry herself. She sat huddled before him, staring into the fire. He filled her clay cup with more appleseed tea, which she held with both hands again. Slowly, her shivering stopped. Her hair was a curtain of darkness around her face. She used her fingers to comb through it. He wondered what her name was. He wondered how long she had been hiding in the shed.

She had taken her clothes out with her to wash. They lay on the ground to dry now. It was clever, what with the fire and all, but it left her naked before him. Gav had not seen a woman in weeks, at least none so lacking in clothing. She wasn’t ugly and her face was not disfigured. She looked more like a kitten with her enormous eyes. Her body was fully formed, however, and with those stretch marks she must have had a child. He wondered what happened to it. Less terrified as she was now, she sat with her hands around her knees, revealing her breasts and her thighs. Gav got up and went to the hay so as not to see her. Lying in the gloom he watched the shadows play on the roof, the rain pouring on.

Gav was half asleep when he felt something move. He opened his eyes carefully. The girl was standing before him, still naked. The fire was bright behind her. He could see everything. He closed his eyes again. He heard her move and next felt her next to him. She was close. He kept his eyes closed. She felt her hand on his chest, small with slim fingers. Her thigh was next to his hand but Gav didn’t move. He felt her bend down and next she was kissing his neck with small pecking kisses like a bird picking at grain. He watched her as she kissed her way down his bare chest to the hem of his breeches. She fumbled with the leather bands but undid the knots in the end. He could only see the mass of her hair and her fingertips. She carefully pulled away the material, reached in and pulled out what she found. She held him with her small hands and began. He closed his eyes, folding his arms under his head. She used her mouth thoroughly, as if her life depended on it.

It cost Gav some effort not to reach for her and simply let her do what she thought necessary. He knew why she was doing this. It was clever, it would keep her from getting with child while appeasing the man to silence. With no other means, most would accept this as payment. Right then he lost the last thread of control. She swallowed until there was nothing left. Then she moved away from him and disappeared. Gav did not check where to.

It was the next day. Gav only knew this by the different shimmer of grey in the rain. It was still pouring in sheets. He sat up slowly and saw a naked foot next to him. Turning he saw the girl, sleeping soundly a little away from him. She must have waited until he fell asleep before coming to the hay. She had dressed in her clothes, damp though they were. She would soon catch cold in them. She was already coughing in her sleep.

Gav first kindled the fire to bright flames. Then he returned to the girl and tried to wake her, but she slept too deeply. He considered. She coughed again, it sounded rough with phlegm. He tried to wake her once more, but it was as if she was in a deep well and nothing could reach her. And yet she coughed, rough, rasping. Thus, carefully, Gav reached for her shoulder. She did not wake until he was at her underskirts. Her cry of terror rang through the silence.

‘No, wait!’ he started, but her hands flew and she fought him like a cornered cat.

He tried to explain but she was too terrified to comprehend. He stepped away and took the dress and bodice he already had. He laid them over the log to dry and collected water for more tea. She was still crouching on the hay, huddled in her underskirt, her chest bare. He could feel her watch him. Twice she suppressed a cough. He made the tea and waited at the broken door, watching the grey rain. Once the tea was brewed, he took the extra shirt he had, filled her cup with tea and walked to the girl.

‘Wear this, it is dry. Your wet clothes will make you sick.’

He held out his second shirt for her. She stared at him for so long he thought she would never move. But she did, and carefully took it. She also put it on and removed her damp underskirt. He took the skirt and gave her the tea. He spread the skirt out before the fire and hoped the rain would end by morning.

The leader entered the tent after the noise died down. There were still shouts and cackling laughter, and if she heard correctly, drunken song. The flaps moved and he strode in with the man who had dragged her here. The man spoke while the leader listened, he looked as dangerous as before. They barked and growled. If the leader had taken his blade and run the other through, Bara would not have been surprised. When the man fell silent, the leader did not speak nor grant him a glance. The other man bowed, curtly, and left the tent, the flaps closing silently, though to Bara it was as if large doors had slammed shut.

She expected to be attacked the moment they were alone, but the leader ignored her. He drained the wine brought for her, filling the goblet again. He took the leg of meat and bit off it like the unbred heathen he was, chewing noisily. He turned then, facing her, watching her like he did before, but Bara remained as she was, seated, erect, the dagger behind her, firm in her hand. She would defend herself to the last. Her Oaths would not be broken again. Nothing was said, the carousing outside filling the silence within. The leader continued to stare at her, as blatantly as before, lingering at her breasts and running his eyes up and down her form repeatedly. Bara’s throat was one knot, the fist in her stomach painful.

The tent flaps moved again and what looked like servants brought in a large tray with food. The heathen nodded, threw the meat back onto the plate and stalked off somewhere, to the table with the large silver jug and bowl as she saw. The bowl was empty as if never used. Bara had lifted a tent wall as far as she managed after cleaning herself, and let the water seep into the grass, back to what was the Gods’. It was where she had seen the other guards by their booted feet. She had listened at the other walls then, hoping for a means to slip away, but the tent was surrounded by too many of them.

Their leader picked up the silver jug and poured water into the wide bowl, then splashed his face, even removed his soiled tunic and splashed his bare chest. There was something black painted up his back and she realised it was those signs they inked their skin with, in allegiance to their demon gods to bring their power and guard them against attack. It was said blood offerings were made before such signs were drawn. She could not make out what it was, but it looked ominous, like a creature with claws and fangs. It reached up his left side almost to the shoulder. He poured water over his head right then, and the creature on his skin seemed to move. Bara realized what she was doing and quickly looked away, though she was careful to stay facing him once he walked to the other part of the tent. She did not see what he did there, the thick, luxurious velvet, likely raided from a nobleman’s mansion, hid him from sight. Bara waited, her heart racing in her chest, the dagger clutched tightly behind her back as she prayed silently, Ye Gods, help me. Help me survive this night.

It was afternoon by the fading light. The girl had slept most of the day. Gav had studied his map and filled his logbook with the necessary information, days and time, temperatures and rain, sketching the proportions of the shed, listing the rations he used, and what he saw and thought to know of the girl so far. By the beams burning in the fire, at least two hours passed this way.

The rain did not stop, however, and nothing else changed in the landscape beyond the broken door. Gav went behind the palisade and found a decayed beam he could push out. He watched the arch of his piss disappear into the falling rain. He had to think of what the girl had thought necessary as payment. He wondered how many she had paid that way. And yet she was terrified if he so much as touched her. He wondered about her tale, what had brought her to the shed. And her child, what of it? Did it still live? Did she have a family? But she was still asleep when Gav returned to the main part of the shed and he didn’t disturb her rest.

Gav was brewing a weak broth with a strip of salted meat and a cárn root he miraculously still had left when the girl woke up. She came to the fire, cautiously as before. She checked her clothes but they had not yet dried, the night had kept their dampness, except her underskirt of thin cotton which she put on. She filled her clay cup with rain water and then sat on the log and watching the fire. Gav had an idea.

He took out his map, startling her. Then he showed her what it was. The girl looked at it with amazement and he saw she could not read. He told her what the names were, and at first she did not recognise them, until he named the larger cities in the west. Her eyes flashed when he mentioned Lainhaven.

‘Is that where you’re from?’ he asked, pointing at Lainhaven.

She carefully stretched out a hand and touched the Lain river with her fingertips.

‘One day, ships came downriver,’ she said suddenly. Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. ‘The houses burned for three days.’

Gav thought he understood.

‘Did you flee?’

‘Everyone. Horses. Carriages. Grandmothers. Children. Goats. Cats. Everyone.’ She was still touching the Lain river with her finger tips.

‘And your family?’ She nodded. ‘And your child?’

She dropped her hand and drank from her cup. She did not speak again.

January 28, 2025

The Cup and the Sword (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here.

Gav was about to add more tea to his cup when he saw something move in the shadows. He reached carefully for his knife while turning back to the fire. He watched the shadows deeper in the shed. Nothing moved. He was tired. He had been travelling for days, most of them soaked in rain. He could be seeing things. His instincts said otherwise. Something was there. But it hadn’t attacked yet. It would have had enough opportunity to pounce while he was about his own business. So why move now? Maybe it was an animal, a cat or a dog or something similar. Maybe a snowdog, they had come down after the forests burned. They could be shy creatures. Not as bad as wolves but still dangerous. Gav kept his knife close. He’d seen too much to hope for something harmless.

He waited. Nothing moved. He turned slowly to the fire. There, again.

‘Whoever you are, come out. Now.’

Nothing moved. He had to be seeing things. He waited. Nothing happened. Finally, he decided there was no reason to get anxious over shadows and turned back to the fire in full. He poured out more tea. Right then he felt something move behind him. He still had his knife, but he was also holding the pot of tea. One way or the other, the attacker would be either stabbed or scorched. Gav waited. The thing crept slowly, like a creature trying not to be seen. He stayed as he was, trying to see as far as he could. He saw something sway at the corner of his eyes. He wanted to turn but something kept him. It was neither cat nor dog nor wolf. That swaying was strange. He waited. The creature moved more and stopped. The silence was filled with rain and the crackle of fire.

Gav turned, the girl jumped. Her eyes were enormous. He had never seen such eyes before, the irises so pale they were the colour of ice. Her hair was dark and unkempt, a haphazard mass around her shoulders, blades of hay sticking out here and there. Her dress was so worn and faded it had become an unidentifiable grey. Her feet were bare. He wondered how long she had been hiding in the shed. Her face was gaunt, her stature bent over. He carefully put the pot back down. He saw her stare at it as if it were gold.

Carefully, Gav stretched out the cup with his tea. She turned her enormous eyes to him. Then she saw the cup and to his surprise held out her hand. There was something in it. It was a cup, made of clay, chipped and scratched with faint patterns. She must have saved it as her last possession. Gav nodded and took up the pot with tea. He held it out to her. Cautiously she came closer. He filled her cup slowly, watching her. The girl watched the fluid with a hungry, feral look. He set the pot aside, she scuttled back to the wall, crouched down, and started sipping hastily, blowing and sipping, holding her clay cup with both hands. Her fingers were slim and bruised with gashes, her fingernails torn. She looked as if she had been digging in soil. Roots would be scarce here.

Cautiously, Gav got to his feet and went to his saddle bags. His breeches weren’t dry, but he had an extra pair and decided to wear them. Then he took a piece of driedfruit bread, a radish, and a strip of salted meat and went back to the fire. The girl was still crouching, blowing and sipping at her tea. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She jumped as if whipped. The look in her eyes was that of abject terror.

‘Here,’ Gav said, showing her the driedfruit bread. She stared at it as if it was poisonous. ‘It’s good. Look,’ he said, broke a small piece off and ate it. ‘Eat. It’s good.’

Warily, her eyes darting like a bird’s, she reached out and finally snatched the driedfruit bread out of his hand.

‘Slowly. Slowly. Slow down. You’ll choke that way,’ he said when she stuffed the bread into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she followed his slow chewing motions. After she finished chewing and swallowed he handed her the radish and the slice of salted meat. She stared at him for so long he feared she stopped breathing.

‘Take it, it’s good.’

She did not move, crouching as she was, cup and driedfruit bread clutched in her hands. Understanding she did not believe him, he carefully set the radish and meat before her and returned to his log. He feigned to watch the fire while drinking his tea. Through the corner of his eyes he saw her carefully reach for the radish and slice of meat. They disappeared somewhere in the folds of her dress. It was just as well. She spent long minutes finishing the driedfruit bread, chewing slowly, sipping her tea.

It was night. She was in a tent. There were shouts and rough laughter beyond the tented walls. Within, the furnishings were garish and opulent, filled with the loot gathered over weeks and moons, maybe whole suns of pillaging. Bara could not look at the flashing things, goblets and caskets, statues and furniture, busts and cabinets, all stacked and put together in haphazard disarray, showing no eye for value, let alone taste. It seemed all that mattered was that it flashed and looked a fortune, though most of it, it had to be said, probably cost so much in gold.

She had luckily managed to arrange her Order’s flight such, that they could take away what was sacred. Bara still recognised those artefacts equal to the ones she had tended to for so long: bowls and plates engraved with the Seal, reserved for Solstice and Midsun, now spoiled forever by the unsanctified touch of the heathen hordes. They were from other Sanctuaries, other Shrines, three at least by the number. Bara looked away.

She had stopped crying and the terror had receded to something dark and ever-present. Whoever it was the leader threw her to did not do what the stories said such men did. He threw her onto a horse instead and rode with her somewhere for at least an hour by the clock. She had managed to run away when he stopped the horses to drink, the days were always hottest before the sun began to set. She managed by pleading to release her water. The hills were too steep however and he caught her, dragged her back, tied her up and blindfolded her, setting her roughly on the saddle, cursing by the growling she heard. Her whole body was bruised, not to mention the taints she had suffered to her soul.

No man had touched her since she had taken her Oaths. It was a sacrilege for any other than her own persuasion to touch the First of a Sanctuary, for she was the lainar, the Drum and Cymbal of the Gods. By her Their Will was known. And now two had touched her, grabbed her, one even daring to put his mouth on hers, and worse, touching where the Sacred Words were spoken. The horror of it made Bara silent with tears, yet tied and blindfolded as she was there was nothing she could do to save pray for the Mercy of the Gods.

It was dark when the heathen stopped the horses. Bara could smell fire and cooking and surprisingly, the sound of women’s voices, though their tongue was rough and their laughter like cackling. The smell of horses was distinct in the air, and the clink of a hammer on metal could be heard. She was plucked off the horse and dragged somewhere, the heathen not caring when she stumbled and fell flat on her front. She was set on her feet forcefully and pulled into somewhere closed. Only after the rope was untied could she remove the blindfold and see where she was.

It was a large tent, separated into two spaces by wide velvet folds, exquisite Wara carpets setting out the floor. Imp-lights glowed in various corners, windlights swaying from the tent poles. There was a chaotic mix of chairs to one side, their legs and frames battered, but their making of high quality. One was even an eating couch, the covering still ivory white, probably San silk, the blackwood frame beset with tortoiseshell, making the entire piece exquisite in its elegant simplicity. It was probably stolen from one of the grand mansions set on fire in the wake of the hordes’ destruction. Bara was surprised they did not sell it to the greymerchants, who had neither honour nor loyalty, and fared trade with anyone and anything. From what she had heard, the longchair would gain a great price with them.

The rest of the first part was carpet, strongboxes, small caskets and large cabinets, statues, busts, tall candleholders of Zerasin silver set in great halls of ceremony, and two breathtaking Xuyan vases, tall to a man’s waist, loot upon loot piled and stacked upon each other without care, aligning the tent’s walls from front to back to center. The other part, shielded by heavy crimson velvet, was a clustered space as well, dominated by a wide bed, laden with opulent covers and cushions, patterned like peacock feathers, probably robbed off the caravanserais, for none other owned such cloth.

Bara stayed in the part with the chairs. She found water in a heavy jug made of silver and gold. It was of such vulgar lavishness it had to be from one of the Trade Houses who liked to flaunt their ungodly wealth. She barely managed to fill the matching wash basin with water, but she succeeded. Her dress was soiled, her veil in tatters, but one end had somehow managed to stay clean. She used that to get rid of the worst and maybe wipe away some of the defilement. She washed her arms and legs and neck and face thricefold, wishing for blesséd wine to clean her mouth but that was for naught now. Finally feeling somewhat clean, Bara tried to discern where she was. In the silence of the tent, she could hear the sounds of the camp, for it had to be a camp, fhārch never lived in houses. The sounds were the same as before, voices in that rough tongue, cackling laughter, metal clinking, the whinny and stamp of horses.

Bara finally managed to sit down and calm her shaking hands after asserting that there was no means of escape. She had tried to step out and lances had crossed right in front of her. She had sounded out each tent-wall and always heard that rough tongue close by. Someone had brought her food and drink, a servant no more than a boy, silent and cunning by his eyes, his skin coloured deeply by the sun, though his eyes were light like grass. It was said their blood was weak and so their eyes faded, showing the colours of water and saplings, but to see it was still a surprise. The boy looked at her blatantly for a moment before rushing out again. Bara did not know what to think of it. She hardly saw the young unless on Solstice and Midsun when the peasants filled the olive grove to be receive the Blessing.

There was wine and roasted meat and bread and even grapes. Bara ate the grapes, they were from the soil, and so straight from the Gods. She touched neither the wine nor the bread and meat. They were not sanctified, and even if she had for hunger’s sake, she would probably have thrown it all up again, the fist in her stomach was clenched tight.

Bara sat and waited, doing her best to keep her mind focused with prayer. There was nothing she could touch to start a fire, since none of the things around her were purified and she could not touch the naked coals glowing in the coal stove with her bare hands, she had never learned that holy practice. Thus she sat on the unblemished silk of the longchair, held her hands in her lap, her veil covering her hair, soiled though it was, and prayed for steadfastness and guidance and the Mercy of the Gods.

She could not say when the noise began. It was first a rumble that disturbed the Silence she had found herself in, for even in this heathen place the Gods would See her and grant her Peace. The rumble became thunder and suddenly the whole camp was filled with hoofbeats, shouting, and wild cries, jubilant and coarse. Bara felt how the shaking began, how it took hold of her limbs and even clenching her hands to fists would not stop it. They were here. And if they were here, so was their leader. Unable to sit any longer, Bara got to her feet. She would have to do something, anything. She could not let him touch her again. She searched the haphazard clutter about her for something that she could defend herself with, and finally found a dagger among the loot, a long straight thing in an exquisite scabbard, it’s blade sharp enough to cut a hair. She sat with it hidden behind her back, unsheathed. She would defend herself to the last, even if it meant destroying her mortal self.

Only then did Bara realize she could have done just that already, but it was too late to cleanse herself with water and ashes and say the necessary prayers. To bring herself to the Plains now would be a pointless waste of her living blood, for it would be like throwing the Drum and Cymbal into the Fire rather than laying it to rest so that one day it may sound again. Bara was at once furious and terrified, furious at her terror, for it had clouded her senses and made her blind to an honourable escape. And terrified, for the horde had returned and only the Gods knew what would happen next.

January 27, 2025

Why is it called genre fiction?

Genre: Fantasy, maybe even High Fantasy? Swords are involved.

Yes, I am experimenting again.
This is from an ancient WIP that I dug up some time ago and now it’s spawning more and more pages.

Which is why this is a first try, a draft, an attempt.
It’s a little dark. I blame January, this January specifically, which has lasted 157 days and counting. Nevertheless, we persevere.

If you like this attempt, please drop a like. Most of all: thanks for reading! j. d.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

The Cup and the Sword (Part 1)

The wars had shattered the Lands.
They raged like a bloodthirsty beast that escaped the Nine Hells.

The battles had reached the Plains of Inan, their beauty no longer existed. Treks of refugees fleeing the Beast’s hunger could be found trailing out to the nearest ports, and when those were closed to the next port, and the next, and the next, until all ports were filled with the fleeing.

The refugees were feared and hated, many were murdered or enslaved during their escape. Deserters and soldiers with horrible wounds fled as best they could. Bands of mercenaries terrorised the high roads. The towns’ laws were severe, villagers perpetually suspicious, and the peasants became skilled in defending themselves.

The Lands were cursed, and even the Heavens knew.

The weather stopped its natural course. It either rained for weeks or no rain could be seen for days and days. There was no relief from one or the other, but the Beast, the Beast raged on.

They were a group of many. They were different in station and making, but equal in their decision to leave. It was harder to do it alone. It took some time until the ranks and hierarchies were fixed, but once all knew their place, they could do as they intended and leave the Fields, slip away unseen, and hopefully escape the Beast for good.

They marched at night and slept by day. They stole themselves past walls and gates by the tricks and cunning they had learned, never staying longer than two sunsets in a town or settlement.

Over the days and weeks they began to be loyal to each other. Certain rules were set, unspoken rules. If money was made, it was shared like their rations. And they stayed together, splitting only into groups of threes and fours if necessary. Some wanted to join them but were refused. Too dangerous, too insane. Others could not stay, their soul restless, their eyes searching the horizon. Those left in the dark of night to remain unbound and were rarely seen again.

It was raining. It had been pouring for days. Gav had given up trying to get dry. There hadn’t been a shed for leagues. His horse was as exhausted as he. His weapons were probably rusted. He no longer cared what he was or where he was. All he wanted was someplace dry.

An odd shape appeared at the horizon, dark and lopsided. Gav hardly understood what it was, but the horse did. It stopped inside the shed, the door was hanging off its hinges. Gav slid out of his saddle and fell. There was no reason to get up. There was no rain. That’s all that mattered.

It was still raining. The exhaustion had left his limbs somewhat and now what Gav was mostly aware of, was that he was wet through. Something needed to be done. He would have to remove his clothes. But for that to make sense he would need a fire. Fire. He would need wood for a fire. Gav got to his feet. There was more to the shed than just hay. There was a kind of palisade and hidden corners. He could check there.

He found enough wood to start a fire. It took long, his hands were numb and clumsy. It was nothing to the Bogmarshes of Jirigan, though. He shivered. Finally, the fire was lit. He crouched at it, warming his hands. The rain looked silver in its light. It poured in sheets, soaking the soil until what grass was left would start to rot. Nothing could be seen beyond the broken door except the grey rise and fall of land. No one was on the roads, they had found shelter long ago.

Piece by piece, Gav peeled off his clothes. The Fireguard and chainmail were heaviest. He’d stopped with the unwieldy gambe suns ago and kept to his Southern pourpoint that was sturdy enough. Then there the tunics and all the leathers. Finally, he was bare. The wounds had healed, nothing festered. The scars would remain but that was to be expected. He held his feet out into the rain after removing his boots. It would take at least a day until they dried. The smell lessened after a while. He wished it wasn’t necessary, but with water falling free from the sky, he took the cake of soap he still had, and stepped out. The rain was cold, the wind colder, but at least he could wash the grime off his skin. He watched the fire, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was necessary to wash, though, you never knew what could grow if you didn’t. He had seen some disgusting things.

Gav shook himself like a dog once he was in the shed again. If the Sainted Plains existed, then it was that warmth on his skin. The air was dry, the ground was dry, and there was a fire, with only the sound of rain to accompany it.

Gav found a log and used it as a stool. He sat naked before the fire, using the pot he had to fill with rainwater and make hot appleseed tea, the satchel had stayed dry under the oilskin. He still had some driedfruit bread and salted meat and a few radishes. He rationed everything carefully and ate in blissful silence while the rain poured on before him, the fire crackling brightly. It was a miracle the roof had held so long. He had no mind to thank anyone save what luck he still had.

The fire eventually became so hot, Gav had to turn his back to the flames so as not to bake his whole front. He searched the shed sipping his tea. It was empty of tools. There was a mound of hay, not too old and mouldy by the fact that the horse was eating it. Nothing dripped through the roof. Behind the palisade there was more dry wood. If he rationed right, he could stay here until the rain stopped and the sun started scorching the countryside again. He would have to collect water, but that could wait. It wouldn’t stop for another two days.

The horde stood before her, there were enough to crowd the olive grove. Blades glinted in the sun, horses pawed the grass and dirt. The chink of metal sounded through the silence. Their leader was already on the first terrace, the stone blinding white in the sun. He stepped closer, setting foot on the High Vesta, breaking Holy Law by his very presence. If they were here, now, the guards of the gate were dead, or had fled to the others in the High Hills. She had stayed with a few to defy this sacrilege. These were not the Coasts. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget.

Now they were here, the dust had settled, revealing them. They looked dark and menacing and their leader stood on the white terrace leading to the High Vesta, towering, his bloodied blade unsheathed, his boots and tunic, his arms and face streaked with dirt and blood. There was hair, it was long and filthy. All that identified him as a man were the eyes, for they were clear, not mad with demons as she expected. They were clear, discerning. Ruthless. He shouted something right then, his bark echoing in the silence. He barked again, and again, the echo fading into silence. Nothing moved in the heat, no sound was made. He searched the portico, his pitiless stare seemed to cut into the very stone. His men became restless. There were some with strung bows, scanning the façade. The horses moved, the metal flashing sharply. He fixed the High Vesta with ruthless eyes and moved to step forward. Bara stepped out of the shadows into the light.

She stopped at the top of the broad, white stairs. She saw their surprise, the bows lowered a little. They had not expected this. She had commanded the guards to stay out of sight, she did not trust the fhārch to keep their arrows knocked if they saw them. Their leader was four steps below, yet still almost to her eye. He too was surprised, but it did not last long. He stared at her once she stood still, his gaze roving of her like a wolf sighting fresh kill. Bara wanted to cover herself, shield herself from it. She knew not to show weakness or fear. She was dressed as was her due, in the white cloth and gossamer veil of the First of her Order, the veil embroidered with gold, like the seams of the white cloth. She wore the jewellery that denoted her station: gold earrings in the shape of the Seal, the gold necklace with links of the Seal, and the golden ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Bara stood as she was before the creature, saying nothing, enduring the shameless gaze as calmly as she could, a gaze that would have cost others their eyes first and then their life, but that was for naught now.

He said something, a bark she did not understand. Bara forced herself to keep still, to not give into the urge to flee. None should say they had relinquished this holy ground willingly. These were not the Coasts. The Gods were still among them. He eyed her again. He wanted something, but what it was she did not know, and he had the sense to understand that. He barked something, still staring at her. There was movement behind him and one of his men, just as filthy as he, began walking up the steps though he stopped at a bark by the leader. They exchanged sounds. Bara detected some she understood. The leader said something more then looked at her before stepping up two further stairs, coming so close Bara wanted to step back. But to do so would show her fear and none should say she had cowed before a fhārch, never mind the dirt and blood, the smell of it filling her nose.

‘You here the mistress.’

His voice was like gravel. By his eyes she saw that he knew it was not rightly spoken. To acknowledge it, to even misunderstand, Bara knew, would mean her immediate death.

‘I am the First of this Sanctuary.’

Her voice did not waver, thankfully. There was another barking exchange, his ruthless eyes fixed on her. Bara understood some words. He was asking something about amounts. His man obviously knew to speak. The barking ended.

‘How many.’

‘We are few.’

‘How many.’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Women.’

He grinned and Bara felt ice slice into her. It was like facing a wolf baring its teeth for the kill.

‘Twenty-five men.’

She had forced her Order to leave, though they had cried and begged her to join them or at least let them stay, but Bara knew, she knew what was approaching. They thought she had not heard, but she knew the stories and commanded their flight. They would not disobey her. They were safe in the High Hills now, fleeing to the King, while she stayed behind. She was the First. It was her duty to stay when all else deserted, never mind what was approaching. The Order would remain intact, for she had trained Niria well. What else she lacked, Niria would learn in time, while she, Bara, would face these demons as duty demanded. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget such sacrilege.

‘You twenty-six.’

He was no longer grinning. He stared at her, as if searching her for a lie. She stared back. They were all beyond his and his horde’s reach, safe in the High Hills, possibly already under the King’s command. He understood this, she could see it. He looked her up and down again, and it was a different look, one she did not know. He moved then, as quick as a snake, and before she knew it he held her face roughly with his hand. The shock was severe. No man had touched her since she took her Oaths. There was the zip of an arrow and an agonized cry behind her.

‘Tell men stay.’

He was crushing her jaw in his hand, his eyes cold as steel. He would spill her blood right here if she did not stop the men, the bloodied blade was still in his right, unsheathed.

‘Linus! Erius! Stay away!’

Her voice pitched as she shouted, betraying her fear. There was a horrible moment of suspense. Then something moved but the leader moved as well. He lifted the filthy blade, blood crusted on the deadly steel, a command as it seemed to keep his men away. He scanned the portico quickly, a razor sharp glance. He could probably see more in one heartbeat than others in an hour’s time. He turned his attention back to her. Nothing happened for the time it took for a heart to beat and a body to breathe. Then he touched her lips with his thumb, roughly. Bara wanted to shout for the men but he stopped it when he pulled her down to him and planted his mouth on hers, the reek of sweat, dirt, and blood overwhelming as he forced his tongue into her mouth, the taste of it sudden and revolting.

Bara could endure only so much. She gathered all her strength and pushed herself away. Her hand flew the next moment and struck his cheek in a loud slap. It was hard enough to turn his head. Immediately, she heard the slicing sound of unsheathed swords. He barked something, but Bara didn’t wait to see what it meant. She ran but was caught by her wrist, yanked back, and thrown down the steps into something hard and solid. Hands grabbed her, men’s hands, keeping her from fleeing. More barking followed and Bara lost her head. She screamed for Linus and Erius, senseless with terror, as someone picked her up and dragged her away, the sound of metal and horses growing to thunder, the rush and trample of boot-clad feet reverberating through the heat as the horde charged across the white terrace, past the High Vesta, and stormed the holy quiet of the Sanctuary.

December 2, 2023