horror – three good words

TW: Violence

It was a week since that night. She knew the stories, those awful stories, and had waited every day with horrible dread, but their leader never entered the tent, which had become her prison. Bara was never allowed to leave it, neither night or day. All she ever saw were the servants who brought her food and took away the chamber pot. Bara did not know what to think of it, what to expect next.

She had fallen asleep at some point during that night a week ago, when she could never say. Their leader shook her awake at sunrise and pulled her to her feet. The water was like ice, but she was to lie in the stream again as he cleaned her as before while the sun lit the sky. He left once she sat at the fire. He returned when the sun had risen, fully dressed, his blade sheathed behind his back, the hilt a bright silver at his shoulder, showing dragons and flames. The horse followed him without reigns or saddle. He held something in his hands, a dress in muted yellow. The horse grazed while she pulled on the simple cloth, it reached beyond her wrists and ankles. He set her on the horse like a sack of wheat and began walking, the horse following by a sign of his hand. He left the fire burning as one would with sacred fires, leaving it to the Gods to end its flames.

They walked along the stream until it branched to a river which was broad and shallow. They forded it, then walked through a vale and up to the crest of a mound and suddenly they were at a wide meadow surrounded by trees. The camp was at its centre. Guards were on horseback, swords sheathed, arrows in their quivers, lances raised. They turned by the sight of their leader and rode away. He walked to the very centre of the camp, Bara counted at least fifteen tents. Banners flapped in the light breeze, Black Dragon on White, encased in Golden Flame, the Mark of the Demon Horde. She had shuddered at the sight and known there was no escaping.

All was silent and deserted as they approached the tents, though Bara could feel many eyes watching her. No one was in sight. Their leader stopped before a tent, plucked her off the horse, and waited. It seemed he wanted her to do something. Not knowing what else she could do, Bara walked into the tent. It was the one she knew. He did not follow.

Now, a week later, her eyes could not stay as they were and Bara caught a glimpse of the bed. The covers had been changed to something opulently red. Since she entered the tent again Bara never went near it. She remained in the first part and slept on the longchair, its silk soothing to her cheek, using such covers as she found in the cabinets. Lying on the silk as she did, she spent many hours listening to the sounds about her, trying to decipher something, anything, but all to no avail. She forced herself to her prayers morning and evening and she tried to eat only what was yielded from the Gods that they gave her, though she made exception with the bread. With the baking, some of their heathen touch would have been burnt off, allowing for only a little defilement that could be easily cleansed.

One day became another and another, until another week had passed. Bara spent most her hours praying to the Gods, hoping for some way, any way, to come away from this place, but instead her bleeding returned. It was a shock at first, then a deep relief. She finally had to ask one of the female servants for something to keep herself clean. Those were shameful, arduous moments, but the girl finally understood. Bara was brought cotton cloth and water and none entered the tent save female servants for the following week, the girl she had had to confront showing her concern with looks and gestures. The servant girl was as young as the novices who once served Bara, a thickset creature with shrewd eyes, but a quick mind by her understanding. She also brought Bara a broth of milk and heavy bread and would not leave until Bara touched it. It did not taste vile as she expected. It was sweet, they had probably dripped honey into it. After eating nothing more than the fruits for days, drinking only water and allowing for a little bread when the hunger was too strong, the sweet milk and heavy bread were like tasting Food for the Gods. Bara felt it was shameful. She should not feel such relief at heathen nourishment.

The girl brought the sweet milk and heavy bread every day of her bleeding. Finally it subsided, and the girl began bringing a thick broth of meat instead. She would not leave until Bara touched it. She ate enough to appease the girl and did not touch it again once the girl left. It seemed they had sent her to see that Bara fed herself. They were not so dim as not to notice that she only ate the fruits and water. Over two weeks passed this way. And one evening, very suddenly, their leader was back again like a demon from the Nine Hells.

He walked into the tent just as Bara was finishing her cup of tea, she had come to see boiled water and herbs as nothing too defiling. Bara nearly choked on the beverage, scalding her throat with too large a sip. He stopped and looked her over much like that day on the white terrace. Bara wanted to hide herself behind one of the pilfered cabinets, yet to show fear, she knew, was worse.

“You have name?”

It was that harsh bark again, but she understood. Bara nodded.

“It is.”

“Baraniaré.”

He seemed to repeat this silently to himself.

“Deltas?”

“Yes.”

The Low Deltas to be precise, to the south of the Alathan Coast that was no more, thanks to his kind and their demonic allegiance to the Nether Realms. It was said monstrosities from the Dark were unleashed against the spell-cast walls, wrenching them apart like wet paper. It was said, those monstrosities ate their way through Alathan in a matter of hours, so quickly, so horrifically, those who sailed to rescue came far too late. The funeral pyres burnt for eight days, the smoke pillars rising so high they could be seen from horizon to horizon. And now she was here, among these acolytes to the Dark and there was no escaping. For her prayers did nothing, her tears did nothing, and all her calls to the Gods fell into a deep, empty void that remained quiet and still. Bara felt as if she had lost her voice, her sight, as if her own self had been robbed from her, and the wrenching pain of it was beyond description.

Their loathsome leader nodded right then, as if Bara had answered correctly. He did not offer any sound one could use to address him. Bara at first did not want to ask, but then thought she was the First of a Sanctuary. Or had been. She was owed that at least.

“And you?”

Their leader looked surprised. Then he smirked before saying something Bara hardly understood.

“Dren?”

This seemed to amuse him, Bara hating that she blushed. He barked something again, smirking still, but nothing more. He sat down to her left without a warning, right onto one of the high-backed chairs with carved armrests showing lion heads. He took an apple from the platter of food the thickset girl had brought to entice Bara, biting into it with relish, watching Bara with that discerning stare that probably saw more in one glance than many could decipher in one hour.

Bara did not know where to look and so kept her eyes fixed on the cup of tea in her hands. She wished to be somewhere, anywhere else. She wished, more than anything, for the Calm she once called her own, but it had disappeared, much like her sanctity, destroyed before her very eyes. Something moved right then. Bara looked up sharply, everything lurching with dread within. One of the loathsome horde had walked in, followed by another and another. The line would not end and suddenly there were ten vile heathens before her, taking seat on the haphazard chairs, eyeing Bara with surprise, curiosity, and twice with open hostility. Bara could no longer sit, her whole body was a plain of goose bumps and all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She got to her feet and saw how they followed the motion. She made her way past those she had to pass and walked to the other part of the tent she had avoided so far. It was lit by two windlights, shedding their speckled light on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Someone spoke and there was laughter, loud and coarse and full of mirth. Bara knew they were laughing at her, as such men would. She chose to ignore it, for better laughter than anything worse.

Bara searched a place she could be that was as far away from the bed and the sudden assembly. She finally found a strongbox she could use as a seat, hidden from sight by the thick curtains, though giving Bara full sight to the opulently covered bed. She tried not to look at it, see it, yet it remained there, right before her, mocking her with its crimson folds.

She had tried her best not to think of it, but with the rough voices beyond the curtain, broken by sudden barks, grunts, and coarse laughter, Bara could no longer close herself from the memory. She could not think of before. That was impossible. She could only think of afterwards, after she tried to keep the water from seeping into the carpet. What happened at that stream, with that fire, still defied comprehension. She could not forget that moment of understanding, when she saw what he used and knew what it was. A ritual had been performed, she knew it. Yet why was still beyond her.

In the middle of her thoughts, Bara was scared back to the present by a tap on her shoulder. The thickset girl stood before her, with a plate laden with food. She spoke, pointing to the other part of the tent. She handed Bara the plate and left only to return shortly with a goblet filled to the brim with wine. She did not leave and Bara knew the girl would stay until she ate it all, the meat, the bread, the carrots, green shoots, and cárn roots, everything. It was chicken at least, thus not hunted meat, and bread she had already relented to. As for the fruits of the soil, their cooking had softened them but they were still from the earth and the earth was from the Gods. Bara began to eat, drinking from the wine when the girl insisted with stern looks and insisting finger.

The girl stood watchful over her while Bara ate, Bara who knew she would have to finish everything otherwise the girl would never leave. She finally finished the meal. She did not know the spices and her tongue and lips were a little numb from their sharpness, but her stomach was filled. And again, her body felt relief at the nourishment. It made Bara an Oathbreaker once more, but the deep hunger she felt could not be denied. Now that it was stilled, there was relief. It was shameful. She wished for forgiveness, but knew it would not be given.

The girl took the empty plate and goblet and left, a look of satisfaction on her face as if she had achieved an accomplishment. Once alone, Bara got to her feet, wishing to flee, yet even a few steps would reveal her to the vile heathens still sitting with their leader. Some had left, she had heard, but there were still enough to laugh and bark, at times cackling like jackals. Bara sat back down again and did what she had done so far. She closed her eyes, laced her hands, and prayed for steadfastness, courage, and guidance, though not for Mercy. It was foolish to ask the Gods for what they would not give.

They left early in the morning and continued as the day before. The girl sat before him, to the side, leaning her head against Gav’s shoulder. It was almost as if she knew what raged in his mind. Her presence kept the worst at bay.

They rode through villages, passing towns at the far horizon. He acquired what food they needed, he had still enough coin left, it would last him well to the High Hills, for she ate barely more than a child. The sun beat down from the sky, making them cover their heads with cloth and ration their water more strictly. They did not rest till nightfall, where a farmer’s wife defied her husband and let them sleep in the hay. Once in the dark, she undid his breeches. Gav laid a hand on hers to stop her, but the girl continued.

“You don’t have to,” he said, but she did not stop and did what she clearly felt she must. Gav could not enjoy it as he wished. He could still hear her crying the night before.

They continued in this manner for many days. In a valley they met others on their way who saw his koba sword and livery and asked to join them. Gav had no reason to gainsay them once he made certain they were who they professed to be and not robbers in disguise. Once the group joined them, men, women, and children, the girl never left his side. She would not speak to the women, she would not play with the children. If one of the men talked to her she ran away. They asked him if she was soft in her head and he told her, “She just lost her child,” which made them nod, understanding.

No one disturbed her then. At night when they pitched tents around the fire, she slept crushed close to him, clutching his tunic. She would not sleep if he didn’t hold her against him. She hardly ate and when Gav saw she was getting weak, he sent the group a little ways ahead, dismounted, and made her eat the two apples and the slices of fresh driedfruit bread one of the women had given him as her ration. She refused at first until Gav showed his anger and she complied in fear. He regretted it, but he couldn’t have her faint on the high road. She never spoke, no matter what he asked, and she was as skittish as a young foal. By the end of the week, he wanted the group to leave them again, but he knew they would stay until they reached the next larger town. By what knowledge the group had, that was still three days away.

Rumours flew in the group about him, some even suspecting he was of the infamous Seventh Legion, but that did not interest Gav. He rather heard of what stories the men knew of the borders. The great battles were still being fought, the borders moving marginally every few weeks. Cities Gav knew had been sacked and burned, Tarna, Wésh Anar, Elparion. Others were still under siege as he had known, for a large faction of the Demon Horde was still trying to topple the Iron Gates of Sój Par, spell-cast in ages past by the Ág Manar, the First Builders, and so unbreakable. The Beast, as it seemed, raged on, undeterred by those fleeing.

Some of the men showed their curiosity, one even asking about Jirigan, but Gav kept his peace and the man did not ask again. And thus they travelled on. Neither elder nor youth were insolent and deferred to him in matters of pace and rest. There was a dispute between a younger man and another about one of the women, but Gav settled that quickly, the young woman wanted neither and kept with her child sister, who cried unceasingly for their mother. Otherwise they travelled rather peacefully, the group came mostly from the same village.

On the second to the last day, they were attacked by plunderers. It was in the middle of the day and the pillagers were disguised as tinkerers abandoned by greymerchants a few days past. Apparently, the bastard Greys up sticks and vanished over night, leaving them to their own devices on the high road. The tale was plausible, greymerhcants knew no loyalty, not even to their own, but Gav sensed something was wrong, the tinkerers were too meek somehow. He knew he was right when he felt a small hand clutch his tightly. He looked down, the girl was standing next to him, so close even, it was as if she was trying to hide inside him. Her eyes were as wide as saucers again.

Gav gave those villagers who could use weapons a hidden sign, men and women alike. In these times, all who still held their senses had learned to wield blades, axes, hammers, scythes, whatever they could get their hands on. It was known among the legions never to underestimate the peasantry, who used anything as a weapon. Some thought it dishonourable, Gav thought it showed sense. Even peasants valued their humble lives. Once all were quietly notified, Gav whispered to the girl.

“Stay with the grandmothers. Keep to the children.”

He waited until she nodded. Then he plied his hand free from her grip, and made to speak with the leader of the eight tinkerers, a heavyset man with a full beard and benevolent face of a family elder. They spoke, the tale was retold, but the sense of unease remained.

“Where do you hail from, good sir?”

“Tarna, Captain,” the heavyset man smiled, a little too eagerly. “Only ten days ago we saw its high gates and wish to return unscathed.”

One of the villagers stepped forward, frowning.

“Tarna? It was sacked and ashed three weeks ago. No way you’re from Tarna. You don’t even have the right accent.”

This caught the heavyset man off-guard. He had not expected them to have such fresh news, such precise knowledge. One of his comrades pushed back his mantle and drew his weapon, demanding.

“Enough of this. Give us your coin.”

“Gabra, wait,” the heavyset man said soothingly. “We can negotiate. They seem sensible.”

“I’m done negotiating, old man,” Gabra snarled, raising a very sharp-looking cleaver.

The rest of the tinkerers drew their weapons as well, two longknives next to Gabra’s cleaver, and a couple koba, the heavyset man hefting a Dág Án battle-axe that looked genuine, all benevolence drained for his face and eyes, the cold certainty of a born killer finally showing.

To Gav’s surprise, the women stayed silent and the grandmothers in charge of the young did not scream. They gathered up the children instead, quickly, commanding them not to cry, rushing them into the high grasses beyond the road, while the village men and women raised their wood axes, fighting sicks, and butcher knives. The tinkerers smirked, convinced a dozen villagers, five women among them, were easy prey. They attacked without ceremony, the sing and clash of honed steel bright and sharp.

It was quick and brutal, blood spraying crimson everywhere, the slice and stab of blades into soft flesh unmistakable, the crunch of bone loud when the blacksmith’s hammer smashed into a skull. The villagers, Gav saw, knew how to fight together, as one unit, much like the legions. Those taller fought from the top, the smaller from the side, and one of the women crouched down and stabbed everything above the knee, causing lethal damage. The pillagers quickly found they underestimated who they were facing. And they lacked the determination of those who had to survive. Where the plunderers fought for loot and worse, the villagers fought for their lives and knew no mercy. They killed six raiders together, each aware of the other much like Gav had been with his cohort in days past, so much so, Gav had little more to do than deflect sudden stabs and save the small woman from getting crushed under a toppled pillager, her butcher’s knife dripping scarlet with blood, her face a grim mask of determination. Gav knew that look. He understood what it meant. They had once been village of seventy fighting men, discounting the women. Now only these twelve of fighting strength remained.

The two pillagers who survived turned and ran once they saw themselves outnumbered. They were quickly dropped by two arrows darting out of the high grasses, shot by two village boys with vengeance in their eyes. One of the women scolded them sharply, then gathered them fiercely into her arms.

The villagers collected what weapons they needed and burnt the dead, for none were left to the Winds. They still had such faith in the Gods. While the men carried the corpses to the pyre and the women tended the flames, Gav retrieved the Dág Án battle-axe from the bearded killer, fixing the rare blade to his saddlebags, for the Dág Án would want it returned, and the villagers would not know how to talk, let alone fight their way out of such an encounter. Once done, Gav walked into the high grasses and found the grandmothers hidden well among far bushes, the children clutched close. All were present and accounted for, all except one.

“Where is she?” Gav asked one of the grandmothers. The stout woman shrugged and shook her head, showing sadness.

Gav did not feel fear. He knew the girl had run to save herself, he simply had to find her. He told the stout grandmother not to wait for them, mounted his horse, and went and looked for the girl.

He found her not long after, up in a tree. She was clutching a branch and trying to be as still as possible. Gav only found her by the tracking he knew, which required a skill only those who wielded spell-cast blades could acquire. Gav understood then how she must have escaped after five moons of utter Hell. She could disappear from all sight and sound if she found the necessary Calm. She had learned to merge completely into the background until she was one with the trees and grass, even the sky. Which meant she must have had genuine training. Which meant she must have served the High Court, for none other in the realms were allowed to know the Art. Which meant she had once been part of a High Temple, if not a Shrine, maybe even a Sister Shrine to Alathan. Which meant he should not touch her again.

Gav dismounted the horse, leaned against the tree trunk, and waited. She did not move.

“They’re dead,” he said. Nothing happened. “We will have to continue. The villagers want to reach the next town by tomorrow.”

She still didn’t move. He looked up. The girl had managed to climb quite high. He stepped away from the tree. There was no other choice. Gav grabbed a branch and was in the tree. He found her near the top, clinging to a bough sprouting with leaves, her eyes wide as saucers again.

“Give me your hand.”

She didn’t immediately, but after many heartbeats she finally stretched out her hand. The branch swayed, he pulled her to him. The branch sagged under her weight, but he caught her in time. She clung to him fiercely. Gav could hear her whimper and feel her heart race. He climbed back down again, carefully, holding her. Three women were waiting at the foot of the tree, one of them the mother with the two sons. Another woman had tea with her, yet another a blanket. The girl would not let him go but for the eldest’s gentle coaxing.

February 4, 2025February 4, 2025

The Cup and the Sword (6)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

Trigger Warning: Violence, Sexual Content
Please Do Not Proceed unless you are in the right place mentally.

The skies had held. The night was clear and bright with stars, the moons probably high above the crests Gav had seen on their way to this town, long forest ridges pointing to the High Hills. It was said the Last King was there, rightful heir to the Three Kingdoms. It was rumoured he had delved deep into the Art and spirited himself and his entire court away, right out of the clutches of the Demon Horde. It was said that, once joined, one was granted amnesty and could rightfully return to one’s own. Gav wanted that amnesty. Not for himself, but what might befall him and those of his blood once he took sail to Ghón and searched his own.

He could not return a deserter, he knew that much. The Beast may rage on, but the Law still held, even in the remotest parts, which was a strange surprise, and had often served him well. Yet, after his escape, he knew to take the Law for what it was. To return a deserter would put too many in jeopardy, and now that Imarius II had retreated beyond the passes, there was a possibility for clemency. There was little hope in it, Gav knew. He was certainly not the only one who fled the legions without due leave, but many rumours held true, and that of clemency was whispered all across the Fields, in taverns, and even along the high roads, if one knew what to listen for. It was the one hope Gav still had left. All others had been burnt on too many funeral pyres and entirely sunk in the Bogmarshes of Jirigan.

Now he was here, in an unknown town so far West it knew little of the battles fought at the coasts, for the Demon Horde knew its sails far too well, and once landed, travelled swiftly across the Plains of Inan on horses faster than the wind. They were, last Gav knew, only stalled at Jirigan, where demons from the Nine Hells erupted and laid waste to all mortal flesh. He still did not know if what was unleashed was meant to repulse the Demon Horde, or if the Horde had finally revealed its allegiance to their hellish gods. Either way, what was let loose turned Jirigan into a hellscape no man should have to face.

Gav had seen many a stout heart fail at the sight of something ungodly from the Nether Realms. Many-tailed monstrosities of uncountable teeth, claws the size of half a man, writhed in the marshes, exploding out of murky waters, gorging themselves on friend and foe alike, flinging limbs and blood and entrails everywhere, until it was wise to cover one’s sight for fear of being blinded by a sudden splatter. Gav had seen bodies ripped apart by creatures he still could not name, he had seen the enemy torn apart in ways none of the mortal realms had ever known possible. There was no time to sleep, no sanity to rest, and even now Gav could not say how many days he spent in Jirigan, nor how many days it took him to retreat beyond the marshlands and escape. What was clear in his mind, was the singular demand to leave, to flee, to save himself and be done with whatever Madness allowed such abominations to be let loose on all things living.

That was then. Gav had found a means of escape and now had to see to future things. And part of that was moving further to the High Hills in hopes of reaching the passes before the first snows fell. He had time yet, though with the weather unpredictable, all was yet possible.

The innkeeper was generous and allowed them use of his wash house, a simple cavernous room, with a large bathing tub that seated two, and soap and scrubbing stones for use. Since the innkeeper thought them bound, Gav took the girl with him, who surprisingly did not protest. They washed and scrubbed in silence, passing the pails of warm water to each other while standing side by side. The girl rinsed herself with a quick splash of her last water and climbed into the hot tub right after, sinking below the warm wet until all was covered to her neck. Gav followed suit soon after and they sat together in the hot water, the girl curled up against the wood, while Gav leaned back, closed his eyes and allowed the liquid heat to do its work. It maybe was not wise, they could be easily ambushed here, but he had so far seen nothing to worry him.

Thus, they spent at least an hour by the clock, soaking in the clean hot water until it turned lukewarm. It was a melancholy moment when Gav had to leave the easy comfort, the Gods knew when he would have the luxury of a real bath again. There were robes waiting for them, and, surprisingly, simple footwear as well, allowing them an easy return to their room. Once returned, Gav found the fire was still bright and warm, his weapons untouched, and his saddlebags undisturbed, which showed a steady hand ruled the house. The last of Gav’s concerns melted away. He would not have to worry about intrusion here. It was what he needed to ease his mind to rest.

Gav required little encouragement to strip down and climb into the wide bed, spacious enough for two bodies without one disturbing the other. Lying as he was, Gav thought of this unexpected stroke of good fortune. The town so far was quiet. The innkeeper knew his business, the food was of good making, the wine of decent stock. The bath had been deeply pleasant and would allow a kind of rest Gav had not known in a half-sun at least. There was little he would need to worry about here. There was little carousing in the streets, the tavern moderately loud for a place of drink and song, except a few drunkards bellowing through the floorboards. A particularly rowdy group seemed to be rousing each other during a game of cards. The garbled shouts, however, did not disturb the sight Gav was seeing.

The girl had undressed completely before joining him in the bed. Gav had watched her as she removed her robe, thinking she would don her underskirt at least. He had done her the courtesy of donning his second pair of breeches, rumpled but still fairly clean, for sleeping completely unclothed seemed unwise. She remained undressed, however, slid under the covers to him and began as before, her pecking kisses on his neck and chest. She undid the bands of his breeches, quicker this time, and used her mouth again. With the light from the fire Gav could see her clearly. He could not leave her to herself this time, but pulled her up to him, turning her onto her back. Her eyes were so wide they seemed to fill her whole face. He watched her as he parted her legs, waiting for her to fight him, or at least speak, but she remained as she was, her eyes wide as saucers.

He eased himself between her legs and waited for her to stop him. She didn’t, though she was clutching the pillows tightly. He bent down and kissed her carefully. She jumped underneath him.

‘Just a kiss,’ he said, her eyes were as wide as ever.

Her reaction was timid as if she didn’t know what to do with her tongue and lips, but she did not stop him. He made sure she was completely distracted by the kissing before he entered her. She still gasped with fright.

‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, her eyes were as wide as saucers again.

He did as he promised only to see what that did to her. He stopped. Her eyes were filled with tears, sliding down the side of her face. It could not be her first time.

‘I’ll stop,’ he said but she shook her head. ‘What is the matter then?’ She just shook her head again. ‘Should I stop?’ She shook her head again. He let his head fall into the pillows. It was killing him, sheathed within her as he was. It was too much. ‘I’ll be quick,’ he said against her ear. She nodded, her hands clutching the pillows tightly.

She was crying openly by the time he was done. Her sobs were so loud he had to close her mouth with his hand. He knew how it would look if anyone rushed in. She was crying so hard she could hardly breathe. He felt nothing except the release of tension as he gave his seed. Gav did not know if he should feel relief. She did not stop crying for some time. He was still on top of her, if he moved it just got worse. Gav finally found the strength to speak.

‘When?’ She did not answer. He turned her to him. ‘When?’ She swallowed and turned her eyes away.

‘I don’t know,’ she finally said, her voice so quiet he hardly heard.

‘How many?’ She shuddered. ‘How many?’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘How long?’

She did not answer, but he felt her hand on his arm. One finger, two, three, four, five.

‘Days?’ She shook her head. ‘Weeks?’ She shook her head. ‘Moons?’ She nodded.

Gav closed his eyes. Ye Gods. Five. Five hellish moons.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She started crying again, silently, tears filling her eyes and pouring down the side of her face.

Gav left her and pulled her against him, holding her close. Five moons. And yet she let him. No, after a full meal, not to mention an entire bath, she probably saw its as payment still. And there was the room of course, adequately clean, the bed dry, the covers without stains. She would expect it. With nothing else to call her own save her chipped clay cup, many would see it as worthy payment. Gav wanted more than ever to know what happened in Lainhaven. Instead of asking, however, he held the girl close until she fell asleep, watching her in the firelight.

Even in her sleep he could see the marks of her terror. She shuddered and flinched every now and then. He stroked her gently. Five moons. And she still let him. Or rather, paid what she felt needed paying. And the worst was, there were many more like her. Many, far too many. Sanctuaries that were torched, Temples raided, and all within if not cut down, then abducted and enslaved. For it was known the Sanctuaries were only women and their guards, oathed to their protection from a young age. He himself had seen some of the worst. The Sacking of the Alathan Coast, where the High Temple of Asroha, Lady of the Light, stood in all its glory, the blue of the shrine’s fire-tile walls visible for leagues on end.

The signal fires were lit too late that day, it was still not known why. There were dark rumours of deep betrayal, but the fact remained: the signal fires were lit too late. Docked in Port Gaisan, they saw the signal fires showing Attack and manned the tré-masts in that hour. They had sailed down the coasts to Alathan’s rescue, rejoicing at the fortunate winds, but it was all for nought. The spell-cast walls had already been blasted by the Demon Horde, and all was already torn down, the baileys broken open liked cracked shells. It was, Gav felt, worse seeing the aftermath. Walking through the streets and seeing the carnage left in the Horde’s blood-drenched wake, understanding what must have happened. Alathan had known over one hundred thousand, living both among its spell-cast walls and along the palm-lined coast. All had been servants to the High Temple, either in mundane duty or sacred sacrifice. After the Sacking of Alathan, only three thousand remained of those who once called the High Temple their home, the Bay of Bethména crimson with blood, lifeless bodies floating on the dark waves.

The funeral pyres burnt for eight days. There had been children, though Gav did not see the very young. One of his captains lost his mind that day, cast down his shield, undid his mantle, and unbuckled his blade, threw all to the ground and walked away, never to be seen again. Gav had stayed for another sun, vowing to avenge Alathan, and he had done his worst, until the Bogmarshes of Jirigan. That was when he knew there was no hope save what he could call his own. Whatever hellbound raksh the Demon Horde worshipped, they had true power against the Gods, for what else could unleash such utter Darkness on everything and all? Gav could not imagine the legions tying themselves to such Terror. There was ruthlessness, necessary in strategy and war, and there was the Maw of Hell opened wide in Jirigan.

Unlike his former captain, however, Gav took what was his with him, for he was not of such standing as to waste what he owned. Not that he didn’t understand his former captain’s refusal to take the tools of his warcraft with him. Gav himself still hated the sight of his spell-cast blade, too aware of what it could do, of what he would do, once he wielded it. He kept it sheathed and hidden in his saddlebags, a mere longish bundle that many confused for a shortbow unwound, which was exactly as Gav intended. He only used his koba now, a good blade to keep both plunderers and greymerchants at bay. All else would be a needless provocation.

Holding the girl against him, aware of her fits and starts in her sleep, Gav could not close himself from what he knew. The Beast devoured everything, raging on the Plains of Inan, burning the cities, destroying the ports, reducing the Alathan Coast, a place of peace and beauty, to blood and ashes and utter despair. And there was Jirigan of course, and what unspeakable forces ruled there. What did it matter now, that the Sacking of Alathan cost such outrage, the two great realms, Tísor Pá and Efera, redoubled their efforts to stop the Demon Horde from rampaging from coast to coast, pouring yet more oil into a fire that would not be doused, let alone stamped out, for the Empire was in full understanding with the Demon Horde as it cut a blood-drenched swathe through all the peaceful realms at the imperial borders. And thus, the Beast raged on, feeding on bodies and souls, on cities and realms, and nothing could stop it. There was nothing Gav hated more than the Beast, and what Madness was committed in its name, but he had managed to forget his seething hatred until now.

The war raged for cycles now. So long even, few hardly remembered how it started, a mild dispute about port taxes that dropped a spark into a tinderbox that blazed into a firestorm and raged across all the realms ever since, from the Tiyr in the High North, to the Jewelled Sea in the Diamond South. There were too many powers in play, though the Empire, Tísor Pá, and Efera were greatest and most destructive in their machinations. Or at least most well-known. What was left of the Three Kingdoms was still to be contended with, for the Last King could still stand on his feet in Efera’s High Seat at Abn Nes, which made both Tísor Pá and the Empire listen. And yet, none would concede, and none were powerful enough to enforce a concession. Thus, moon after sun after moon the battles were fought, come heat or frost, drought or storm, turning rivers red, soaking the lands and seas with blood without end, and that was just the dead. The tortured, the maimed, all the enslaved, for the Empire was ever-hungry for more bonded flesh, there were countless numbers.

Gav had seen those who had lost everything and all, their broken minds, the rage in their eyes, the madness that led to more insanity, and that was before Jirigan. After, he knew of the haunted whose faces had lost all comprehension, their souls benighted with Misery and the unmentionable Suffering they had seen. Gav knew he had witnessed more than a man should bear, but he still had all his limbs with his sanity was somewhat intact, and for that he was truly grateful. He put it to the decision he made on that fateful morning after a night of utter Hell. He remembered looking across the marshes, knowing what unspeakable treachery to all things good and right lay hiding between the tall grasses, waiting cunningly under murky waters, more than ready and willing to tear every mortal form to bloody shreds, relishing the destruction. For that was the worst of it, being hunted like animals, herded like sheep, and slaughtered in similar kind. And it did not matter whether legion or Horde, all that mattered was one’s mortal form. That alone made one prey, which made for unexpected alliances. Rather to die standing by the Horde’s hand than be ripped to shreds and eaten alive like a savaged hare. And thus, more than once, Gav ended up fighting with his sworn enemy against hellish monsters, side by side. He had seen one of the Horde mourn one of the legion and witnessed equal mourning in reverse, upending all he had known to be right and true until then. And yet, the monsters persisted and prevailed, for there seemed no subduing them. Where one was destroyed another erupted as if newly created from every man’s darkest imaginings.

It was that morning where Gav knew, he could not face that horror again. He would leave by nightfall latest. He would turn and do as so many others had and find his own peace. Once he made that decision it was hardly a day’s preparation to leave the Fields, slip away once night fell, swallow his pride and hide like an unbred urchin among barrels in a cart meant for supplies, and never return again. If he had any luck, then it was the fact that he actually succeeded.

Jirigan still haunted him, true, but the Bogmarshes would haunt anyone. As for the rest. It took many weeks until Gav managed to no longer think about what he saw every minute of every hour of every day. The nightmares grew less. And by the Midsun following his escape, Gav could sleep through a night without waking more than once. Until now. It was all back now. He remembered everything he left behind, what he knew and saw staining his memory dark with blood, the sight repeating itself over and over before his inner eye. There was no sleep to be had whenever that happened.

He had seen things no man should see and wondered if he would ever be free from this awful knowing. There were no answers, for what could anyone holy tell him, if the Gods had forsaken them, for who of those On High would let Jirigan happen? Who of the those On High would have let Alathan fall? And so completely, with such devastation, Gav began to wonder if there was such a thing as Gods at all. Alathan was, he knew, the first time his faith was broken. For how could They abandon those who worshipped them so? Alathan had stood in complete devotion to the Gods. Not Asroha alone, but the entire High Court that made their truth and existence, their world. And yet, it was crushed, destroyed, and what help was sent for came far too late, almost as if they had been prevented to do their duty unto those who served the Gods.

Alathan haunted all the known realms, Gav knew, but there were no answers, at least none Gav could formulate. What answers could there be, if after Alathan fell Jirigan was made possible? There were probably no answers, and Gav was slowly making peace with that. He could only hold the girl against him while she slept and hope for an end of memories, for a time when what had come to pass was little more than fate and story.

February 4, 2025

The Cup and the Sword (5)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

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

There was water, running water. It was all over her. Bara sat upright, gasping. She was in a brook, a stream, unclothed, and there were stones underneath her. The moons were high, Pheya bright and close, voluptuous in her mystery, protecting all from the Vastness beyond. As’r unknown till sundown, where he stepped forth with every hour and held fast through the night, warning of the true Vastness beyond. It had to be deepest night for both large orbs to be so bright in the sky, turning the stream to moving silver. The water was icy cold.

Bara looked about herself, trying to comprehend. To her left there was a fire, but no one sat at it, nor moved beyond the shadows. She rose to her feet and stumbled, the stones of the stream were slippery. She succeeded, however, and rushed to the fire, the icy water and night air making her shiver. There was nothing to cover herself, nothing to clothe herself with, but the fire was warm, warm. She crouched as close as she dared, huddling her legs to her chest, trying to comprehend. The last thing she remembered was blackness, terrifying blackness that closed in on her senses. Bara touched her throat, she could still feel the merciless hand there. And now she was here at a stream under the double moons with a bright fire before her. What was this? She looked to As’r and Pheya. They shone silently back at her. Why have you cursed me?

There was movement, Bara sensed rather than heard it. The hateful beast appeared out of the shadows, stepped into the light of the fire like a darak. Bara looked away. Like herself, he did not have anything to cover him. From the quick glimpse she saw, he must have come out of the stream as well. The need to run was a demand in her limbs, but she could not unwind her arms from her huddled legs. Rather, she curled closer, wishing to stay unseen. That was for nought, for he took a branch beside her and stoked the fire. Bara huddled closer still, heart racing, willing herself to move, run, scream, do something, anything, but all her limbs stayed stuck as they were, as if frozen together after a sudden frost, for she was trembling still.

Bara did not know what was to happen, did not understand what she was seeing, and felt her mind fray with incomprehension. What was this? Ye Gods, why was she brought here? What was to be done with her now that she was here? For she had never heard of this, and there were many dark tales and much rumour about the Demon Horde. Yet she was here, under As’r and Pheya’s eyes, unclothed, without any strength to move, let alone run, comprehending nothing. Bara tried again, tears filling her sight, but she could not unwind her arms, nor straighten herself to run. So she remained as she was, huddled, watching, trembling, waiting for what was to come.

As before, the speed was beyond her understanding. The hateful creature grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to him. To her infinite relief, her strength returned, and Bara tried to fight him. There was a struggle, for they were each yet too wet from water to keep a firm hold, but his strength exceeded hers and she was flat on the grass before she knew it, his hand yet again at her throat. He growled something and she saw him raise a stone, large and glistening with flint, clutched in the fist of his hand. He would kill her now, bludgeon her with the stone. Why here and not before she could not tell, but Bara saw the stone in his fist by the firelight and closed her eyes. In a moment he would strike and she would stand before the Lord of the Gate and tell her tale.

He released her instead. Confused, Bara opened her eyes only to see the strangest thing. The hateful creature cut into his arm with the flint, deep enough for blood to show. He dropped the stone and moved his arm over her until the red dripped on her middle, splattering on her skin as he moved his arm this way and that until a trail of red splashes reached from her ankles to her thighs, from her breasts to that place she could not think of, her shoulders and arms, her neck. Once the trail was made, he spread the red across her form with his hands until she was smeared with his blood, touching her mouth with his stained fingers, covering her breasts with the red, covering her shins, reaching between her thighs. She tried to stop him, even now she would fight, she would refuse, absolutely, but he was as quick as a snake, caught her hands in an iron grip, keeping them pinned against the grass beside her, his knee locking one leg down painfully as he parted her thighs and forced his blood stained fingers into her. He did not keep them there as Bara expected but removed them right after, releasing her even, which gave her the chance to kick and make to flee but he caught her, yanked her back to her knees and slapped her. It stung sharply and Bara was for a moment too stunned to move.

‘Stay.’

It was a sharp bark, the command unmistakable, equal to the harsh sound on the white terrace, the one that stopped all his men. Bara did not fight when he pushed her back to the grass. He had sounded too dangerous to try and flee again, the Gods knew what he else he was capable of. Bara lay still, staring at the moons, asking the Gods repeatedly what she had done to deserve this. She could see the streams of blood pouring from the wound on his arm, her body stained by that very red. It was drying on her skin, but he used what flowed freely to draw signs on her thighs and around her navel, around the buds of her chest, her throat and her lips, her forehead. He reached somewhere once he was done. Next, he had removed a burning branch from the fire. Bara stared at it like she stared at that scorpion as a child. She knew, any moment it would sting. He moved the branch over her, close enough to feel the heat, and she followed it transfixed. Voice so low it was above a whisper, the hateful beast made sounds, even sounds, while specks of ash fell onto her as he moved it twice, thrice, four times over her. She counted eight lengths before he began beating himself with the burning branch, quick beats against his arms and chest and thighs, twice against his back, eight times in total before he threw the branch back into the fire.

The creature got to his feet then and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a cup of water. He carried her to the stream, knelt in the water and had the strength to immerse her thrice into it without letting her go, growling sounds as he did this. Then he set her on the stone bed as before, water rushing all about her, and left the stream but returned with a branch from the fire, a burning branch he somehow fixed into the stream’s bed, shedding light on her. He knelt beside her again and removed what he had stained her with, with his bloodstained hands, making those low sounds, equal to a steady murmur that he seemed to repeat, almost like a chant, touching her lips, reaching between her thighs again. His hands were rough on her skin despite the water, his grip too tight, yet he removed the red, removed it until she was clean of it again. And not by any water, but by running water, water straight from its source, water straight from the Gods.

Realization dropped icily into Bara’s mind. Fire and Running Water, Untouched Earth and Living Blood, all these were sacred, for they were straight from the Gods. He had used all these for his strange ritual, for what else was this? And even the blade he used was flint. Nothing mortal made had touched him or her, for they were both unclothed, untouched by anything woven, soldered, or otherwise formed by mortal hand. That a heathen creature such as he would know of these things was beyond Bara’s comprehension. It made her silent and kept her from fighting him when he picked her up out of the stream and set her beside the fire again. He stoked it, bringing more branches from beyond the dark, until the fire was a bright blaze. He did not bring anything to cover either himself nor her. If she guessed rightly, nothing mortal made could touch them till the sun was fully risen again.

Bara lay next to the fire on the grass, her skin prickling from the icy water, every part of herself acutely aware of the rough touch of the hateful creature’s hands. Since she took her Oaths, none other save women’s hands had touched her. Even her own father could never touch her hand once her Oaths had been spoken. And here she was, lying on grass after all her Oaths were shattered, broken, the lainar wholly destroyed. Yet Bara could not close herself from the realization that just befell her. A ritual had been performed, only which one and for what purpose she could not say. It had been performed, however, by exactly those means sacred under Holy Law. That a fhārch would know of them… it was beyond Bara’s understanding.

Draen counted his men. There were two and fifty, enough to hold what was needed. The order was to secure the Flats before Midsun, that way they would have silence until Solstice and could negotiate from then on. Imarius had fled to the White Hills which were far from the coasts and once reached impassable, for the snows closed the passes early. It was clever, Draen had to concede, for Imarius had fled with most of his court, allowing none to be left behind and used as leverage. With the southern treks granted free passage as well as the caravanserais, the negotiations had succeeded. Then Imarius did what they had not deemed possible. He slipped away in the dark of night, and none were left behind to tell how it was done. Their mages were strong after all, nightcloaks were not easily wrought. The tithes would be paid, however, Imarius would want the routes to stay free. This now in the Flats was the last before the heat descended in full, and it was to Draen to see it was done.

The villages they passed were deserted. Some would not believe it and thrashed coops, poking spears through hay and thatch, but nothing living was there. Even the livestock had been taken or fled, they never left anything behind if they could help it. It was just as well, they knew to feed themselves, the days so far had been fat in their pickings.

It seemed there would be nothing but empty villages and farmsteads until a scout shouted and they found him dead in the bushes, an arrow through his eye. There were archers then, skilled archers, and that meant either a fort or a temple, maybe both. When they passed the olive grove, Draen knew it would be a temple and could see the expectation in his men. Temples always meant women and so far, temple women were very forthcoming in this degenerate land. It had taken will and command to make his men leave the coasts, and some, Draen was certain, still would have preferred to stay, their minds too weak to resist their wine and women.

They guards were well-hidden, but not well enough. Either fear or courage made them leave their hiding places. There were twenty, one of them clever enough to unseat him, but that was quickly remedied. The guard was young, more boy than man, but Draen commended him for his excellent aim. He hadn’t been knocked off his saddle in a while. In another life the boy would be a good hunter. Draen mounted his horse and they rode up the incline, past the usual cypress to the white of their shrines. It looked empty but he didn’t trust it. Twenty men at the gates either meant all had fled or there were far more within. He scanned the stone. These ones here knew to keep themselves out of sight.

‘They’re gone,’ Kolgar said but Draen dismounted.

The shrine did not look abandoned. There was a certain sense to deserted shrines, something empty that this one didn’t have. Draen kept his sword unsheathed, still red from the young guard who had shown good courage. Nothing approached him, nothing moved as he climbed the marble. What they wasted on their shrines when simple wood would do. He stopped and looked about. Silence. The hot sun turned the stone to blinding white. He made their presence known, calling for them to come out, but even after three calls nothing changed. Maybe Kolgar was right.

There was movement in the corner of his eye. He looked, readying himself. First he only saw something white, moving. Then he understood what it was. One of their women, shrouded in white and gold. She did not waver like some, nor did she smile like others. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. She stopped at the top steps in full sun. She was young, at least younger than he expected. Her twentieth winter was past, but her thirtieth was yet long to come. There was fear in her eyes and defiance. And like all of her kind she was more than sightly, her shape hinted through the folds. Whatever their gods were, they blessed their women in comeliness and form.

He could hardly believe she was alone. No sane woman would stay behind, not even one of them, but she didn’t look to lie. Unless it was a ploy to distract him. He tried her to it and she surprised him by her defiance. His men unsheathed their swords, but he stopped them. He sensed this one was different and gave commands accordingly. She would be choice leverage come negotiations.

Kolgar was furious. The woman had fooled him, tricked him with a need to release her water, and he had believed it like a foal fresh on its hooves. He had caught her of course and she was in his sien. Draen laughed until Kolgar mentioned that the men were asking questions. They expected something to be done. Draen told him this one was not like those at the coasts. Kolgar spoke bluntly, the men would not understand. She had defied him, openly, and he knew what they thought of them. He would have to do something. Draen’s answer was as always, he would not shed their blood. No matter what gods they worshipped, you never knew who was watching. Kolgar shrugged, he was only saying what was being spoken.

As always, Kolgar’s words were seeds in his mind that grew to saplings and finally right trees with deep roots and full foliage. He found him drinking with Ored.

‘Are they still talking?’

Kolgar nodded. Draen sat with them.

‘Speak.’

‘There’s a penalty we all know,’ Fred said coolly.

‘A sage is a sage,’ Draen answered.

Ored sneered, ‘Their gods are not ours, k’rak! Would they care about ours?’

‘They saved Grida.’

‘He’s a Healer.’

That was Kolgar, who liked to drop words like stones into hot oil.

‘Among them, a Healer is a sage, Kol, you know that.’

‘So you spare the bitch for Grida’s sake?’

Ored was in anger and the wine was making him worse.

‘She wears their seal.’

‘Who cares! She could be a goat maid left behind to fool you!’

‘No.’

Both Kolgar and Fred showed their surprise.

‘No goat maid would have that look.’

‘A look?’ Ored was in laughter. ‘You are easily fooled, k’rak.’

Draen remained silent. Kolgar looked into his cup. Ored’s laughter died. He looked undecided, then got to his feet and joined the others.

‘You doubt it,’ Draen said. Kolgar shrugged and drank from his cup. ‘Speak your mind.’

‘She managed to fool me and ran away. Others would have done different.’

Draen filled his cup and drank it. The wine was of good stock. At least in that their temples knew their business.

‘She’s one of them, I know it.’

‘So you will not.’

‘A sage is a sage, you know my mind in this.’

‘Ored does not speak an untruth, k’rak. Their gods are not our gods.’

It was always in these things that he and Kolgar did not see towards the same horizon, yet Draen did not demand allegiance in this. Letting Kolgar speak his mind made him know what the men expected. Draen drank from his wine first before speaking.

‘I know their gods are not our own. Already the stone they waste on their shrines. And they call us thieves. Even so, I have to look further than this. You never know who’s watching.’

‘Do you think there were Eyes today?’

‘You never know.’ By Kolgar’s look, Draen would have to explain in full. ‘If I had agreed to that fire in the Plains as so many wanted, do you think they would have let Grida live?’

Kolgar shook his head, though grudgingly.

‘The men can show their anger, but I can’t waste arrows on sprites.’

Kolgar was silent for so long, there was no escaping the question.

‘How bad is it?’

‘They all saw it. First the archer and then her. And you even let the two runts live.’

‘They were on holy ground, even they must know that.’

‘You let them live, k’rak. That is all they need to know.’

Draen said nothing and drank from his cup. To hold first saddle is to be hated and loved in equal amounts, he had said. All praise its honour, but it is a burden. You will have to see when all are blind. You will have to hear when all are deaf. When none can walk, you will rise up and go. And none will thank you for it.

The plan was simple, he would try her to it. The men would stop talking and if any Eyes were watching they would know she lived. If she was anything like those at the coasts there would be no great change anyway. If she really was like those at the coasts, she would find her own end anyway, for once his, stepping to another would mean the knife, and none would question him for it. The matter would be solved and any questions lost with the ashes strewn in the Winds. He still sensed she wasn’t what the men thought she was. Just seeing her on that dining chair was proof enough. She jumped at every sound and whatever she was hiding behind her back was something she did not know how to handle well. Yet Kolgar was drinking with others beyond the sien, and Draen knew the guards had their eyes and ears open.

Habrin asked what the matter was, laughing, ‘Is she a drak after all?’ Draen punched his laughing face, sending the bitches son crashing into three others. Knowing Habrin, he was likely loudest in the demand that something be done. Now it was done and he had brought the Wrath of the Gods on himself. It didn’t look right and she fought too hard. They usually relented soon enough and played along. She fought and scratched and bit but others had done the same before and were suddenly soft as water. She did fall silent, only it was too silent. She hardly moved. Then he left her and there was blood everywhere. He knew then, knew that he had seen correctly the moment she walked out of the shadows. She was not a known woman, but had followed their laws as all others should have.

The Sands of Time could not be re-poured and that alone was too much. The men were shouting his name, though, Kolgar and Tren pulling him back and away before Habrin got it into his head to retaliate and force his hand. Habrin was too good an archer to lose. Draen freed himself and saw their shocked faces. They had not seen his rage in some time, though some seemed satisfied with it. Draen understood they had thought him softened by the coasts as well. He demanded to know where the last of the temple guards were. Some had wanted to run them, but Draen knew they could be useful later on, and it was always well to have leverage, no matter how meagre. Now it was well he let them live for they must know what he needed to know.

Kolgar brought him to the guards, tied up behind the horses. The younger was venomous but alive, the other still in the mists. Kolgar explained while he spoke. Had their mistress ever known a man? It took a moment until the boy understood. Draen knew when comprehension sunk its arrows, for the horror in boy’s eyes was too true to be affected. Draen couldn’t believe it and asked again.

‘Is she a known woman?’

Kolgar repeated his question. The boy shook his head, speaking of oaths and cups and something about a song. Draen needed to know, however, and spoke on.

‘This song, what is it?’

With many words and confusion the boy finally understood what they wanted. Kolgar explained as the boy spoke.

‘She is a song. No, a voice of their gods. She speaks their wisdom to them. She is the highest among their own and sacred to all.’

It was much worse than Draen expected and by Kolgar’s look, he too had not expected this. So far they had only encountered servants and acolytes. Why would their highest stay behind? It made little sense. Draen had to be certain.

‘When were her oaths spoken?’

The boy frowned, confused, eyes darting between them. He spoke however and by Kolgar’s words she had been promised to their gods since birth, wedded to As’ril the day her Oaths were spoken, help-meet to Pheyr the day she wore their sacred cloth.

‘This is bad, k’rak,’ Kolgar said, looking to Draen, who for the first time since Alathan saw real fear in his Second’s eyes. ‘If true, you must appease Them, otherwise we shall all be lost.’

‘They wed them to the High Court?’ Draen asked, disbelieving. That was insanity. The High Court knew no mercy when slighted. To tie a mortal to them in such a way was more than provocation, and by his look, Kolgar understood that all too well.

‘Alathan. Jirigan. The Plains,’ Kolgar said then, looking at Draen with new understanding. ‘That’s why it is always so bad. They have tied themselves to the worst of them all.’

‘You keep that to yourself, understood?’ Draen said, aware of his Second’s shock. ‘We’ll talk about this in council. Kol. Understood?’ Kolgar nodded, reluctantly. ‘Now ask him what happens if she is known,’ Draen made himself say. Kolgar hesitated, but spoke all the same.

The boy understood quickly and completely. He spoke in quick, sharp sounds, his voice rising in fury. Kolgar spoke on. By the boy’s voice and expression, his answer was a curse against their blood and kin unto the seventh generation. Young and slight though he was, the guard struggled to free himself and if he hadn’t been restrained, the boy would have grabbed the next thing and bludgeoned them with it. The look in his eyes was beyond murder. It was a hatred so deep, even the Gods would acknowledge it.

So it was true. One look and Kolgar understood. They were all in peril. Alathan, Jirigan, and the Plains had shown it clearly. He had till sunrise. Beyond that, the Gods would know no mercy.

February 1, 2025February 1, 2025

The Cup and the Sword (4)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

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.