work in progress – three good words

April 28, 2025April 28, 2025

random

When do you feel most productive?

Trick question. Productivity lies in the eyes of the beholder.

Sometimes staring into space, letting your mind rest, is the biggest productive boost you can give yourself.

Other times, writing one sentence is a herculean achievement.

It all depends.

#writing

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.

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.