They had hauled her up the road kicking and struggling every inch of the way. Once they were back in the clearing, she managed to wriggle free of her captors and made a desperate bolt for
freedom, towards the path that lead to what was left of Anaya’s cottage. The three men caught her just as she drew alongside the caravan; she was pushed against its wooden panelling and went
crashing to the floor sending her staff rattling to the ground from where it rolled into the shade under the caravan’s chassis. Then they all started to kick her, steel-capped boots finding
many a soft mark. Bound and gagged, she still managed some muffled screams, her only outlet for the hurt they were causing her.
Then Trask arrived and they stopped. They were all obviously as frightened of him as she was. Although she knew what was to come, she had no idea of how it would feel. Mikel had been her only
long-term lover, following a series of frantic fumbles in her teens with other similarly inexperienced initiates – the blind leading the blind as it were. Mikel knew what he was doing,
though, was expert and attentive, and her times with him had always been passionate, energetic and fun. What had just happened to her here was about as diametrically opposed to that as it was
possible to get. Trask’s body was a muscular, crushing weight, squeezing the air out of her and reigniting the pain in her damaged rib. When he forced himself into her he seemed to delight in
the way she winced; it seemed to encourage him, to make him try to find new ways to hurt. An inner conflict raged in her mind as she fought against the pain and revulsion: she wanted to remain
stiff as a board, be utterly emotionless, to give him no gratification at all; she also wanted to break into floods of tears, to beg him to stop, to plead for her life, for his mercy.
Ultimately, she did neither. She gauged him to be a man utterly without pity, so sobbing like a child would not avail her; neither could she remain still under him – every thrust was a
spear of agony and her body’s instinctive reaction was to move away from the source of the pain. It was a mistake, for every tic of her body seemed to excite him, but one she could not
control. He took an age to finish with her; he found every entrance that she had and when he finally spent himself on her, she had to fight hard to control the shaking convulsions that shock had
induced in her. Eventually she resorted to digging her knuckles hard into her back and biting her own tongue as a distraction, tasting the coppery blood as it ran down her throat.
He looked at her for a while, as a cat watches a mouse, curious as to the way she reacted in her fear. She could not meet his gaze, steeped as it was in malice and sadistic pleasure; she stared
at the sky, fighting to control her trembling, taking an age to succeed. Finally, when she had regained some composure, he decided it was time to leave. His companions watched the whole thing,
adding comments, encouragements and suggestions that only added to her trembling nausea. The younger lad, however, remained with the horses; his stomach was obviously not strong enough for what was
going on before his very eyes.
‘I have to leave now.’ Trask took the reins the boy handed to him. ‘Fresh horses at regular stops mean that I should be back in Grest by the morning. No one is looking out for
you lot, so make your way back when you have finished with her.’
‘And what do you want us to do with her in the end, sir?’ The soldiers seemed to regard Trask with awe.
‘She is a witch, is she not? I thought in these parts any witches the knights didn’t get you burned. How you kill her is not important to me as long as you do kill her – oh and
let the boy have a go at her next. Don’t worry about violating an innocent, son; I got the impression she has been ridden more times than Felmere’s charger. Can’t blame her,
though – entertainment must be sorely lacking trapped on an island for years on end with nothing but books to read. Do your job, lads, and when I see you next we can celebrate our upcoming
triumph.’ Trask whirled his horse around and was gone, riding as quickly as possible over the mud-churned track.
While they were talking, Cheris managed to crane her neck to her right. She saw, under the caravan’s wheels, her staff lying unnoticed among the dead leaves. She could also see its blade;
it had come free of the staff and was lying close to the front left wheel. Tantalisingly, it was only a few feet away from her but she was trussed up like a joint of meat and had no way of moving
there unseen. Even when talking to Trask, at least one of the men always kept his eye on her. Frantic and hopeless, she looked to the heavens again. Blood was congealing on her thighs and the
stabbing pain in her womb never relented. What hope was there for her?
With Trask gone, she became the centre of attention again. All four of the men came and stood around her. Her robe was bunched up at her waist and she had no way of concealing herself from them,
her dry eyes stung with tears at what was to come next.
‘Did you see Trask?’ one of them was saying. ‘Hung like a prize stallion. Hey, missy!’ He prodded her with his boot. ‘None of us can rip you apart like he did, not
that it will stop us from trying. Sam boy, you heard the man; it’s your turn next.’
The boy’s voice betrayed his nervousness. ‘Could I be left alone with her. Having you all watching, well, it might just put me off.’
‘Ah, you big milksop. Have it your own way; we will be the other side of this wagon... Oh and if you lose the desire, just give her a squeeze; I am sure you know where.’
Laughing among themselves, they moved out of sight behind the caravan. The boy started fiddling with his clothes. How old was he? Fifteen? Fourteen? He had a feeble attempt at a moustache and
was obviously not shaving yet, she thought. He moved into position on top of her. Unlike Trask who kept his head high, eager to see her discomfort, the boy lay full on her. He was taller than her
but not by much. He kept his head close to hers; she could smell his damp clothes, his sweat, feel his breath on her cheek. He had difficulty finding the right place and manoeuvring into a
comfortable position, but once he had got going it was all over in less than a minute. Unlike Trask, she had barely noticed him. Once he was done, he put his head next to hers and in the tiniest
voice he could manage whispered into her ear.
‘I am sorry.’
As he dressed himself, she could hear the other men discussing the best way to kill her.
‘Trask wants her burned; that was what he said.’
‘Don’t be a fool! The smoke could attract anybody. The wood here is damp and hard to light; it would take hours to do the job properly.’
‘You want to hang her then?’
‘We could, but I really want to be out of here as soon as possible. The quicker we do it the less chance she has to use her witch tricks on us. When we are done with her as Trask wants,
let us just cut her throat and leave her for the wolves and crows.’
The boy had gone back to his horses and suddenly Cheris realised that she was on her own. For the first time she was alone. Her torpid acceptance of her fate, the one which caused her to lay
motionless and unfeeling under the boy, was replaced by a spark, the barest flickering of hope in a dark place. Making as little noise as she possibly could, she wriggled so that she was plumb next
to the wheel on the caravan, the one which was barely a foot away from her staff’s blade. She swivelled and sat up, her head and upper shoulders resting uncomfortably against the main body of
the caravan next to the wheel. Her hands started to scrabble among the leaf litter reaching for the blade.
Too late, she realised. From behind the caravan one of the men came, his tread sure and steady. He was the one she thought to be the leader of the men that remained – balding with a
moustache, a slight beard and several missing teeth. He obviously interpreted her movements as another feeble attempt to escape.
‘Less of that!’ he growled at her before back-handing her face with a stinging blow. She tasted blood on her lip – how much blood did she have left in her?
He pulled a dagger on her, a long cruel blade, razor-sharp. He held its point against her eye before moving it down slightly and pricking the orbit under her eyeball. The tiniest drop of blood
ran down her cheek almost like a tear.
‘Any attempt at being clever and I stab your eyeball until it bursts.’ He pulled her gag down and free of her mouth. ‘Open it!’ he ordered her. ‘Let’s see if
you can take it like a tavern slut, five pennies a go.’
With the knife less than an inch from her eye Cheris opened her mouth. She could smell him, a soldier that hadn’t washed in weeks. She fought hard to keep the disgust from rising in her,
to stop her from gagging. He was exposed now and forced himself into that place he wanted to go.
He grunted as she choked, his blade started to wander. Looking up she saw he was not really looking at her, that his eyes were half closed. He was thrusting so violently he did not notice as her
hands dug into the soil behind her. There was earth, leaves and more earth, filling her fingernails. And then there was something else, cold icy cold. She remembered the cold metal of her staff and
knew it was the blade she was touching. She felt its edge, it cut her hand but she didn’t care. Desperately hoping he would not finish too quickly, she worked the blade until she held it in
her right hand. She had been cut several times and felt the warm blood oozing over her palms and fingers, but it was a minor pain compared to what had gone before, easy to ignore. She had little
room to move her wrists, but little was enough, just enough. She felt the rope start to give as she sawed the blade across it.
The man gave out a load groan as his release came. Cheris, her eyes watering at his aggression already, fought against every instinct to stop herself spitting and retching as she tasted him. He
pulled out, his eyes once again fully focused on her. ‘Swallow it all.’
Meekly, she complied and did not struggle as he pulled the gag back over her mouth. Then he looked away from her as he endeavoured to push his flaccid member back into his breeches. He did not
notice at first as Cheris slowly got to her feet. He swore, his laces were all tangled, he still swung free in front of her.
Then he looked up.
Cheris stood before him in her tattered robes and, as he watched she put her bloodied hands, now free of cords, to her mouth and pulled down her gag. She hawked and spat the residue of the
man’s semen on to the ground.
‘You really are a very stupid man,’ she croaked hoarsely.
Dagger in hand he went to thrust at her vitals but the fear in his eyes was easy to see.
She read him all the way. Before he could get near her she held out her hand, palm outward, and said the softest of words under her breath. The same words she had used against the horse beater
in Tanaren, but this time meant with much more force and power.
The man was lifted into the air and propelled backwards at a ferocious velocity. He flew some twenty, maybe thirty feet, crying in terror until he impacted against the gnarled trunk of a giant
oak tree. She heard his back snap, and the dull crack of his skull against wood, then he slid like a ragdoll down the length of the tree before slumping lifeless at its roots, his trousers loose
around his ankles.
Cheris walked slowly around the caravan, every step an agony. The two men stood looking at her, their faces pale with fear. The boy had left the horses and was standing just behind them.
‘The Gods help us!’ whispered the young one.
There was a second of pure crystalline silence, as the four protagonists beheld each other. Then as one the three men bolted towards the southern road as though the demons of Keth were at their
heels.
Cheris watched them run as though weighing in her mind whether she should show them mercy. Then she spoke, her voice regaining some strength, words the men would not recognise but the ones that
spelt their certain doom. Once that was done, she spoke again.
‘There are no gods,’ she said.
As soon as the fireball was released she turned her back on them. She knew its aim was true and there was no escape for her erstwhile murderers. She heard the crash of flame and the nigh-on
feminine screams of the men as they were engulfed. She heard the horses cry in terror, pull up their pickets and bolt into the woods. It didn’t matter; she could not ride anyway. She tried
walking to the caravan’s rear entrance but stopped after a few strides. The pain was too great – walking had never felt so difficult. She slumped against the caravan’s wheel,
sliding down its length before curling up at its base in a foetal position. The birds were singing. She heard several deer breaking through the underbrush; it was as though nothing untoward had
ever happened here. Numb and exhausted, with the smells of earth and blood in her nostrils, she drifted, her mind, normally so active, frozen and incapable of putting anything coherent together.
Cheris Menthur, eyes glazed and lifeless, passed out, her senses in shutdown, all in denial of what had been done to her.
She did not know how long she had lain upon the ground – an hour, maybe less than that, maybe a lot less? Something had made her come to, though – a noise? Yes, it
was a noise.
There it was again. It sounded like a mewling infant, a feeble barely discernible whimper. She forced herself to stand, finding her staff she leant on it, using it for the first time like an old
man’s prop. There was the noise again. She hurriedly scanned the clearing but there was nothing, just the caravan, the abandoned tents of the knights and the dead man next to the tree.
The noise was coming from the southern path, from where she had directed the fireball.
Slowly and with an indefinable sense of dread she hobbled in the direction of the noise. It was as if a fire had been set in every private place below her waist. Her hands were numb and
throbbing, still coated with her own blood; her mouth stung from where the man had struck her, and the bruises on her torso where she had been kicked roared their protest as she moved. Gritting her
teeth, she reached the path and made her way towards some blackened shapes where the crows were clustering.