Read The Phantom Queen Awakes Online
Authors: Mark S. Deniz
****
Biography
Linda Donahue, an Air Force brat, spent much
of her childhood traveling. Having earned a pilot’s certification
and a SCUBA certification, she has been, at one time or another, a
threat by land, air or sea. For eighteen years, she taught computer
science, mathematics and aviation. Now when not writing, she
teaches tai chi, belly dancing and writes non-fiction
articles.
You can find Linda’s twenty-plus stories in
various anthologies from Yard Dog Press, Fantasist Enterprises,
From the Asylum Books, Elder Signs Press, Permuted Press, Ricasso
Press and Kerlak Publishing. Linda also co-authored a story with
Mike Resnick for Martin Greenberg’s
Future Americas
,
available from DAW Books. Linda’s stories also appear in MZB’s
Sword & Sorceress 23
from Norilana Books and in Esther
Freisner’s anthology,
Strip Mauled
, published by Baen Books.
Her work is soon to appear in Esther Freisner’s upcoming anthology,
Fangs for the Mammaries
and you can read her first published
novel,
Jaguar Moon
, available from Yard Dog Press. In early
2010, she will feature in
The 4 Redheads in Apocalypse
, a
collaborative novel.
In non-fiction writing, Linda published an
article in the 2007 Rabbits USA Annual. She and her husband live in
Texas where they keep rabbits, sugar gliders and a cat.
****
Martyn
Taylor
Corbelathan was a brute of a man, tall, broad
shouldered with flowing red hair and moustache, and an insatiable
hunger for women. When there were no women around, sheep were in
peril if he was in his cups, which was shortly after sunset most
days.
“What’s the point of being a prince if I
cannot enjoy myself?” he would roar, laughing, sometimes laughing
until he fell over. And we, his father’s carls, laughed with him,
carrying on as though we wanted nothing more than to be at
Corbelathan’s beck and call forever. Perhaps some of us did. For my
part, my knife wanted to slake its thirst in his blood.
We were travelling to Cu Cumundi’s to
celebrate the wedding of Broarli to the eldest daughter of
Lughoalan. Tuathan should have attended to pay his own respects to
his brother kings, but, for the first and last time in his life,
The Fox stumbled and threw Tuathan so that he, too, broke his leg.
At his age, Tuathan could not travel. His brother kings would
understand that he sent his son and heir in his place, with a
suitable retinue including me as his envoy.
“I trust you,” was all Tuathan said, making me
flush to my ears with pride. To be trusted by Tuathan was as much
as any man could ask in this life, even me.
We made slow progress, largely because the
prince had the application of a gnat and, being the king’s eldest
son, expected his whims to be indulged by one and all, with the
possible exception of Tuathan himself. His foibles had been
factored into the plans, and on the night before we arrived at the
wedding, I was confident we should arrive with my king’s honor
untarnished.
We came to a poor farmstead a little while
before night, just a few miles to go but too many to do before
darkness. Corbelathan had complained about the prospect of sleeping
under the stars for at least the last hour and when he caught sight
of the farm, he put heels to his horse, hallooing the
house.
He was greeted by a young woman and a boy of
about twelve years of age. He would be a handsome man when he grew.
She was already beautiful.
“We would have hospitality of you,” bellowed
Corbelathan, dismounting almost before he came to a halt. Only the
gods knew how he did not fall flat on his face.
“Be welcome to such hospitality as we can
offer, my lord,” said the woman, her voice as beautiful as her
face. “My husband attends his lord, Cu Cumundi.”
“Exactly what we do tomorrow.” Corbelathan
smiled, falling in beside her as she led the way into the farm
house, leaving us to make sure his horse was readied for the night.
While we were about that, the boy showed us where we could sleep in
the barn, strewing fresh straw for our beds, saying not a word,
eyeing our warrior’s accoutrements with the veiled but eager
interest of any boy who dreams of fame and glory, and was there
ever a boy who did not?
The smells of hot food came to our noses as we
finished, making our mouths water as we headed for the
house.
“Leave me alone, you pig!” she screamed as we
entered, removing Corbelathan’s hands from her breast. “I am a
married woman.”
“Your husband isn’t here,” he leered,
stumbling unsteadily after her, “and I am, ready, willing and eager
to satisfy your needs.” He managed to get his arms around her
again, but she slipped away from him with ease, stopping in the
doorway and tossing her raven’s wing, glossy black hair at him as
he propped himself up against the table.
Suddenly she was pushed aside by the youth,
standing there with fury in his eyes and a sword in his
hands.
“Is this how you repay our hospitality?” he
demanded, his voice quavering but defiant, facing down five
grizzled warriors and a prince.
“What about hospitality indeed?” Corbelathan
wondered, hauling himself upright and affecting as much dignity as
he could. “I am a prince. I can have any woman I
choose!”
The boy shook his head. “You are not my
prince, and you will not have my sister.”
Corbelathan’s head was almost brushing the
thatch, and he looked from each one of us to the next, his gaze
resting last on me. He winked at me, and I knew exactly what was
about to happen.
“We are all friends here,” he said,
approaching the boy, whose sword wavered before the Prince’s smile,
which he had of his father ― and Tuathan could charm the birds from
the trees, as befitted a king. “I am truly sorry. Here’s my hand on
it.”
I saw the tip of the boy’s sword dip as he
clumsily switched the blade to his left hand, which was scarcely
strong enough to hold it. He reached out with his right towards
Corbelathan’s hand extended in peace and friendship. I saw
Corbelathan clap the youth on the shoulder with his left hand,
driving the hidden knife into his throat with his right, before
ripping it out. The lad’s blood spouted as first bewilderment
filled his eyes, and then death drove him to his knees and onto his
face, where he lay in a spreading black pool of his own blood. The
woman fell to her knees beside him, silent, reaching out and
caressing the boy’s face.
“The pup put a blade to me!” fumed
Corbelathan, bending down to clean his knife on the boy’s shirt.
“Well, let that be a lesson to him.”
“Not one he’ll ever forget,” laughed
Cormissen.
“Wine, bring me wine,” crowed the butcher.
“War is thirsty work.”
“Is that what you call it, war?” said the
woman, on her feet now, the blade in her hand, holding it a lot
more easily than had the boy. The tip was little more than a hand’s
span from the prince’s throat. A glance was enough to assure me the
blade had not seen a whetstone in too long. She might bruise him
with it, but she would not cut him. “Let’s see how you perform
against someone with a steady hand.”
“Spirit,” slurred Corbelathan. “I like that in
a woman.”
The scene held still for a moment before fury
turned her face into something ugly and she drew the sword back,
ready to thrust it through his throat and the spine behind
it.
Before she could strike, though, Padrhaig
stepped up and wrenched the blade from her grip with his bare hand,
so keen was the edge on it. Dairmud moved behind and grasped her
arms. Corbelathan stepped close and tore at the neck of her
dress.
What did I do then to preserve my lord’s
honor, the master of his ceremonies, the keeper and upholder of his
laws? What did I do in the face of this gross violation of every
law of hospitality known to man? I left them to it, striding out
into the chill, fresh darkness. I was a warrior, and had never been
anything but a loyal man to my king. I had killed for him more
times than I could remember and I dared say I would kill for him
again if the time came. I would die for him. I had prided myself on
being a man of honor but all I could taste was shame. There had
only been one man of honor in that room, and he was now dead. My
sword brothers would have their way with her and I could not
prevent it, not if I wished to live out the night. Come morning,
Corbelathan would have forgotten I had not joined in his debauch,
but I would not.
My lord Tuathan had been betrayed by his
eldest son, to whom I owed only slightly less fealty than I owed
his father. I lay in the darkness, the sweetness of the straw
beguiling my nostrils, praying to all the gods that I would be
allowed to sleep. Whenever drowsiness crept upon me, though, I put
the blade of my knife to my thumb. Pain is good for keeping a man
awake when he must plan how he is going to get his king’s son safe
home again when the idiot had defiled the hospitality of Cu
Cumundi.
The corpses lay in their dried blood when I
went to rouse Corbelathan. He lay sprawled on his back, mouth open,
dribbling, his blood smeared, still turgidly enlarged member
hanging out of his trews. A voice told me to geld him where he lay.
Instead, I went outside to the water butt and brought in a cup that
I splashed in Cormissen’s face, putting my knife to his throat as
he spluttered awake.
“Wake him,” I hissed into his sour face. “We
should have been gone from here before now.”
“Gods, my head...” he moaned. I handed him the
cup and he swallowed down the remaining drops. Rubbing at his eyes,
he sat up, and then he saw the two corpses. “Gods...” he
murmured.
“We’ll need more than the gods to help us if
we are not out of this land when Cu Cumundi discovers this
mayhem.”
I went outside then, unable to stomach any
more of that charnel house or my friends’ casual acceptance of it.
I didn’t spew my guts in the farmyard, but that was not through
lack of desire. Conflict boiled inside me, mixing with bile and
hunger, reconciling itself to the need to ride away from this place
as quickly as I could, as far as I could, to forget I had ever been
there.
Instead of which, I stood waiting, murmuring
endearments to Rowan, knowing this would be my last embassy for
Tuathan. I should have prevented Corbelathan’s stupidity. I could
no longer do the job Tuathan had entrusted to me. The time had come
to learn how to be a farmer, a husband and a better father before
it was too late.
Corbelathan regarded me with the contempt he
felt for everyone. There was only one man alive he feared, and
sometimes I believed he was stupid enough not to be afraid of his
father anymore.
“Don’t be such an old woman,” he croaked, “who
would attack a prince?”
If he truly believed being Tuathan’s eldest
son and appointed heir was sufficient to excuse him the
consequences of his appetite, there were no words I could use to
convince him otherwise.
“Her husband?” I wondered aloud. “Her father
and brothers? Her husband’s lord whose hospitality has been so
defiled?”
“You saw her,” he whined, like a boy who still
believed he could talk his way out of a thrashing. “How could any
reasonable man with hot blood inside him be expected to spurn the
opportunity to have such a woman?” I could see him warming to the
notion, his bloodshot eyes sparkling and the tone of his voice
firming into the conviction that his absurd notion was simple fact.
“I could have fathered heroes on her!” he said, regardless that his
record of fathering on either side of the blanket was of weak
bodies and weaker minds. “Heroes!”
I said nothing. No-one could ever say anything
to get through his thick skull. I considered asking him how he
would respond to someone coming to his father’s kingdom and abusing
Tuathan’s hospitality so, but he wouldn’t have understood. That was
why I was there. I had guile for two, diplomacy and tact, more than
enough imagination for us all. I imagined the hoof beats of Cu
Cumundi’s carls on the turf of the other side of the hill. I heard
their rage, even though I knew they were still asleep in their
beds.
I climbed into the saddle, the damp of the
morning making my joints ache, the weight of what had been done
making my head ache.
“We must be gone. I suggest you occupy
yourself on the journey home with devising some excuse to give to
your father.”
His roar of laughter was obviously heartfelt.
“Why should I?” he bellowed. “That’s the sort of thing you’ve been
brought along to do! You’ll make so much better a fist of it than I
ever could. I do not have your deviousness.” With that, he smacked
Rowan on the rump, the crack of it sounding even through the poor
animal’s whinny and my cry of alarm as I was almost thrown. I
wavered, flinging my arm about as though I really was in danger of
being unhorsed even though my knees were tight to his flanks and my
right hand gripped the reins like a drowning man’s. For a while I
considered indulging my desire, simply galloping away and leaving
my brothers in arms to the sharp-edged fate that awaited them.
Eventually though, I reined in Rowan and she came to a panting halt
near where a ford took the path across the rushing
stream.