The Rose of the World (40 page)

Saro backed away, terrified. The images coming at him from contact with the greatsword were bewildering, unspeakable. He held it out to her unsteadily: an offering to propitiate a primal force of nature.

‘Here, take it. I only picked it up for you—’

Their eyes locked, and in that moment Saro acknowledged that the dream he had hugged to himself of the girl he had encountered at the Allfair was just that: a figment, a construction of his own feverish mind. The sight of the figure which had stood in defiant challenge on top of Falla’s Rock, her hair a nimbus of fire, her naked limbs gleaming in the early morning sun, had all but stopped his heart. The memory of those sea-grey eyes and those arched kestrel-wing brows had visited him in his sleep night after night after night. He had, he admitted, harboured secret desires for her in life; then mourned her in what he had thought to be her death. Now, confronted with the unpredictable and elemental truth of her – more goddess than girl – he knew he had deceived himself if he had ever imagined they might be together.

She took the sword from him gravely, her fury ebbing as swiftly as it had risen; and as her anger ebbed so did Virelai’s illusion, and she was Katla Aransen once more. But the delay had proved lethal. Within seconds, Tycho Issian came hurtling around the corner, knife at full stretch before him, followed by a contingent of guards.

Katla grabbed Saro by the arm and together they flew around the next bend in the corridor, only to be confronted by a dead end with a door set in it. A locked door. Katla wrenched at the handle, but the effort was futile. They turned and faced their pursuers, swords drawn.

‘To die like this,’ Saro said through gritted teeth, ‘would be a good end.’ He was surprised to find he meant it.

Katla flashed him a feral grin. ‘Get ready to die, then, but don’t forget to take as many of the bastards with you as you can!’

Seeing that the pair meant to make a serious fight of it, Tycho Issian allowed the guards to overtake him. It had not escaped his attention that the goddess he had been preparing to mount had somehow been transformed into a dreadful red-headed hoyden. His interest in keeping her alive wilted abruptly. ‘Kill them both!’ he ordered and left the militiamen to do just that. He had seen enough blood for one day.

Despite the odds, this task was not to be easily achieved. The passage was too narrow for the Jetrans to come at them more than two abreast. Katla ran at the first pair, shrieking like a banshee. A spatter of hot blood hit Saro’s face, making him blink in shocked stupefaction. He had no more time to register the mashing sweep of Katla’s greatsword or the vile sight of brain through bone as the first guard toppled before the second man was upon him. With sheer gut instinct, he raised the purloined weapon and iron screamed on iron. The force of the parry numbed him so that he almost dropped the sword, but the killing stroke was deflected. Throwing out a wild hand for balance, his fingers brushed Katla Aransen’s bare arm, transferring instantly to him a rage and confidence he knew was not his own. Whatever its source, it saved his life. With a skill and speed that should never have been possible for Captain Galo Bastido’s worst pupil, he feinted left and brought the tip of his sword up under the guard’s right arm, skewering him so hard through the ribs that the air came whistling out of his lungs and he slumped forward onto Saro.

The rush of the man’s death stymied him so that he stood there for precious seconds under that weight, absorbing his agony and despair. It was Katla who kicked the dying man clear; but a moment later two other guards had taken his place, and more crowded in behind them. Soon, it was hard to find sufficient space in which to wield the length of the greatsword. With a curse, Katla relinquished it to the flagstones and swiped up one of the fallen guards’ shortswords instead. This she swept about with such ferocity that the men were forced to retreat a pace, then two, until they were backing into one another, losing their balance, cursing. When disarray turned to complete shambles their sergeant barked something at them and they all pressed themselves back against the walls, leaving the ground clear between the officer and their quarry.

The sergeant lowered his crossbow at Katla, grinning. ‘Seems a shame to shoot you dead, lovely,’ he leered. ‘Perhaps we’ll just wing ya and have some fun.’ Then he turned the weapon on Saro. ‘Not much use for you, though, son: none of my lads fancies arse much.’ He wound back the mechanism with slow deliberation.

Behind the sergeant, there was a movement in the shadows, and abruptly the point of a blade appeared through the front of his tunic, so that it rapidly changed colour from fine Jetran blue to sodden red. As he toppled, his bulky shape was replaced by the lithe form of a hillman, withdrawing his elegant desert blade with economic grace; and behind him came a figure out of nightmare, its sharpened teeth gleaming in the darkness; then a small fat man, a tall gaunt one, and the looming figure of a giant.

‘I think the odds are a bit fairer now, don’t you?’ Mam jeered. Hot wafts of beer breath filled the narrow space they shared.

The guards turned to defend themselves; but half of them were drunker even than the mercenaries, the rest barely awake and one pissed himself in terror, even as two blades pierced him, front and back.

Twenty-four

The melting pot

The messenger from Forent arrived the next day. The missive he carried was both brief and to the point. An expeditionary force was ready to set sail and awaited only the presence of joint-commander Tycho Issian, with or without his sorcerer. Despite the arrogant tone of what was in effect a summons, the Lord of Cantara sensed Rui Finco’s glee, and his impatience. He had a plan, he was confident of success; they must strike swiftly.

Tycho Issian was not convinced. Still inflamed by his sight of the transformed woman the night before, he found himself in turmoil. He must capture the Rosa Eldi to keep his sanity; but in order to keep her, they would have to subdue the barbarians entirely. And what of this ‘deathstone’ of which the intruder had spoken?

A mighty weapon . . . an artefact with power over both life and death.

He would have scoffed at the very idea had not the Vingo boy leapt up and struck the man down before he could say more. For a mild-mannered lad, Saro had shown admirably murderous zeal; but whether he had been spurred to the deed to make the man silent, or because he had perceived his outland origins was likely to remain a mystery. It was a great shame he had made his escape: on the one hand he would have been well employed on any foray into enemy territory; and on the other, he might have cast more light on the matter of this killing-stone. Tycho felt his fingers itch at the very thought of wielding such ultimate force. He had never regarded himself as a power-hungry man. Fervent, yes; and pious. Between them, he and the boy’s brother, Tanto Vingo, had brought hundreds of souls to stoke Falla’s fires before the cripple had been so untimely dispatched to join them.

But how many more might he be able to offer the Lady if he had dominion over all of Elda? And how better to achieve such dominion than by laying his hands on a magical weapon?

Since Virelai and Saro appeared to have struck up an unusually close friendship, he had taken the precaution of having the sorcerer confined to the rack while he was still unconscious. With Saro gone and Virelai a natural coward, he was sure a judicious turn or two of the screws would render up further information about the stone . . .

‘He was obsessed, besotted.’

‘He spoke of nothing else.’

‘Do you remember his face when I told him she was still alive?’ Mam turned to Dogo.

‘Could’ve fried an egg on it!’

‘Thought he was going to dive overboard and push the damned boat to Rockfall!’

Katla sat there, staring at her feet. She did not know what to say, how to respond. She felt numb, stupid. Instead of replying, she turned to stare at Saro Vingo, lying on his side at the back of the stable, trussed up like a goose for the oven, a clout in his mouth. His hands were clenching and unclenching though he was fast asleep; and runnels of sweat ran across his face even though it was a chilly night.

‘We should just kill him and leave him here,’ she said at last. ‘He’s just another filthy Istrian, when all is said and done.’

Persoa raised an eloquent eyebrow.

‘Don’t take offence, my honey-boy,’ Mam said softly. ‘Hill-tribes is only technically Istrian.’ She leaned across to Katla. ‘Girlie, quiet down. I know you’re upset about the lad: we all are. But at least this one should fetch us some hard cash, and Altea Town’s not far from where they’ve taken your Ma. Providential, really. Sur must be smiling on us.’ And she treated the gathered company to her ghastly grin.

‘And you say there are no slaves in your country?’

‘Nor any houris?’

‘Well—’ Bera Rolfsen hesitated. ‘We have no slaves: that is true. We have bondsmen and women but we pay them for their work and afford them home and shelter for the duration of their lives, and often their own piece of land and livestock to tend. As for ladies such as you call “houris”, well, we have a different word for them—’

‘And what is this word, may I ask please, Be-ra?’

Bera could not help but smile beneath the enveloping black robe, despite the discomfort of the wagon and the rather dire circumstances in which she found herself. ‘Er, whores . . .’

‘And your “whores”, do they learn the sacred arts and worship the Goddess with the men who visit them?’

‘Such an act is not generally regarded as sacred in my country,’ she said primly. ‘It’s more of a business transaction.’

‘You mean, the men pay these women directly?’ The speaker sound puzzled.

‘Of course. Do they not here?’

‘Never!’ The woman was shocked. ‘Women never touch money in
my
country. It is defiling.’ She paused, then whispered something to the woman beside her in Istrian. When the second woman responded, two or three others joined in the discussion. At last she said, ‘Hana here says there are men who take payment for what we do and do not donate all the money to the shrines as they say they do.’

Bera laughed. ‘I’m sure they don’t.’

‘But that is very wrong.’

‘In Eyra,’ Bera said firmly, ‘women choose with whom they share their bodies, and if they take payment for it, that is their own business. No one can force them without punishment. Women are regarded as equal to men under our law, even within marriage. We are educated alongside our brothers. We run our own homes, we have our own money and we inherit property. And if a husband turns out to be a bad lot, his wife can declare herself divorced from him. I have done this myself.’

This was astounding news. Then: ‘Your men must be very weak!’

‘Not at all. They are big, strapping men, hard of muscle, strong of arm, fierce in war—’

‘Weak of mind, is what I meant.’

Bera laughed. ‘Well, they are but men, and they have their weaknesses, as all men do.’

‘And why did you “divorce” your man?’

So Bera told them the sorry tale of Aran Aransen’s obsession, his greed for treasure, his dream of gold, his love of adventure and the romance of Sanctuary; how he had channelled all their resources – both financial and human – to the construction of his expedition ship. How their son had been lost at sea. How their island had been left undefended. How they had heroically held off their attackers for so long; how her daughter had taken the lives of many raiders; how her own mother had died a stoic death.

There was an awed silence at the end of all this. Then the woman told the same story, at what seemed even greater length, to the rest of those who spoke only Istrian; and soon they all had something to say.

The first woman tapped her chest. ‘Felena,’ she explained. ‘Felena Taro. My father gave me to his brother and his brother’s friends when I was twelve. They returned frequently, and we ate better after they had gone. Then when I was fifteen he gave me to the Sisters. I dare say he took money for that, too,’ she said darkly. ‘Teria, over there, says she has worshipped Falla with more than three hundred men; so someone must be very rich for all her efforts. Finita has an idiot brother, who can barely make a sum or write two words; yet he has inherited all their family estates, while she was sent to the blocks. And Hana’s father is a lord who lost all his fortune gambling and made her part of his last stake. She was then exchanged with another man for the price of two camels. Two camels!’ Now her voice was shrill with outrage. ‘That is all they think we are worth. If they cannot raise a good bride-price for us, they will take whatever they can lay hands on, and care nothing for our welfare. In some parts of the country – in the Blue Woods and the Skarn Mountains – baby girls are left out on the hillsides to die, to nourish the wolves and the foxes, they are worth so little.’ She paused. ‘Although there are some men who value their daughters more highly. Finita says the Lady of Cantara’s poor daughter was stolen away by brigands at the Allfair last year, and that that is why her husband – Lord Tycho Issian – has launched this holy war against your people. He does so to bring her back; and to liberate your women from the barbarian practices of the North, to bring
you
back to the Goddess.’

Bera snorted. ‘Barbarian practices, indeed! I think it is the women of Istria who need liberating, not those of the Northern Isles! Besides, this holy lord of yours is the one who tried to have my own daughter, Katla, burned at the Allfair when she brought news of what had really happened to his daughter Selen.’

Now she had their attention. ‘And pray, lady, what happen to her?’ begged another in broken Old Tongue.

‘Why, it was not good northern men who took her! She was raped by the man who was to be her future husband, one Tanto Vingo—’

This elicited hisses and tongue-clickings and a great deal of chatter and more questions asked and answered. Despite the complaints of their handlers, they were still full of fascinated conjecture and lively debate four days later, when the wagon drew into Cantara.

‘Will he never wake up?’

Rahe strode up and down the main cavern in a magnificent huff, every so often stopping to stare down at the prone body of Aran Aranson.