1

The champion of the Bardrachad, a beast of a man, Big Bad Bloody Breargrar the Black, rumbled into battle. 

Breargrar was clad in heavy plate armour, as black as pitch, from the top of his solid iron head to the tip of his tempered steel toes. He swung his massive mace above his head, six-foot long or more, jagged spikes and needle-edged hooks singing while rending the air.

The Draggans were the best warriors the Fenigruin Empire boasted, yet they were no match for Breargrar, not even a score. They surrounded the Bardrachad champion, screeched shrill war cries, attacked with all their might. 

Metal rang on metal like a score of blacksmiths, but their swords hardly scored Breargrar’s breast plate.

Breargrar boomed. Down came his mace on one doomed Draggan. In a great effusion of blood, the warrior’s helmeted head was piled into his chest. 

Another devastating blow sent a ruptured man flailing many yards through the air to lie crumpled, broken, burst.

The rest was brutal, the Draggans were slaughtered. They were valiant warriors, tried to fight, even as their comrades relentlessly fell, they sought no quarter. 

Yet their valour was futile: one by one they were dispatched, disgorged, disembowelled, dismembered. They joined the sprawled steaming corpses, now just mere mounds of ruined flesh. Even the shattered carcasses of armoured horses, as cavalry had also proved useless. 

The Bardrachad champion was yet to break sweat.

Big Bad Bloody Breargrar the Black growled in victory, a growing and prolonged thundering growl directed at the massed elite of the Fenigruin Empire. The Draggans had thought themselves invincible. They were so wrong…

A complete and decisive and epic victory for the Bardrachad.

‘Come all you soft northern scum!’ boomed Breargrar, his dripping mace whirling in a red spray. ‘We are the Bardrachad! We will rend you! We are the Bardrachad! We are the renders, we are death! We are DEATH!’

The ranks of the Bardrachad joined the uproar, a deep and deafening and frankly fearful clamour.

Standing on a ridge, above the carnage, Lord Melkor, Captain of the Draggans, sighed from depth, sighed at the loss of his best warriors, men he had known personally. And more fundamentally sighed at the insurmountable obstacle down there in the gore-filled gully: Big Bad Bloody Breargrar the fucking bastard!

Melkor had not wanted this battle of champions. Notwithstanding, Emperor Constant had agreed, so that the territorial dispute between the Fenigruin Empire and the Bardrachad kingdoms could be resolved. They both claimed the border provinces of Fen and Lamdos. Neither had felt an all-out war advisable. So this battle of champions had been arranged, indeed the Bardrachad were so arrogant that they had chosen Breargrar alone to fight all comers. 

And Breargrar had triumphed.

Melkor had been utterly against the whole notion, even though it seemed to be in their favour, said so forcefully. Emperor Constant, however, followed none but his own council, right or wrong, without heed to logic or reason. And the Emperor had been fully supported by the Xenic Church, even by the Patriarch, who declared the Bardrachad despicable heathens.

Not that that would make any difference: Melkor and the Draggans would be blamed should they lose the provinces. He feared manoeuvres at Court and Church to discredit the Draggans, to discredit him.

So the two armies confronted each other at Duindrax, on the border of Lamdos.

And the intractable problem remained. 

Melkor could not return to Grendell, back to the Court in the capital, without a clear victory. The Emperor was never reasonable. In truth, Melkor’s army was many times more powerful than anything the Bardrachad could muster quickly as their forces were dispersed, yet there was etiquette that must be followed. Melkor could not break his Emperor’s bond. 

Besides they must be seen to defeat Breargrar, to obliterate him. Their power was based on the invincibility of the Draggans, so this was a grievous, perhaps fatal, blow.

Yet Melkor could think of no-one who would be foolish enough to volunteer their services, let alone then go on to win.

He peered at his fluttering standard, the sigil of the Draggans, a black rampant dragon on a field of crimson. 

Then he looked across the valley to the lines of Bardrachad warriors, clashing their weapons against their shields. Breargrar was strutting around the field. He lifted a mangled body above his head as a trophy.

Melkor cursed long and hard, entered his tent, having seen enough, having seen too much! He slumped down at the table, studied a map for no good reason. He needed a plan, he needed time to think. He did not want his men to see him indecisive, helpless, hapless. Retreat was unthinkable. Provoke a battle? Followed by a war? Potentially disastrous, especially for his career, maybe that would even cost him his life. And then his family’s.

What was he to do?

No plan came to mind. 

He needed to end Breargrar, now! 

But how?

He rapped the table with his knuckle in painful frustration.

Melkor’s lieutenant, Tartuk, a tall dark fellow, clad in sable armour emblazoned by a silver dragon, fumed into the tent.

‘Damn that bastard!’ he spat. ‘And damn the fucking Emperor! Those were our best lads. Survived the siege at Grimsduin. Fought all over. To die like that! And then to be paraded by that bastard, as if to be mounted on a wall. Fuck the Emperor! I say we should attack. Now! We can say they broke the truce. Who is to say otherwise!’

‘Softly, my friend,’ said Melkor with a sigh, not looking up. ‘Not all our staff can be trusted. And we cannot attack without a direct order. And that we will never get.’

A warrior, one of Melkor’s close guard, came in. 

‘Lord, there is someone here to see you,’ he said, softly.

‘That will be the Bardrachad come to gloat,’ predicted Tartuk.

‘No, lord,’ said the man a little hesitantly. ‘A… a lady. She says she has a proposal.’

Melkor snapped. ‘Why are you bothering me with this, Grimward! Have the fucking bitch flogged. Or strip her and throw her to the men! This is really not the time!’

‘As you wish, lord,’ replied the guard uncertainly, looking away, then wide-eyed at Tartuk. ‘She did say she comes with a proposal, from the, ah, Sisterhood.’

‘The Sisterhood?’ murmured Tartuk.

‘Yes, lord, the Sisterhood. Part of the mercenary company under Lord Udun. Newly arrived, so I heard.’

Melkor ground his teeth, leapt to his feet. ‘Have her flogged to the bone!’ he grated. He hated mercenaries and their sluts, though he was actually aware of the notorious Sisterhood, even if he pretended not to be. ‘I do not fucking care if she is the seventh reincarnation of the fucking D-Harna messiah! Flog her naked through the ranks! Stinking fucking Sisterhood!’ 

The guard made to leave, to carry out the order, though reluctantly, until Tartuk stopped him. 

Tartuk licked his lips, then said, ‘The Sisterhood assassinated Drogma, you know the treacherous Count of Dandamata. Slipped into his castle — nobody knows just how — slew him in his bed, took his head. They say Drogma’s wife did not hear anything, woke the next morning and found herself spooning his headless corpse.’

‘Hmm,’ mused Melkor tugging, even tearing at his beard. ‘Yes, I remember now. Though I was told that Drogma’s wife hated him and all the Sisterhood did was to pay her to kill him and then throw his head from the window. They split the prize.’ 

‘What they did does not really matter,’ said Tartuk. ‘What is important is that they did do it. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t have this lady flogged or stripped or mistreated or we will have the Sisterhood after us — and we have more than enough problems. Toe-curling accounts of them are legion, and they are, without equal, the worst — or maybe the best — bastards in all Eastern Empire.’

‘Very well, Tartuk!’ said Melkor, mastering himself, and perhaps even a little curious. ‘Be it on your own head!’

The guard went out, ushered in a young woman.

Melkor looked at her closely with an unfriendly eye or two. 

The young woman was about thirty: tall enough, slender enough, pretty enough, and trashy enough, of course. 

In this there was nothing to distinguish her from the countless slaves, slatterns, camp girls, whores, runaways and captives in the Draggan camp, other than — he reluctantly admitted — his visitor was quite alluring, even when studied critically. She was clad in a plain though slightly ragged grey dress, low-cut and clinging, rather shorter in the skirt than practical. Her hair was dark, tied back, showing an elegant pale neck. Around her lissom waist was a plain belt on which hung a long dagger in a gaudy sparkling bejewelled scabbard.

Nothing remarkable at all, thought Melkor darkly. 

Yet, for all that, she was, indeed she was quite…

Tartuk stood up straight, removed the scowl form his dark features, smiled warmly. 

Then Lord Melkor, for no reason he could afterwards recall, took a step backwards, then another, in retreat. He shook his head at himself.

The young woman grinned at them, grinned in that easy, overtly aggressive way that many of her class did — when they were backed up by a vicious band of cutthroats.

‘I represent my friends,’ she said, ‘who are known as, I believe you just discussed, the Sisterhood.’ She confronted Melkor, mockingly. ‘I am glad you decided not to have me flogged or stripped or paraded naked, Captain Milkier. Would have been harsh given I have a plan that may save your worthless hide and this whole campaign, that will return you to the favour of our glorious Emperor. 

‘Though,’ she added brightly, ‘to be fair, I should caution that if you did anything to me at all, they would skin you and your whole stinking army of Draggans, if needs be, then feed your innards to the dogs. If you believe Big Bad Bleeding Barbiegrar the Black is bad then you have never met us!’

Melkor opened his mouth. 

Was that supposed to frighten him? Was this what it had come to? That whores could talk to him, to Lord Melkor an Abram, the renowned Captain of the Draggans, leader of the most feared army in the known world, so freely. That bastard Bardrachad could slay his best men with impunity, and now this bitch could wantonly berate him! 

He was quite speechless.

Tartuk was also silent for a moment, then recovered more quickly and grinned: partly in admiration of her, partly at his captain’s strangled response, partly to lighten the mood. 

Lord Melkor had gone white, then quickly puce. Tartuk, however, loved bold women.

‘Would you like to sit, lady?’ he said, offering her Melkor’s chair.

‘No, I am fine,’ she replied, peered at the Captain, her eyebrows raised. ‘I will stand.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Tartuk when Melkor could still say nothing.

‘You may call me Slim,’ she said to him. ‘That’s what my intimate friends call me.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Tartuk. ‘Forgive the Captain, he has had a difficult morning.’

Melkor shook his head slowly from side to side. His wrath had almost conquered him: he was about to explode all over Tartuk and Slim.

The young woman, Slim, chose that very moment to smile at him, a fleeting yet enchanting expression dancing in her grey eyes, lighting up her face. 

Despite himself, despite the trials of the day, despite the miserable situation, despite his men who lay dead, despite Breargrar and the whole damned fucking Bardrachad army, he unbidden was captivated and before he could stop himself he responded and smiled back. 

His fury was soothed, at least for now.

‘So, what do you say, Captain Milkier?’ she said again, holding his gaze, he looked away first.

‘Captain Melkor,’ chided Tartuk.

‘Whoever,’ said the young woman.

Melkor sighed, slumped down in his chair, could not look at her as she had bested him. ‘What is your proposal?’

He could always have her properly dealt with, later, if he so chose.

Slim said: ‘We, the Sisterhood, will rid you of the champion of the Bardrachad, Big Bad Bleeding Barbiegrar, or whatever the dude is called. But we will need well paid.’

‘Rid us of?’ asked Melkor.

‘Kill,’ she said shortly. ‘Slay, murder, eliminate, exter…’

‘All right,’ said Melkor with a frown, ‘I get it.’

‘I don’t think you have anything to lose,’ said Slim, casting her gaze around his tent, her eyes briefly caressing a gold goblet. ‘After all, Captain, this is not going to cost you anything should we fail, just the lives of seven no-account fellows. In fact, you may even gain yourself a new girl…’ She shimmied at him, shoulders back, chest forward. ‘That would suit me well enough: fewer beasts to service and satisfy.’

‘What is this going to cost us?’ asked Tartuk, beguiled.

‘Well, Tarty, two hundred gold pieces…’ she began.

‘That is truly preposterous,’ said Melkor.

‘Ah. Two hundred each,’ she said, more forcefully, ‘including for me. Sixteen hundred gold in total.’

Melkor’s face hardened. ‘That is a fortune…’

This time the lady interrupted.

‘How much will it cost you,’ she mused, ‘if you return to the Emperor and inform him what you have lost? You have been a loyal servant yet what good will that do? The Emperor is wont to forget his loyal servants for his latest favourite at court: any girl or boy to shake their initially decorously tight and then welcomingly slack little tush.’

A silence, that lengthened.

‘Point taken,’ said Tartuk at last. ‘Captain?’

Melkor hesitated for a moment more, then suddenly came to a decision, nodded. Haste was needed, he had to do something, anything. A plan, if not one to his liking. He considered haggling, then thought better of that, that would simply cause delay and he was not sure he would ever prevail against this succubus bitch of a woman. They had gold. And a fortune in gold would be worth every piece to eliminate Breargrar, and secure the provinces.

Melkor tilted his head very slightly.

‘By the way, Lord Milkier, if you renege,’ said Slim with a sparkle, ‘they really will skin you.’

Melkor sighed.

Slim and Tartuk exchanged smiles.

She said, ‘I will go now, and return presently. This should not take long. You want this done immediately, I suppose, now, in fact.’

In a flap of the tent she swept out.

‘Are they really that good?’ asked Melkor in a bleak voice. ‘So much better than us?’

‘Well, Captain,’ said Tartuk, ‘I suspect that depends what you mean by better. What you should be asking is are the Sisterhood filthier… We fight by the rules, even if we don’t mean to, the Sisterhood don’t. They see a complex problem and simply exterminate it. If I was Breargrar, I would run for my own sweet life.’ Tartuk grinned.

Melkor looked at him.

Slim re-entered the tent. ‘Come,’ she ordered then disappeared outside.

Melkor sighed, looking at his officers, shaking his head. Tartuk laughed, slapped his superior on the back.

They left the tent as instructed.

Slim greeted them. Behind her were six men and one woman, all of them heavily armed and armoured, wearing helmets, visors down. No device or emblem was on their breasts or shields, other than a white circle painted on the front of their helmets, another on their backs. Two of the biggest of the party were armed with heavy hammers shaped like pickaxes, while the company also carried sacks, lengths of chain and a couple of casks. 

The Sisterhood, in all their unburnished glory.

‘Do we have a deal?’ asked one of the men, his voice muffled.

Melkor nodded. ‘Sixteen-hundred gold pieces,’ he said, ‘for the head of Breargrar.’

The man peered at Slim, she flashed him a smile.

‘That will do nicely,’ he said. ‘Though you may have to settle for his whole corpse, hacking off his head may be a tad pointless after we’re finished. We will do what we can. Presumably as long as he is dead you will be content?’

‘His lifeless corpse will suffice,’ said Melkor, his eyes narrowed.

The man nodded. ‘Any rules?’ he asked. ‘We would not want to break your chivalrous code.’

‘No, no rules,’ said Melkor darkly. ‘I want that bastard dead, I do not care how!’

‘Excellent,’ said the man, ‘that’s what we like: a free hand. Then we will get to work.’

The seven of them trotted off down the hill, while Slim stayed with Melkor and Tartuk.

Tartuk took her arm, she wrapped herself around him, as they went to the edge of the ridge to get a better view.

‘So who are the Sisterhood?’ Tartuk asked.

‘We are as you have seen,’ she said.

‘You are one of them?’

‘Oh yes, these five years now. Longer probably, you lose track. Many years. A lifetime. I don’t do any of the fighting, of course. I am a lover, not a fighter, I love them all.’

Tartuk peered at her to confirm what he surmised from that, she raised an eyebrow.

‘Why are you called the Sisterhood?’ he said.

‘The name is supposed to be an insult,’ she replied, shielding the sun from her eyes. ‘The dicks in the camps say that we are old women, from a nunnery or a convent or a house of sisters, we are too soft and kind to girls and lads and children and old people and dandies, the sick and the needy, so they call us the Sisterhood.’

Melkor snorted. Whatever faults the Sisterhood possessed, softness, kindness or charity did not feature.

‘True, you know,’ said Slim softly. ‘Perhaps says more about the rest of mankind than us!’

‘Quite,’ said Tartuk, and pointed. ‘Is that a woman there?’

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘You will meet nobody better with a sword.’

Melkor stirred. ‘Surely,’ he muttered, ‘they don’t mean to fight that son of a bitch with swords?’

Slim turned to him, squeezed his arm, laughed. ‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Watch and learn, my friend.’

Melkor sneered, though his sour expression only amused her.

The Sisterhood continued down the hill until they confronted Breargrar. They stood in a well-spaced row, then in unison bowed down and greeted him cordially.

‘Mr Breargrar, we salute you and all your noble countrymen. You are a formidable fellow and your deeds are already renowned.’

And that momentarily flummoxed Breargrar, as well as the Bardrachad forces behind him. 

Silence fell.

‘We salute you,’ the Sisterhood continued, ‘and all your doughty comrades, but must respectfully beseech that you immediately surrender.’

Breargrar was silent. 

His countrymen were silent.

The hillside was silent.

‘Please,’ implored the Sisterhood, ‘this will be so much more pleasant for you, for all of us, if you surrender swiftly and unconditionally. We of the Fenigruin Empire are not cruel. So I beg you: please surrender so we can resolve this unfortunate dispute over worthless lands, indeed wasted territories neither of us will ever covet, with a handshake and a nice roast dinner with a glass or two of our finest wine.’

The champion of the Bardrachad suddenly stirred, stirred indeed, finally boomed with laughter, while the forces on his side mocked and jeered deafeningly.

‘Prepare to die!’ growled Breargrar. 

Not one for long or complex conversations or thoughts, Breargrar leapt forward. ‘Die, you soft northern scum!’ 

‘As you will,’ said the man and bowed one last time.

Breargrar aimed a murderous blow, though the man stepped aside and the mace went wide and hit the ground with a mighty thud that reverberated all the way up to where Slim and the others watched.

The Sisterhood scattered. The two largest faced the armoured giant yet did not engage him, they merely kept him occupied, each taking turns to taunt or confront or distract him. 

The others took clay flasks from their sacks, began to throw them at the Bardrachad champion’s head.

At first Breargrar laughed as they shattered: how could these flimsy things hurt him? Then one broke against his visor, drops of liquid splattered against his face. 

For a moment he grinned, the liquid was orange juice. Another flask shattered, juice went into his open eyes. The pain was excruciating, his eyes streamed, he could not see. He blundered about, flailing with his mace.

More flasks cracked over him, these filled with lamp oil. Then the Sisterhood began to light the flasks. Several missed as Breargrar blustered, swinging blindly, in absolute desperation. 

Then one flask hit square and his helmet burst into flames, the oil seeping through the holes and ventilation slits, dripping onto his face and lips, into his eyes and nostrils.

He screamed in agony, flung away his mace, clawed at his helmet, but there was no way that he could remove it by himself, no way that he could get the burning oil from his face.

Part of Breargrar’s brain registered the rattle of chains. Suddenly he felt his ankles and knees clamped together. He toppled, crashing to the ground, brought down on his back. He tried to roll over. Then he felt something heavy smash on his head, a whoosh of flame, a searing heat. He was fried inside his armour, his hair in flames within his helmet. 

A cask of oil had been smashed over him, a second followed. 

Inside the armour the flames, the heat, was beyond unbearable, Breargrar tried to scream, the smell of his own scalding flesh and burning hair tearing his nostrils. The fiery liquid filled his mouth as he fought for air, his lungs were engulfed. He made one last mighty effort to heave himself up, then collapsed again. 

A horrible retching came from within his helmet, shuddering for what seemed an eternity. Then the Bardrachad champion lay still with a last huge sigh of smoking breath.

The oil burnt out, leaving the black, scorched, armoured corpse along with the smell of roasting meat. 

The Sisterhood were nothing if not thorough, though. 

Using the large weapons shaped like pickaxes, they rolled Breargrar onto his front, his corpse still smoking. The two largest of the party excavated a hole in his armour using the hammers, until his back was a red sodden ruin of mangled armour, muscle, organs and ribs, and they ripped out his heart with a spike. Without exactly having the right tools, they then also removed his head, an extremely crude and messy business.

Bag Bad Bloody Breargrar the Black was, without any doubt, rather dead.

Both armies were stunned, a long silence followed.

All had happened so quickly.

Then there were wails and groans from the Bardrachad, cheers from the Draggans, growing louder and louder.

The Sisterhood admired their handiwork, then made their way back up the hill to where Melkor, Tartuk and Slim waited. They brought the mangled head still in helmet with them.

‘That will be sixteen-hundred gold pieces,’ said one of the Sisterhood, as they passed, dropping the oozing head. Smoke still wafted from the visor.

The Sisterhood did not tarry, they strode away, Slim made to join them. Melkor’s army divided, partly in admiration at what they had done, partly in awe at their brutality.

‘We will collect the gold tonight,’ said the young woman. ‘Alas that I am not to become your girl this time! Until tonight, my friends. Farewell, Milkier, farewell, Tarty.’

Melkor sighed. ‘Maybe next time,’ he said to her tightly, ‘perhaps even tonight, I will have you hung naked from the flagpole. Just for my own entertainment, you understand.’

‘Oh Captain,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘I would do so much more just for your own entertainment, naked and eager, for your pleasure, your delectation, straddling your own stout flagpole. Are there no country games you would rather play?’

Then she was gone.

‘Oh well, problem solved,’ said Tartuk merrily, watching the interesting curve of her bottom as she strode away. ‘So endeth Big Bad Bloody Breargrar the Black, Champion of the Bardrachad.’ He patted the charred head affectionately.

The army on the other side of the valley had begun to disband and withdraw, while the Draggans went down the hill to inspect the still steaming remains of Breargrar and to retrieve the corpses of their comrades. 

The standard of the Draggans danced rampant again in the breeze. 

‘Yes, problem solved,’ said Melkor. ‘And we have the Sisterhood to thank.’ He did not sound very grateful.

‘One thing does occur,’ said his lieutenant.

‘What?’ sighed Melkor, turning away, making his way back to his tent. 

Tartuk looked over the where the Sisterhood had disappeared into the camp.

‘You really would not want that lot as enemies,’ he said.

2

A day like any other, except sunnier than most.

Raechil stirred from her deep sleep, unhurried, refreshed and joyous, as she did every morning, emerging from a forgotten pleasant dream or just contented oblivion. 

Gradually she awoke properly and came to, stretched, removed strands of hair that had strayed into her eyes. 

And slowly but relentlessly the joy of the new day bled away. 

After all, joy was sin and Raechil did not want to be sinful.

A beautiful peaceful morning was dawning, sunlight streaming in through the spaces between the slats of the shutters, slipping between the black iron bars. 

She lay for a moment more, trying to ignore the outside, waiting for the bell to ring, the first call to prayers. She usually woke just a few minutes before. Then her father would unlock the door. Her slave would come in and Raechil would need to rise, wash and dress, then go down to the family chapel — and to breakfast. 

But the bell did not ring. 

She must have woken early.

Rolling over, Raechil sat up and then suddenly sprang out of bed, bounding to the window, peering out into the golden glare. The green and yellow and golden fields rolled off in every direction, large tracts with many slaves at work, even at this innocent hour. Beyond were groves of olive and orange trees, further away woods and copses in the haze. 

She watched the slaves for a short while, weeding or digging or clearing out irrigation ditches or tending the groves, all done so quietly as this hour. Then she yawned and turned, sat back down on the bed, returned to gloom.

She was ready for the bell, contented sleep had been chased away. Her room was dull and dreary in comparison to the dazzling morning, though she dare not open the shutters. That was not permitted in case a slave, a man, anyone, should see her, observe her, sully her.

The walls of her tight chamber were bare and whitewashed, monotony only broken by black wooden panels. 

The one over her bed her once screamed, 

YOU GROW IN SIN EVERYDAY

How could that be? she used to wonder, when she still took heed.

REDEMPTION IS GAINED ONLY THROUGH VIRTUE AND CHASTITY

That one was all right: Raechil had never been anything but virtuous and chaste.

LIVE WITHOUT PAIN, DIE WITHOUT SALVATION, and DEATH AND HELL ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU

She loathed those two.

THE ESKASSKA ALONE WILL BE SAVED

But why only us? she could have asked her father, or the priest, if she had wanted a thrashing. 

The words were in fiery red, scorching scarlet tongues of hell rebuking her. Everlasting torment! Yet Raechil was not even aware of them: they had always been there, no doubt they always would be. 

Life was to be lived, even her grey dreary life.

The room was sparsely furnished with drab angular furniture, well made yet without ornament, just a hard bed, a washstand, a table, on top of which was a sewing box, an uncomfortable chair, a small altar with a large book beneath, a chamber pot. She did not need to relieve herself. The floor was laid with bare stone flagstones that were so cold in the winter yet a delight to bare feet on hot days.

So dull, though, waiting like this. 

She stood up and peered at the door, as if to will the bell to ring, her slave to enter. Then she hesitated, her eyes sparkled: was that an attempt at witchcraft? To wish that, to wish an unnecessary favour, would that be sorcery? A malign manipulation of the One True God’s creation? She shook her head slightly. Cleared her mind. No such trivial wishes should be made, even in jest.

Raechil would have been content to dress herself, but the Caucus had decreed, only a month or so before, that dressing was work and only slaves worked. 

Raechil, along with the members of her family, was one of the Chosen, the Eskasska, so they did no work, she certainly did no manual work. Only poor people and slaves worked. 

Slaves had no souls, black folk and slaves had no souls. They did not go to church. And they did not go to Miasmar, to Paradise, when they died. Raechil would go to Miasmar, if she was redeemed and led an exemplary life — for she was Chosen, God’s Chosen. 

Her mind wandered.

She wondered what she could do in Paradise, what anyone did in Paradise… was it like life on Earth only with joy and smiling and not having to wear the Constract and getting to eat honey when you wanted. Or was it just the same… if so, why would anyone want to go there? The priest preached a lot about Hell and rules and scripture, yet never had much to say about how you passed eternity in Heaven. 

Maybe they would get to eat honey straight from the comb. Raechil had once done so. Her mother had decided that was diabolically sinful. Had that made the honey even sweeter?

Raechil was hungry.

Someone clattered down the corridor outside and, though they did not stop, the noise broke her musings. She went and retrieved the large thick book, her Bible, the Holk an Harnakos, the ‘Word of God’, from the shelf beneath the altar, placing the tome beside her on the bed. She opened a page at random, in case her father or mother entered unexpectedly. 

She was so bored. 

Her stomach rumbled. She wanted to go down to breakfast, though that would not be until after they had prayed together. Then the priest would finish with the sermon, she hoped that would be short.

Raechil wiggled her nose. Her mother had told her to read the Holk an Harnakos and to pray and to contemplate during any spare moments. Her parents seemed very certain what the Holy Book proclaimed. Raechil, who actually knew the texts so very well, was never certain how they could be so sure. At least a modicum of happiness and contentment was in the Holk, as well as punishment and death and torment.

She needed to contemplate to be able to confess and to repent, of course. Her mother believed that Raechil always needed to confess, everyone needed to confess. 

Raechil found this difficult, difficult to find misdemeanours serious enough to warrant confession, yet without being wicked enough to merit proper punishment. 

She had not, to her knowledge, ever done anything that needed serious repenting and confession, not since she was young, and even then only childish naughtiness — and then only because her younger sister had told on her.

Forbidden cherries, so delicious then so painful.

A valuable lesson learned, though.

To avoid being punished, do not get caught.

That would never be one of the sayings on the walls.

Raechil was so looking forward to breakfast.

And then Raechil had whiled away many happy hours as a younger child throwing rocks at what were eventually elaborate targets, skimming stones clear across the widest pool of the burn, then shooting a home-made bow, fashioned from a yew branch and double shoelace with sharpened sticks as arrows, a hunter stalking the woods. 

For days and weeks and months that was all she did in free moments: aiming, throwing, shooting and casting, quietly, discreetly, trying not to attract attention. 

After all, she had no contact with anybody. She became quite skilled and accurate with all sorts of missiles, until her parents found out. Raechil suspected her sister had informed again. The priest was consulted and that was the end of her time outdoors, Raechil was strictly confined to the house. 

She was still not sure what justified that in scripture…

Had they decided that the enjoyment Raechil got was sinful? Or was it just the act of throwing rocks? But then she had on occasion to stone people, stone them to death, to bloody ruin. Casting rocks accurately was not banned, when they were designed to kill. Very confusing and decidedly odd! Presumably if she had not liked throwing rocks, skimming stones or shooting her bow she would have been permitted to continue. 

So if she enjoyed stoning people would she be ordered to stop that?

Confessions were supposed to be confidential, though Raechil did not trust or like the priest, suspected he told her father, so she kept her confessions simple and trivial and only broke the most minor of the rules or Periapts. Commandments, of course, must never be broken, especially when confessing.

So many rules and Periapts and Commandments in the Holk an Harnakos, the infallible holy book, as well as so many interpretations by the Caucus of what was meant by all these.

Indeed, she had no idea why they were called Periapts, Precepts perhaps, but surely not periapts…

Quite clearly a mistake, though one that was never admitted or corrected.

The One True God Harnakos help her, as she was so hungry, confused and bored…

3

Slim sat by the large fire, well content with life, well mostly, lying back against a tree trunk, her head cushioned by a mound of sweet-scented needles. She was too hot where she lay though she did not care. 

This has been a very good day, she thought, and she wanted to savour their success, well her success, fully. Beside her was a gold goblet, which she had “borrowed” from Melkor’s tent: a working girl had to make her fortune when opportunity presented. The goblet was full of an excellent red wine, also unintentionally provided by the Captain of the Draggans. The last mouthful had caressed Slim’s throat, was sending delightful warmth from her stomach.

The quiet dark fell about them now, except for the crackle of flames lighting up the clearing and the enclosing trees. Slim watched shadows dance and caper through the branches. The night was peaceful, her companions were still busy making camp and gathering firewood, while Chae and Sibil were hunting or foraging. Nearby she could hear running water from a river, as well as the sound of large animals shifting in the undergrowth: the ponies had been unsaddled, and those — and even her unnerving horse — were being allowed to wander.

This camp was a mere bivouac, a resting place they had chosen on their way back to the main camp, still many days away. That camp, currently at Hargranok near Tarthesius in Eastern Empire, was busy and boisterous, with hangers on, camp girls, floozies, dandies, runaways, bairns and old people coming and going, fighting and loving, living and dying, all done noisily and in a whirl of people. 

Slim was glad of the quiet, content to have the Sisterhood to herself. And yet, and yet at the same time, she was aware that there was something new in the air. They were plotting and keeping their schemes to themselves. Something she would not like. But what? That troubled her. She would tackle Brimsaga when she got a chance, he was too straightforward a character to lie well. 

And then there was all that gold, that troubled her too.

Beside her was the chest, in that chest was the sixteen-hundred pieces of shimmering gold. Slim had never envisaged such wealth in one place: her share alone was two hundred gold pieces, more money than most people could, or would, earn in many lifetimes. And she had acquired that fortune in a few minutes. The top of the chest was open, the gold glinted in the firelight. From time to time, Slim gazed at the glow to confirm the gold was real. 

When she was ten or so years old, she had been sold to a brothel, sold for one silver penny. The value of the gold in the chest equated to about sixteen thousand times that: sixteen thousand Slims.

The others were pleased. They had all discussed the fee for the slaying of Black Breargrar on the way to Duindrax, during the long ride from their main camp, had agreed a price of one-thousand pieces to put to Melkor and the Draggans. Slim had been chosen to negotiate with Melkor and, by herself, had decided to ask for more. So she had earned them an extra six hundred gold pieces. To be honest, she had never thought that he would agree, but she also knew she was good, very good, and she had played well, played Melkor and Tartuk well. She played most men well.

The Sisterhood had got the gold without a hitch, had left the Fenigruin army that same evening: sixteen-hundred gold pieces seemed too big a temptation for an army of brigands and mercenaries, not to mention the regular troops, that comprised the Empire’s forces. Melkor had given payment over without comment, seemed content with the outcome, though he had frowned at Slim. She did not care.

She wondered if he had discovered his precious goblet was gone.

Slim liked Melkor and his lieutenant Tartuk, she liked anyone who gave her that much gold and a priceless goblet. And she liked their wine.

The Sisterhood had ridden north and west after leaving Duindrax, all afternoon and well into the night. They were now over the border into the province of Fen and were halfway to the port of Fenmarch and the ferry across the Syrad River, also known as the Merse Water, then on to Hargranok. Sibil had scouted ahead, while Chaegurd and Viksgald had hung back to ensure that they were not being followed. 

As full darkness settled, they had turned aside from the road and were deep into the woods that stretched away east to darker hills. Presumably the brutal and efficient way that they had dealt with the Bardrachad champion had dissuaded any from attempting to pursue or to rob them. A watch would be set anyhow.

Slim did not care. Leave that to others.

She looked round as they set up camp, sipping her wine, she studied the Sisterhood.

Duinglas was chopping wood with a huge axe, splitting thick logs as if they were twigs. He was the eldest of the Sisterhood, was well into his fifth decade, he might have even been over fifty. He was a tall, heavily built warrior, thick about the waist, balding and with a greying beard. She liked Duinglas: he was gentle and he never got angry with her. He never said all that much, but he was shrewd and unusually perceptive — for a man. 

Helping him was Brimsaga, usually known as Brims, another massive warrior, who had taken off his armour and was stripped to the waist. He was younger and thinner than Duinglas, though he was just as powerful and muscular, clean shaven with a mane of black hair, the tallest of the company. Slim was fond of him too. He was trusting and naive, was possibly one of the simplest men she had ever met.

Both Duinglas and Brimsaga were fearsome when riled or in battle, so it was as well they were difficult to provoke.

Foldric was collecting the firewood and stacking it neatly, away from the fire. He, too, was younger than Duinglas, yet his face was deeply lined, more by care than age, he looked frail in comparison to his two doughty companions. He also had taken off his armour and wore a once colourful, now tattered, tabard and breeks, and high boots. As always, the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Foldric had nightmares every night, so terrifying that he would wake up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat. Yet he was a brave man for all that. Slim had a soft spot for him, admired him, she was very fond of him.

Zala was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, slightly apart from the others, oiling and whetting the thin blade of her sword. She was a slight figure in comparison to the men, and wore light leather armour, her sword arm, only, protected by chain mail and iron bands. She had removed her helmet. Zala was a plain woman, with narrow eyes and spare lips. Slim smiled: the only heavy thing about Zala was her eyebrows. They rarely talked, Zala never talked to anyone, except occasionally to Foldric. She was freer with her body than she was with her words. Slim liked the way that Zala touched and kissed her, she liked Zala.

A little further away and in the trees was Sibil digging a latrine with a spade. Sibil was dark in nature and appearance, dark hair, dark eyes, dark beard, dark armour, dark character, dark, and as slippery as a snake. Once he had had a proper name, as Sibil was just a nickname, though that was no longer remembered, even by him. He stabbed the spade into the ground, each blow spare yet precise, like the dart of a serpent. He was a thin wiry man, who like the rest said little but was continually on the move, not nervous but restless. And she liked him, liked him a lot.

A rustle in the trees, and Viksgald appeared, carrying a small deer, which he had shot. He was broad and muscular, not particularly tall, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee beard and moustache, a vain man who spent far more time on his appearance than Slim ever spent on hers. He was also the only warrior (and she had seen many hundreds naked) who had no scars, not on his front, not on his back, not anywhere. He moved with purpose, usually hot and violent purpose, even with tasks as mundane as shaving or eating or just walking. Best not to get in his way, best not to be the unwilling object of his affections. She was glad that he liked her, so she was very fond of him.

He began to clean and trim the carcass, soon had parts roasting over the fire. The smell made Slim hungry.

Chaegurd had gone to the river to fish, and had not returned. Slim liked Chae the best most of the time, although she was easy and shifting with her affection, often found the person she was with was her favourite. Chae was a strange solitary man, who sought his own company. In contrast to Viksgald, Chaegurd had more scars and old wounds than anyone Slim had met, Chae’s body was covered with them, from head to foot. When she ran her hands fingers over him, his skin was pitted and lined and rough to the touch. Scars on the scars on the scars. She loved the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, though he could be disturbingly cold and ruthless and empty.

The others of the Sisterhood finished what they were doing, and then sat around the fire, drinking wine though with no conversation. They ate venison from skewers and bread and other food.

Slim ate nothing, just supped her wine and waited in anticipation for it to begin.

Brimsaga came over to Slim, taking her in his arms and moving her to a flat space away from the fire. Zala kissed her on the mouth and the neck and the shoulders, and then pulled off her dress.

Slim lay naked beneath her, submissive and responsive. 

This was her role, her job, her life.

And, as before, so many times before, she was fucked, fucked repeatedly. 

She was not sure by who…

4 

Raechil sighed ever so softly, even though there was nobody to hear.

So many incomprehensible rules.

So many, that these had been collected into a large volume, known as the Periapts of the D-Harna, which was still growing with new appendices added month by month. Some Commandments were Periapts, yet none of the Periapts were Commandments. 

The book, well books, of the Periapts were not available for consultation, except by priests, and Raechil did wonder, when she was feeling a mite rebellious, that a number of the Periapts actually contradicted the infallible teachings in the Holk an Harnakos.

Likely she was currently breaking one now. Her mother never failed to find fault. And her mother thought that Raechil was pretty — too pretty — described her appearance, more specifically her mouth, as lustful, lewd, even carnal. 

Raechil remembered another of the flaming panels: 

CHARM IS DECEITFUL AND BEAUTY IS VAIN, ONLY A WOMAN WHO FEARS THE LORD IS TO BE PRAISED.

Raechil did not understand that one for did not Harnakos fashion charm and beauty, then with those attributes endow his own creations? 

Her mother had told her in righteous dismay that Raechil had ‘the lips of a girl who liked a man.’ Raechil, of course, had never actually seen her own face or mouth or lips, as mirrors were one of the many banned items. 

And she had never liked any man that way. 

Could you, Raechil wondered, be pretty and modest… lustful and lewd and carnal around the mouth, yet still modest and chaste and goodly? 

Perhaps modesty was the rule, or one of the rules, she was currently flouting. She was only dressed in the Constract, a leather undergarment, which she quietly, silently, violently detested. The Constract was uncomfortable, made her sweat, made her smelly, made her skin wrinkle and flake and go unnaturally pale in hot weather. The garment covered her shoulders, upper arms, and torso, and also her buttocks and between her legs, where the leather made her itch. Only two small holes through which to micturate and to defecate. 

The Constract was a chastity garment, worn only by her sect, or by the young woman, anyway, the D-Harna denomination of the much more popular Xenic religion. Straps wound round to her back, where there were four metal locks. Her father had two of the keys, her mother two. 

This was ridiculous, then so many things were: perhaps she would understand when she was older. Perhaps she would not…

Though she loathed the Constract, Raechil knew this was an important part of her faith. She had to be beyond pure and innocent and untouched. And Raechil was in her heart and soul and body pure and innocent and untouched.

Of course, and quite impossible in her case, to have a child out of wedlock would be to damn that soul to Hell and damnation. And herself too, of course. To a righteous good stoning. Had the priest not told her often, ‘A bastard shall not enter into the house of the One True God, even to the seventh generation.’

She could not see the need for the Constract, she was never with any men or even boys, so how was her chastity at risk? And she wanted no physical contact with any male. 

Yet, in truth and despite that, how could any baby be blamed for its conception? 

The only time she could remove the garment was when she bathed, which she was only allowed to do every few days, or daily when she was menstruating. 

And then, of course, when she was married. Then her husband would be given the keys — Simion would be given the keys — and the Constract could be peeled off any time he wished. That made her shudder, truly shudder.

Her bare arms and legs did show, while her hair was loose about her shoulders, so perhaps she breached the Periapt on modesty. Or was it a rule on modesty. She knew that not being naked was not a Commandment. 

Although there was nobody to see her in this half-dressed fashion with her head uncovered. Did modesty count if there was nobody to see? After all, you were born naked so you could hardly be very modest then. Could she parade naked if there was nobody about? Naked as the day she was born…

She began to smile, slightly, very slightly, just using half her mouth, only a twitching of her lips really. 

Smiling was definitely against the rules.

And the smile died before being given life: Harnakos did not countenance the laughter of the fool! And was not humour an unfitting vessel for true joy?

Raechil was to be married, in fact was betrothed to Simion an Simion, a worthy man, or so her parents declared, who owned a large farm near Matasuk far to the south and east in Dandamata province. He was forty years her senior, had already outlived two wives. 

Raechil did not want to be married to any man, certainly not one as old and harsh as her father, definitely not one as hard and severe as her mother. And she would be cleaved to Simion for ever.

Only death would save her. His death.

The wedding was in a several months’ time, however, when she was eighteen. Then she would have to go through the Paskarl, when they would shave off all her hair — all of her hair! — before her wedding. 

There was more, awful and painful and bloody, though her parents had not told her what. No doubt quite, quite horrible, yet could anything be as horrible as being touched by wrinkled old Simion?

She turned away that hideous thought. 

Perhaps she should pray or contemplate. Contemplate what?

She looked at the altar, then at the Holy Book, then she yawned again and played with her hair. She liked her hair, tresses the colour of copper that fell in soft glossy waves about her shoulders. She did not want her hair cut off and her head shaved, she certainly, definitely, absolutely did not want anyone touching or meddling or shaving her down there. 

She had seen her elder sister, Manta, well, not Manta anymore, now she was known only as Gan Hamgrist, the “wife of Hamgrist”, with her head shaved, on the day of her wedding. Manta looked weird and quite awful, and had cried and cried and cried. And there had been a deluge of blood on her legs, crimson, drenching the skirts of her wedding dress. 

Raechil shivered.

Grim thoughts were profitless. Still months to go before she needed to concern herself about that. Her only comfort…

Raechil had discovered that the best way not to worry about Death, the Paskarl, Hell and being Married to old Simion, was simply not to consider them.

Empty her mind.

Raechil frowned instead. Frowning was allowed by her religion. So she frowned, twirled her hair around her fingers, enjoying the feel. That at least occupied her, although she found a frown much more difficult to maintain than she had imagined, soon her face ached. 

Mayhaps she should practise that more, although her mother never seemed to have any trouble…

She nearly smiled again, quickly looked around to make sure nobody was watching her, despite the chamber being quite gloomily empty.

Only God was there to watch her, and Raechil and Harnakos were actually on excellent terms.

5

A long time later, or so it seemed anyway, Slim became aware. She could hear the fire crackle yet all else was quiet. Opening her eyes, she peered blearily about the camp. She found she was wrapped in a blanket with her dress as a pillow, near but at a safe distance from the fire. 

She stretched and sat up, feeling warm, used, clammy and damp, her neck and hips were stiff, and she ached between her legs, a good ache that. A good ache?

Several of the others were apparently asleep around the fire, also wrapped in blankets. She saw Zala, Viksgald, Sibil and two others. Duinglas was on watch, his wide back to her. She did not think that he had used her, though she was not sure.

She struggled to her feet, wrapping herself in the blanket, he turned to her.

‘You all right, girl?’ he said warmly, handing her the golden goblet, full of wine. He had had it ready for her.

Slim nodded, in a daze. Taking a swig of wine, she swirled it around her mouth, spat it out. She drank again, deeply, this time swallowed and then cast the goblet aside. Duinglas gave her a rag and she wiped herself.

‘Where is Chae?’ she asked softly.

‘By the river, I think,’ replied Duinglas, pointing. ‘I have not seen him tonight.’

She nodded again, smiled wanly, followed his arm into the trees and stumbled off. She could hear moving water, though beyond the light of the fire all was dark. The trail disappeared, at least the river was closer. Then she came out into an open space, lit by the moon, the dark skinkling water of the river flowed past her, the tops of the trees were silver and grey.

‘Chae,’ she called out quietly.

‘Here,’ he said, close by. Then she picked out of the darker shape, a seated man against a bough. She went to him, cast off the blanket and took him in her arms, kissing him and then helping him out of his clothes. His mouth was on hers and they fell on each other, rolling one way and then the other, then with Slim on top. Brief and passionate, the woman came hard, and bit into his shoulder, then slumped down against him. He pushed her down onto her back and enjoyed her, she writhed and moaned beneath him. And then all that was over, and he rolled off her and she lay in his arms, listening to the flow of the river again, her heart pounding in her ears, Chae’s breathing gradually softening.

‘This has been a good day,’ said Slim eventually.

‘Aye’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you join the others?’ she asked him. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I was fishing and thinking, I must have fallen asleep.’

She grunted. Chae spent a lot of time alone, and she knew he was lying for he rarely slept. She wanted to speak to him, felt there was stuff to say, but she did not know what, where to start.

She faltered, then began: ‘Do you think we will stay here tomorrow?’

‘No, I doubt it,’ he replied. ‘The quicker we deposit the gold the better. We will bypass Deargos, head straight for the bank in Tarthesius, that is four days’ ride. I don’t like travelling with this much gold.’

The girl sighed softly.

‘Are you all right, Slim?’ he asked.

‘Yes, very well,’ she said. ‘Weary, though. Tired from riding and being ridden, although the latter is less arduous, quicker, and less sore on your arse. I could do with a night in an expensive inn on a proper bed with a mattress and sheets and blankets and a host of servants to wait on me.’

‘Well, we can certainly afford that now.’

She paused, said: ‘Do you think we will ever settle down?’

He paused too, then said, ‘I was lying here, thinking about that. I think so, I think so, one day soon. If we can get back safely, without being robbed! We will then go west to Alamata in Dandamata province. The Emperor has declared the whole city outlawed, the rumours are that the dispute is about are the tariffs and taxes owed. But Alamata is a strong place with high walls and a powerful navy. There may be opportunities for us. After that, who knows.’

‘I wish we could settle somewhere,’ she said. ‘Just been one adventure after another, travelling all over the Empire, never staying anywhere for more than a few weeks. And let’s face it: we are despised and hated wherever we go. I am fed up with being treated like shit, called a slut and worthless whore. I am so fed up!’ 

Melkor’s attitude to her had rankled, despite everything.

‘Yes,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘I am too. I think we all are. And we’ve been lucky, very lucky. How long can that hold? No, I agree with you, Slim. I think the others do too. We’re riding our luck. Time to get out, find a place to settle down, a refuge.’ 

‘Will you take me with you?’

‘Of course, you are one of us! You are the fourth corner, remember, long before Foldric and Brims and Zal and Sibil and Leah. You know, Slim, we’ve been together for ages, why would we part now?’

Slim felt a wave of anguish, of loss, rise in her.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Chae gently. Slim was usually one of the most stable and unsentimental of women.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied after a pause. ‘I guess I am all mixed up. That kind of day! I was looking at all that gold, so much gold, so much wealth and possibilities and fantasies that can be realised. I was sold for one silver penny. One silver penny! Fifteen years in a whorehouse for one silver penny. The worthless whore, I will always be the worthless whore, no more than a trull for you all.’

‘Slim, your value to me, to all of us, is far greater than the sixteen hundred gold pieces in that chest, greater than all the gold in all of the banks of Tarthesius and Grendell and Syrados, in all of the whole of the rich Fenigruin empire, so much more again. You are one of us, one of the Sisterhood! The only one we all actually like, the only jewel in the dungheap.’

Slim said nothing for a long while. 

‘All dung except your silver tongue,’ she said eventually, with a forced laugh. 

He slapped her behind.

She yawned suddenly. ‘I will go now,’ she told him. ‘I will find Duinglas.’

‘Of course,’ he said and kissed her on the forehead.

She picked up the blanket, and in a moment was gone.

6

Then finally, after what had seemed an eternity, the bell rang three times. 

Raechil quickly took the Holy Book in her arms.

The door of her chamber was soon unlocked by her father, though he did not greet her, he just looked around the door, quickly inspected his daughter and her room to make sure nothing was amiss. 

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Raechil.

He was already gone. 

Presumably all was fine or he would have made some comment.

A maid, a young black slave girl a few years Raechil’s junior, entered, curtsied before her mistress. Raechil nodded ever so slightly. She loved her maid more than anyone in Creation, even if her slave did not have a soul.

No words were spoken. No words were permitted. Indeed, Raechil did not know the girl’s name. If she had to address her, she called her “maid” or “slave”. Slaves had a very tough time, thought Raechil, though at least her maid did not have to wear the Constract, nor did she have to attend services seven times a day, one for each of the Messiahs. 

But then her slave was not going to Heaven. 

Raechil wondered, once again, where black girls went when they died.

She stood up while a basin of fresh cold water and soap was brought to her. She washed herself — the Caucus had decided that washing was not work — as well as she could within the confines of the Constract.

Then the slave brought her dress. The baggy garment was fashioned from a thick fabric, brown in colour, scratchy in texture. Her slave helped her. The dress fitted Raechil like a sack, covered her from her chin to toes, so only her head and her fingers showed. With the dress was a pair of bulky boots, that still looked dainty on Raechil. The garb was hot and heavy to wear, especially when the weather was warm. And this was a fine summer day.

Raechil wondered if she would be allowed to bathe that evening.

  Her dress was completely plain except for an emblem embroidered on the front, the D-Harna Wheel of Life: a circle divided into four quarters, with a smaller circle in the middle. The left quarter of the larger circle was white, the bottom quarter green, the right quarter red, the top quarter black. The small circle in the centre had the representation of a yellow fire, the symbol of Harnakos, the One True God. The white quarter represented innocence, the green quarter growth, the red quarter pain, and the black quarter, with a silver star, death and redemption.

Raechil smoothed the heavy fabric down over her breasts and stomach, picked at a loose stitch, pulling off the thread carefully. She bit a nail which was a little ragged, as her slave tied up her hair, then covered her head in a scarf, so not a single tress or ringlet or strand was visible.

Raechil stood there, ready and eager for the next bell, the signal to go to prayers in the family chapel. 

Finally the peel.

She nodded at her slave with an unconscious and fleeting smile, so brief yet so warm, then left the room. The slave girl watched her go with a silent sigh.

Raechil descended the stairs not too eagerly, carefully entered the chapel. 

Like the rest of the house, the chapel was plain and austere, shorn of embellishment. The far end was raised, a simple altar with the Circle of the D-Harna above it, the only colour in the chamber. No benches or pews were provided: they stood or knelt or prostrated themselves on the hard floor.

The sun streamed in from a high window. Her father and mother were already there, shrouded in black, in gloom, in oppression, solid immoveable shadows in the blazing light. 

Raechil’s father was Garnussil an Gallam, Gallam being the family name. He was a tall, upright individual, well respected in the community, both as a good D-Harna, yet also as a moderate man in all things, at least in comparison to his neighbours, or so he believed. He was notably lenient with slaves, did not believe in stoning of pregnant women for adultery until after they had given birth, while he only beat his own children with his hands as he did not approve of whips or scourges. 

Garnussil was many years older than his wife, had bristling eyebrows that could jut forward in accusation at a moment’s notice. Raechil’s mother, who was simply known as Gan Garnussil, the “wife of Garnussil”, was only slightly less tall and upright than her husband, a thin, wiry woman. She had a face like a hammer, flint chips for eyes. Her face held a permanent furrowed frown, so much so Raechil wondered to herself, occasionally, whether the wind had changed and had left her that way.

Raechil’s younger sister, Cleppa, entered a while after Raechil, looking rushed and slightly dishevelled, a few hairs emerging from her scarf. That earned a flash of anger from her mother, an expression from her father that did not bode well. Raechil was studiously blank: she was relieved that her sister was to be the focus of her parents’ wrath.

The service proceeded as ever. Garnussil was rich enough to afford his own priest, a man who looked like his younger version. Raechil hardly heard his words, making the correct responses when necessary — kneeling or praying or standing or chanting — although she was sensible enough to attend to the thankfully short sermon that ended the ceremony. Invariably her mother or father would make an observation, to ensure that Raechil had been listening.

The service ended, as it always did, with the D-Harna Wheel of Life:

Born in Innocence

Grow in Sin

Live in Pain

Die in Redemption

By the grace of our Lord Harnakos, God of Everything.

Raechil chanted the words, was content. She left the chapel before her parents, for once, as her sister was receiving a flaming dressing-down.

‘I wish you could be more like your sister Raechil!’ said her mother. ‘Or like your eldest sister, who is as good and as dutiful a wife as any of the D-Harna. Or your brothers…’

Cleppa began to protest that her slave girl was at fault, that she had been tardy in arriving that morning, that the Caucus had ordered that she could not dress herself. 

Always a mistake to make an excuse, at least in Raechil’s experience: better to admit any fault and take the consequences without argument. And that would also get Cleppa’s slave beaten. Raechil would not have got her maid punished for her own misdeed.

So her father began a torrent of righteous anger.

Such fury! All over so little…

Raechil winced and hurried away, not even a flicker of a smile on her lips. For Raechil did not completely like or trust her younger sister.

Raechil had learned, learned well, over the years to conform, to do what was needed, however irksome. Things had, however, got worse for Cleppa since she had herself crossed the unruly border into the unexplored realm of adolescence.

Now, at last, time for breakfast…

7

A day like any other, except sunnier than most.

Storm awoke to the sound of somebody approaching. She had slept fitfully, having not eaten since yesterday morning, hunger gnawed her. 

She sprang to her feet, seeing the shopkeeper coming to open up, she had been in his doorway. Not that she had been doing anything except trying to get a little peace.

‘Oi you, scav!’ he shouted as she ran off. ‘I’ll call the guard! If I catch you again!’

Before she turned the corner into another lane, she hitched up her skirt and showed him the pale globes of her buttocks.

‘Why you…’ he began, but by then she had already gone.

Storm made sure she was not followed, then yawned and put her hands to her empty belly. She desperately needed food, so the day’s struggle began again. Things had been bad enough before the blockade of Alamata by the Empire, now things were ten times worse. The price of food had soared, she had seen a loaf of bread sold for a silver piece.

Storm made for the main square of the city to see if any food scraps were being given away by the abbey. Folk were about, though not the crowds there would be later.

The huge edifice of the church loomed darkly against the pale sky, cast a massive shadow over the square in the early morning sun. The front was richly carved with the life-size statues of prophets and martyrs, gaudily painted and gilded with glinting gold. 

Storm had been into the church a few times, remembered an impressive cavernous building adorned with much more greedy gold. Rarely had she ever just sat and stared and smelled, yet she had in that building. Breath-taking! The air was heady with incense and the whole place felt so serene. She was overawed. 

Not that she had been made welcome. One of the monks had followed her around to make sure she was not trying to thieve the candlesticks! He had spoken to the abbey guard, and they had ejected her twice and then threatened her with a beating if she returned. 

For once she had not been up to anything malign so she felt righteous indignation. She remembered a priest once saying that all people were welcomed into the Xenic faith, no matter their circumstances. 

This did not, apparently, extend to Storm.

The food scraps were not, of course, dispensed outside the front of the church — there the poor and destitute might have had to be observed in all their squalor by the wealthy and well to do — but at one of the many ancillary buildings, tucked away around a corner. 

Already a large crowd of beggars, miscreants, paupers, cripples and street children waited. Storm sighed. She could fight as well, if not better, than most, yet there were so many folk. And the scraps were barely edible, not even being fit for pigs.

Nevertheless Storm forced her way to near the front and awaited the monks. A moment of anticipation as the slot opened, and then two baskets were shoved out. They were half full, containing burnt or mouldy bread, half-rotten vegetables and rancid fish heads and bones. 

Storm was desperate, grabbed what she could. She had to consume everything immediately or it would be stolen. She shovelled what she could into her mouth. Even in her famished state, the spoiled food made her gag.

Then in what seemed an instant all was gone, the crowd started to disperse. Storm had got a few mouthfuls, certainly not enough to sustain her, even for the morning. Returning to the square, and already finding the place much busier, she planned her quest for decent food.

She was thirsty, however, eager to wash away the taste of the rank food. Public drinking fountains were dotted throughout the city, and she joined the queue, many people before her. 

After patiently waiting her turn, she was bundled out of the way. A large man loomed, the bodyguard to a rich burgess. The burgess was a grossly fat man with a round face and much gold around his podgy neck.

‘I don’t want you polluting my water, dirty scav,’ the rich burgess slavered at Storm, grinning over her.

He took Storm’s place.

Storm got to her feet, dusted herself off, meekly rejoined the queue. 

The man stooped to drink and opened his mouth. Storm stood right behind him, put one hand behind his head and rammed his face into the stone basin. His teeth were broken, his lips mangled. He screamed in pain and fury, wheeled around, lashing out, his bodyguard flung himself at Storm. 

But she neatly eluded him, darted off into the crowds, no looking back, then just walking, she was soon lost in the warren of alleys. 

Checking carefully in case she was being hunted, she went to another fountain, waited in line, this time drank her fill and then washed her face, then the rest of her body as well as she could beneath her dress, although without soap. Feeling fresher, she wandered away, letting the morning sun dry her off.

Her first port of call was Hensingga, who sold fruit in the market in the square adjoining the abbey. Many stalls and booths supplied almost anything available in the Daldric Isles or, indeed, the Fenigruin Empire, despite the blockade. Prices had not really shot up for anything except food, nor were there any shortages as yet. 

Storm suspected, and many would have agreed, that the high price of food was simply profiteering.

Hensingga was a man in his fifties or sixties, hard-nosed though not unkind, married with a large family. His stall was well stocked with all kinds of fruit and vegetables and roots and herbs, was always busy with customers. He was known to be generous, and he would give away surplus produce beyond its best. Nor did he expect anything in return, not even a grope and a fumble.

In this he was unusual. 

Most inhabitants of the White City of Alamata regarded the beggars and street folk as rats, as cockroaches, as vermin. 

They were constantly moved on and harassed by the city guard. Storm did her best to avoid confrontation. She knew she was a healthy and good-looking girl, in comparison to most of the street girls, and she had been already been beaten and abused. She had no wish to repeat that. 

And next time, they had told her, they would brand her face.

Hensingga sighed when he saw her approach, as he always did.

‘Come to scrounge again?’ he said with a curl of his lip. ‘I suppose you have nothing better to do than rob an honest man?’

‘No, mister,’ said Storm, her eyes down yet expectant, nonetheless. ‘I mean, huh, yes mister.’

He sighed again, a long and hard sigh that came out of the depth of his being. From underneath his stall he took out a large bag full of some round things. Storm’s eyes widened, as if she was to be presented with a pouch of gold.

He hesitated for effect, then gave her the bag. Snatching it, she nodded perceptibly in his direction, all that he ever got in the way of thanks, and then she fled from the square. 

Hensingga shook his head in despair, though he actually quite liked the thin street girl with the strange luminous green eyes.

‘Just old onions,’ he called after her.

She hardly heard him, hurried directly to the Duke’s Park, one of only two wide green spaces in the whole of the city. The park was a pleasant, tranquil place, the air clean and fresh. And seclusion was what she wanted, where she could eat free from molestation. 

A stone bench was where she usually sat, though she checked out the area, ensured she was in the clear. All was good that glorious morning. So, once seated, the chill of the stone against her bottom, she fell upon the bag. 

For a moment all she had were onions, which were quite acceptable in themselves, except they put would-be customers off, then hiding underneath she found eight or so peaches. They were overly ripe and bruised, but Storm did not care. 

In a few minutes she had devoured six, keeping the other two and the onions for later. The peach stones lay in a row on the bench like the heads of slain enemies. She stretched back on the bench contentedly, belched and relaxed. The morning was going not too badly.

The park was busy now, mostly couples or women taking their children out into the green space or playing with them on the grass. Respectable folk, clean, tidy and well dressed. 

A prosperous couple were proudly promenading. The man was an officer in the Alamata navy in an impressive uniform, his cutlass had a bejewelled scabbard and hilt with a large gem in the pommel. His helmet, adorned with feathers, was under one arm, while on his other was his paramour, a small and pale and delicate creature with a flawless complexion. The proud young woman was dressed in a long spotlessly white skirt and navy-blue jacket and wore jewellery glinting with cut blue stones. 

One of those gems, thought Storm, could have kept her fed for a month. 

Storm hated rich people. The wealthy were mean and hard-hearted and uncaring. As was Storm, of course, though she had reason to be…

As the couple passed Storm, that proud young woman turned and regarded the thin street girl on the bench, looking her down and up. The young woman’s face was lovely, though the expression was crushingly sneering. The two girls were perhaps the same age, eighteen years or so, though there the resemblance ceased.

Storm was clad in an old stained dress of dark purple, once of good quality, now threadbare and frayed, slightly on the large side, having been inherited from a dead woman Storm had found throttled. Juice from the peaches was dribbled down her front. Storm wore no shoes, her feet were bare and filthy. Her hair was dishevelled and matted, while she was grubby with an ingrained dirt that no amount of washing could dislodge. Storm knew this because she had tried repeatedly. Her long arms and legs were slender yet sturdy. Storm was a striking girl with high cheek bones, a little harsh and rough perhaps, still attractive despite the grinding years on the streets.

Then the proud young woman looked into Storm’s eyes, and she caught her breath, hastily turning aside, tripping over her skirts. Storm had a deep penetrating stare, her eyes were gleaming green and broiling with a malice that belied her slight frame. 

The girl was now holding the arm of the officer in the Alamata navy rather tightly.

The couple hurried away without comment, Storm watched them for a while. When younger, she had been idiotic enough to try to attack or rob such couples, and she always ended up in unnecessary and unwanted trouble. 

Storm would like to have cut up the lovely girl’s pale face, see if she made such a pretty sneer with her blood gushing. Storm’s long dagger with curved blade was concealed in her dress. She imagined drawing its ragged edge over those marble white cheeks. 

Then she let it go, let the fantasy drift away like one of the wispy clouds floating across the sky. 

And instead, just enjoyed sitting there with her stomach not empty.

8

Raechil entered the dining room, another sparsely furnished chamber: a long polished table, angular chairs, as well as a sideboard for serving food. Again the walls were bare except for more of the worthy panels and their glaring red writing. 

Raechil stood at the back of her chair without sitting. Her stomach gurgled.

She had to wait.

Her parents finally arrived, accompanied by their priest, her father’s face thunderous and red, her mother glowering and casting her eyes over all and sundry. Cleppa was not with them and did not appear at breakfast. Raechil assumed that she had been banished to her room for the morning, or even the whole day, without food.

Raechil kept her eyes down and stood completely still, as motionless as a statue, waited until her parents were seated at either end of the table, before taking her own place. 

In their present mood they were even more ready than usual to punish. Raechil mouthed the grace faithfully and respectfully, then waited until her parents started eating before beginning herself. The meal was consumed in silence, talking, even about redemption, was simply not permitted.

In truth breakfast was a plain affair, just a thick porridge and then heavy bread with a milky cheese, though the highlight of Raechil’s morning. Despite this she did her best not to appear to be enjoying the fare, picking at it, making sure that there was a few morsels left. She also ensured she finished at the same time as her parents. 

Gluttony, envy and greed were sins, but then so were sloth, wastefulness and indolence.

When they had all finished, Raechil and her parents returned to the family chapel for a service of thanks.

During the morning Raechil was permitted to take some exercise, although not to go outside the confines of the house itself, of course: that was still forbidden!

The four wings of the house were arranged around a central courtyard, a cloister running around its edge. A spring issued in the middle of the garth, the source of water for the house. The cloister had rows of twin plain square pillars to hold up the roof, and the sun shone onto the grass and neat plants in the middle then also through the pillars on the west side. The cloister was warm in the enclosed airless space, even in the shade. Water murmured restfully into the stone basin. 

The central garth was, along with lawn, planted with ordered sprays of practical and culinary herbs and plants, many in flower, vines trailed around trellises against the walls and pillars. 

Compared to the gloom and bareness of the rest of the building, the cloister was a wondrous lush open space. 

Raechil’s mother always wrinkled her nose.

Although she was alone, Raechil walked around the cloister at what appeared to be an even pace, although she was faster through the shaded area, slower when she came out into the light. Though hot in her heavy gown, she craved the feel of the sun on her face. 

She would have loved to have touched and smelt the herbs: sage and thyme and bay and rosemary and lavender. This had once betrayed her, as her mother had smelt lavender on Raechil’s fingers and had thrashed her as Raechil had apparently unwittingly broken the ‘passions of the flesh’. 

Raechil had been puzzled: the kitchen staff used herbs all the time, smelt strongly of them, and they were not punished.

So she continued her walk around the cloister, enjoying the sun and the flowers, the soft flow of water, the perfume and fragrances, though she kept out of the scented plants.

All things should be done in moderation, so after half an hour or so she returned to her mother, before her mother came looking for her, asked dutifully what tasks she should now perform.

Her mother inspected her, could find no fault. Raechil’s dress was plain and clean, every hair of that head was contained within her headscarf. Raechil held her glance for what she judged a proper time, then respectfully dropped her eyes.

The older woman sighed. Raechil was so very pretty, unnaturally pretty! A clear healthy complexion, bright blue eyes, a neat nose, straight teeth — but those rosy lips! 

All that was vanity and a striving after wind!

How had she, Gan Garnussil, given birth to a such a pretty creature with such a sensuous mouth? There had certainly never been anything lustful about Gan Garnussil, although she had dutifully given birth to four girls and, far more importantly, three sons.

Raechil remained immobile, not a trace of defiance or disrespect or boldness.

Her mother frowned. Something was just not right, although on this occasion, even on any occasion over the past few months and years, Raechil had given her no reason to find fault. 

Raechil was the model daughter, a tribute to her parents, to the Gallam family. Indeed, looking back, she had even been a relatively good toddler and child, certainly less mischievous than most.

The older woman continued to study her daughter. What was it? she wondered. What was it that concerned her? 

Then she shook her head. Must be that mouth! She had heard tell that the Caucus was intending to bring in veils covering the face for all unmarried girls, to be worn as soon as they entered puberty. 

The Patriarch, head of the Xenic faith, had not yet agreed to such a measure, as such a Periapt was contrary to the custom of many other parts of the empire. Should it be made one of the Periapts, it would certainly be introduced for Raechil.

Anything to hide that crude mouth! But nothing could be done about it there and then.

Raechil waited obediently.

‘Well,’ her mother said, coldly and harshly, ‘you must practise your embroidery until prayers at midday, then study the Holy Book — the passages on marriage and modesty — until evening, and then before bed you must bathe.’

The girl kept her eyes down.

‘Thank you, Gan Garnussil,’ Raechil said. ‘May I have your permission to go?’

‘Yes, go now.’

Raechil walked away, feeling cheerful at the thought of a bath and shedding the Constract for a while, albeit a very short while, though none of this showed in her gait or manner.

Her mother watched her, shook her head. Then Gan Garnussil turned her mind to her younger daughter, to Cleppa, and a fitting punishment for her tardiness and her insolence.

9

Slim was tired. 

She had spent the night in the arms of Duinglas, the most comfortable and warm in bed, she also derived comfort from nestling into his massive frame.

Yet sleep had eluded her, she could not relax. 

She finally dragged herself out of bed, feeling stiff and groggy, and sighed.

A lovely morning had dawned, however, with not a cloud in the sky, while the day promised to be hot. 

The Sisterhood packed up camp. They discarded the chest and divided up the loot, concealed among the supplies and in their saddlebags.

The evening before they had shared a feeling of triumph, now that had been replaced by realism, the job was as yet half done. A long bottom-numbing four-day ride to Tarthesius awaited them. All through the settled and “civilised” lands of the Fenigruin Empire, yet the local soldiery, and especially the Sanctorum Police, were notoriously unpredictable and avaricious. 

If they arrived at the bank at Tarthesius unmolested, then they would be lucky. They had done well to earn the gold, and they were determined that whatever happened they would retain it, no matter how prudent and vigilant that required them to be.

The Sisterhood saddled up, seven sturdy and shaggy ponies and one massive black stallion, which was bare backed and was restive and fiery and glared at them. Slim wandered over to the horse and the beast nuzzled her, nickering. 

As Viksgald approached his own pony, the stallion manoeuvred its hind quarters and lashed out at him. Viksgald scrambled out of the way, sprawling in the undergrowth.

The others laughed.

‘You’re a good lad, Breakheart,’ whispered Slim into the horse’s ear. She climbed unaided onto the stallion. The others kept their distance until on their own ponies.

They cut across country west and south, soon arriving back at the road. Sibil and Viksgald rode ahead, and then the rest of the Sisterhood, with Chaegurd some way behind. With little conversation and no merriment, the miles slowly passed through the oak woods and spruce forests of Fen. 

They made good time and reached Fenmarch just after midday. They had met messengers and traders on the way, though nobody else. Fenmarch was a small city, built on both sides of the Merse Water, wealthy but rustic, and they took the ferry across without incident and then set off for the north and west.

By nightfall they were a few miles from the great city of Deargos, the main settlement of the rich province of the same name. The woods and copses had given way to fields and pastures, many peasants and slaves worked in the valleys, clouds of sheep grazed the upper slopes. The lands were rich, studded with prosperous farms and villas, and they passed many wayside hostelries.

They would have preferred a campsite in the open, though could find nowhere suitable, so they chose a quiet inn on a minor route from the town of Lostmount, taking three rooms. The inn was not especially plush, but the chambers were clean and the food was hot, they had certainly frequented worse. Half the Sisterhood went down to the common room for a few hours to appear sociable, yet they drank little and retired early, while the others guarded the gold.

Although they had taken three chambers, they all shared just one, with two on watch for two hours each. The watches ground past slowly, nothing happened that night. After an early breakfast, they retrieved their ponies and Slim’s horse from the stable, setting off as soon as light enough.

Again the morning dawned fair, there was little traffic at that early hour. A few miles away, Deargos was a great city with thousands of townsfolk, the walls flushed red in the morning sun. Above the roof of the city was a large castle, built on bare rock, with many tall towers, flags fluttering. Dominating the city were the three tall towers and pointed spires of the great cathedral. The cathedral was built of marble in coloured stripes, white and dark green and blood red, often reckoned one of the wonders of Eastern Empire.

Finding cart ways and tracks, they made their way around the city to the south and re-joined the main road to the east of its gates. This took until midmorning. The road had been busy and those they met were friendly or wary or both, and left them alone, they did the same.

That evening found them many miles to the north and west. They had come out of the rich town lands into higher pastures to cross a wide expanse of moorland, a wild lonely place, more so because of the settled lands about. Some sheep, fewer birds, even fewer people. 

The moorland ran out and the road dropped down towards the town of Dokdarr, where there was a meeting of roads, routes coming in from the south, west and east, and from the north-west and north-east. They were still a couple of hours travel from the place, night was coming. 

Woodlands marched not far from the road, so they made for these. The camp was cheerless and damp, sited in the narrow ravine of a fast-flowing stream, though hidden from the road. Too wet for a fire, so Slim again made herself comfortable next to the warming bulk of Duinglas.

The next morning they decided to go through Dokdarr rather than round it. From their vantage, and their memory of the place, there did not appear to be any way to avoid the town. In the distance, chimneys could be seen smoking in the early morning sun, a walled settlement with a substantial keep towering darkly above the roofs. 

Gathering the horses together, they set off and, after an hour of steady riding, came to the gates. The company was admitted without comment. Chaegurd and Brimsaga bought fresh food at the market and flowers for Slim, which her horse ate, and they set off again, leaving the town by the north-west gate.

They trotted along all that day, weary and saddle-sore. The land about them was now flat and hardly seemed to change, except that the hills and moors behind them slowly receded. 

Here and there were villages and hamlets, though their inhabitants hardly noted the passing of the Sisterhood, the peasants and slaves were disinterested and dispirited. Every so often they chanced upon other people on the road, merchant caravans, travellers, carts with produce from local farms going to market, horsemen who galloped past. Slim remembered little of the trip except the pain in her buttocks and groin and legs, and the tedium. At least the weather was fine.

That night they spent in the open, again away from the road in a patch of dense woodland. They risked lighting a fire, Chaegurd caught fish. The camp was at least dry. Slim slept better, glad that they were reaching the end of the journey. 

Their main camp was near Hargranok, which was only a couple of hours away, but they had decided to make directly for the city of Tarthesius, with its famous golden dome of the renowned library and many spires and towers — and, of course, the bank — still half a day’s ride to the west.

The sun rose again into a sky empty of clouds, the light spread up from the horizon. A merrier company headed out that morning. Before lunch they had passed the outskirts of Hargranok and rode on eagerly through the wide and fertile town lands. 

The farms became larger, until extensive villas were peppered on the higher lands, looking out over the road. The route ran along a raised causeway, heading directly towards Tarthesius, and was straight for miles, indeed as far as the eye could see. Columns of trees on either side marked the way, beyond fields of corn and oats and roots and vegetables and other crops in every direction, a flat land with low horizons and a vast dome of blue sky. The city could just be guessed in the distance, a glint of gold and a silver haze of smoke, on the edge of sight.

Then about halfway between the town and Tarthesius, Chaegurd came galloping back. He had been scouting ahead.

‘Troops coming,’ he said. ‘Twenty-one cavalry including a captain. Armed with swords and spears. Livery of Helmund, not Tarthesius.’

‘Helmund? What the hell are they doing here?’ muttered Zala. Chaegurd shrugged.

She looked around: there was nowhere to hide, no other route to take. Besides if they made off across country it would look suspicious.

Brimsaga sighed, Duinglas loosened his axe.

‘Slim,’ ordered Foldric. ‘Get off that bugger of a horse and wait by the roadside.’

Slim knew better than to argue and, although her expression was sour, she did as she was told, dismounting and leading her fierce horse into a wood. She looked after them, both anxious and angry.

No word was spoken — no word needed to be spoken — if they were challenged, or a search was attempted, they would fight. Sixteen-hundred gold pieces was a fortune that would ensure their future, they would do anything to preserve that.

On they went, while Chaegurd rode away east to fetch Viksgald and Sibil.

In a while Duinglas could see the soldiers coming, so he plodded on towards them, seemingly without haste or care, Brimsaga, Zala and Foldric in a line behind him with the baggage ponies. The troops approached, two lines of ten horsemen, their leader, in a plumed helmet, before them. 

And any hope of being left alone was soon dashed.

10

Raechil returned to her chamber to find that it had been cleaned, her bed made, the floor polished and gleaming. The shutters had been opened, though there were several screens of fine gauze across each window.

Raechil went to the table and chair, opened her sewing box. Diligently, she set to work on one of the new panels. The inspiration was a story from the Holk an Harnakos, about Selmarar, the Dutiful Wife, who proved faithful to her erring husband, Gruinagas, no matter how extreme and unpleasant his behaviour, not least taking nine other wives and having a child with his own daughter. Selmarar had, from the tracts, truly a life of torment, and her only compensation, thought Raechil, was outliving her husband by many years.

That part especially appealed to Raechil, she anticipated the creation of the last panel that was to show the funeral of Gruinagas. She knew the embroidery was to be taken to her betrothed Simion. 

For the first hour or so Raechil worked quickly and skilfully. She had arranged the embroidery into nine panels, experience had taught her that her mother would expect her to complete one panel each day. 

About an hour before midday prayers and then lunch, she finished the panel and checked her handiwork.

The panel showed the wedding of Selmarar and Gruinagas, surrounded by their families, with orange groves in full flower, all in a crisp rectangular frame. The work was well executed and detailed. No accident, perhaps, that Gruinagas’s face looked like a skull and, if inspected closely, the family members all had horns sticking out from their heads. Just an accident, of course, as the flowers of the groves all looked like little horns and formed the background of the panel.

Raechil nodded in satisfaction, then began the frame and outline of the second panel, which depicted the married couple joyously returning to their farm.

Then she stopped, yawned and stretched. She had now completed enough of her embroidery that the rest of the time until midday, a little less than an hour, was hers. If her mother entered, Raechil could show her the completed panel, even that she had begun work on the next one. 

Raechil listened for a moment, then rose from the chair. She took the Holk an Harnakos from its place beneath the altar, opened a page at the story of Selmarar, the weighty tome sank into the bed.

For the rest of the time she daydreamed, although her conscious thoughts most often strayed to lunch.

The midday bell rang three times. Raechil tidied away her sewing, made her way down to the chapel, entering just after her parents. The service proceeded as usual, although Cleppa was not present. Raechil then followed her parents to the dining room. She mouthed the grace, and then waited in anticipation.

A vegetable soup, which was actually rather tasteless, that she enjoyed nonetheless, accompanied by herb bread. Followed by a casserole of beans and leeks, which could have done with more salt and would give her wind. A large closed pot of salt lurked seductively on the table, yet none succumbed or even looked in its alluring direction. 

As ever Raechil, under the watchful eyes of her mother, left a measured portion of her meal.

When her parents were finished, they went back to the chapel for a service of thanksgiving.

Raechil then returned to her room, located the passages in the Holk an Harnakos on marriage and modesty, perused them all thoroughly two or three times. This took a while, though Raechil read quickly and absorbed the stories and the morals and the lessons which were — as she had already observed that day — to blindly obey your husband no matter how absurd his requests or perverse his behaviour. By the second hour after midday, Raechil was sure she knew the passages well enough to please her mother.

Raechil sat at the table, she became increasingly bored. An age yet until evening prayers and the last meal of the day, then they went into the small city of Antok to the church where they attended a full service. This lasted more than an hour, though that at least meant getting out of the house for a while.

Rereading the passages once again, she extracted parts that would be of use, but having completed this, she sat back and sighed. She studied the page, seeing patterns in the letters and the words: a face or a skull or a long white gully flowing down. She scanned lines of text for any phrase or sentence that was ambiguous and could be misinterpreted, especially if this was in an amusing way. 

In one part it described how a man mounted his wife, yet on another page also said he mounted his horse. Raechil had an absurd vision of the fellow putting a saddle on his wife and riding her around his farm.

She soon became tired with this. She would have enjoyed a nap, but could not risk being caught slumbering.

Raechil wiggled her nose, rose to her feet and stretched. Her bottom had gone numb, so she walked around the room a few times to restore circulation. As she passed the window, she stole a look out as the breeze made the screens billow at the edges.

Little had changed, except the sun had climbed higher into the sky and was now heading westwards. The fields and groves and the slaves were all still there.

The bell for four o’clock sounded.

Raechil hated the afternoons.

11 

An hour or so later Storm left the park and headed back into the crowds, keeping her stash of peaches and onions next to her heart. Storm had a taste for meat, something savoury, though that cost money, in this climate of uncertainty, perhaps even as much as a silver piece, an astronomical price, a copper piece or less had been the usual price, now 100 times more expensive. She decided to turn a trick. Not her preferred method of getting money, but life was far from perfect.

In Alamata, most of the working ladies and laddies gathered in the lanes and streets around the harbour, so Storm headed there. Many of the regulars greeted her, while others slunk away. Storm was well known and the pimps feared to tangle, found less trouble when they let her be, even if she took business away.

Storm elicited a fair amount of interest, then she found her mark and focused on him: a slightly greying older gentleman, tubby and expensively dressed, red about the cheeks. All sorts could be found around the docks, but to her he was perfect. She smiled at him as he approached, turned those luminous eyes on him, and she knew he was caught.

He was breathless and his voice shook as they exchanged pleasantries, Storm took her time, wanting him as fired up as possible. They agreed a price of two silver pieces, and she took him behind one of the warehouses and into the midst of packing cases, still in no hurry. She took his hand and put it on her breast and fondled his groin.

‘Three silver pieces,’ she told him, ‘and I will make it the best you ever had, huh?’

He nodded in agreement, hardly able to speak with excitement, paid over the coins.

Storm took him professionally and swiftly, hitching up her skirt and letting him touch her where he chose. She had him out of his breeks in a flash, he moaned as she held him. He tried to kiss her on the mouth, though she avoided his lips, nothing except food went into her mouth. 

Leaning back onto a packing crate, she pulled him over her and then directed him inside. He gasped. She wrapped her legs around him and took him as he thrust into her, took him as if she actually wanted it. His breathing became more and more laboured as she grasped his hips hard between her legs, and then he was moaning and quivering inside her. The act was over. 

She lay back for a moment as he panted, and then he was finished. She eased him off her, stood up and adjusted her own clothing, helped him redress. He was very red faced. Just a few minutes had passed.

‘That was good,’ she said truthfully, meaning the brevity of the act, her mouth watering in expectation of a tasty meal.

He nodded, almost in a daze, and drifted off.

Storm skipped away from the docks and back into the city, in search of that excellent and busy baker. Her heart was pounding as she ran through the streets, though she then had to wait her turn. 

She hoped that a new batch of pies would be just ready. 

The last customer seemed to take an age, determined to pass the time of day with musings on politics and when the Fenigruin army would finally attack. Storm was just about jumping up and down before he left. And then she could not decide: pie or pastry?

Then it was her turn. Her mind was suddenly made up. She bought two of his beef bridies, hot out of the oven, made with fluffy puff pastry. The baker sold her them for one silver piece, he also gave her an apple pastry for nothing, so flattered had he been by her obvious delight in his baking. 

Storm could not wait, had barely got out of the shop before she started nibbling at the edges. The bridie was almost too hot to handle and she burnt her mouth as rich molten gravy bubbled out, scalding and salty as she chewed a piece of tender beef. The meat melted in her mouth, she ran it round her mouth with her tongue. Delicious, yet she did not rush, she savoured every nibble, every drop of gravy, every piece of meat and onion, every flaky and dry piece of pastry from around the edges, every soft and moist piece of pastry from the bottom. Each swallow was an ecstasy.

‘Filthy scav,’ said a voice from close by, though Storm was too engrossed to care.

The bridie, after days of poor fare, was more than welcome. She ate slowly and persistently, licking and nibbling and chewing, without ever taking a break, without even stopping to take a breath. 

After five minutes of sheer joy, the bridie was no more, even the last corner. She licked her fingers, licked every last crumb and morsel from her hands. 

Time ceased to have any meaning, a second could have passed or a month.

She looked around and was aware again of the street and the people, she was only a few feet from the shop.

Now she had a dilemma, whether to eat the second bridie or the apple pastry. Already a feast. She decided on sweet.

The pastry was once again excellent and the apple was both sweet and tart, soft but with enough bite. Like the meat pastry, absolutely excellent, for a while she again lost herself.

The sun was high in the sky when she had finished the last flakes, Storm was set up for the day. She had the meat pastry and the onions and the peaches for her evening feast, so she needed nothing else.

Storm had no friends in all the world, with one exception. Finding from an early age that companions were a burden, indeed they were inconvenient and tiresome and slowed you up, not least because they would get ill and die when you began to care. 

So Storm had remained unencumbered. A few people she regarded without hostility, such as Hensingga or the baker who sold the pastries, people she would not exploit or rob unless she was desperate. 

And there was everyone else, who were fair game, given the opportunity and a decent chance of escape.

The one exception was the young tavern girl called Dryffe, who was a few years younger than Storm. Storm was not of course her first given name, Storm was a nickname bestowed on her by Dryffe. Storm now thought of herself as Storm, though for a long time she had been called Blinny.

Dryffe worked in one of the larger taverns, the Black Horse, on the east side of the city. She was not strictly a working girl or prostitute, though she was paid little by the innkeeper, Dimgald, and supplemented her income in any way she could, including both by dancing in the common room and entertaining customers in their rooms. 

Storm, having sufficient food for the rest of the day, decided to go and see her friend. At this hour, Dryffe would be resting, that did not matter. Storm had to be discreet, however, as she was far from popular.

Storm slipped into the Black Horse when a delivery was being made, through the archway into the courtyard. She then found an open door, sneaked her way to Dryffe’s chamber in a low wing to the rear of the building. The chamber was cramped with only room for a bed and a tiny table and little else. At least Dryffe had a window, which opened into a small internal courtyard overgrown with weeds.

Storm slunk in, found Dryffe slumbering on the narrow bed. Storm put her pastry and peaches and onions carefully out of harm’s way as if they were jewels, slid into the bed. Dryffe woke up slightly, mumbled incoherently, then fell asleep again. 

Dryffe had had a busy night.

The afternoon was old, while the sun was westering when they both awoke and then lay together, though cramped.

‘Storm,’ said Dryffe sleepily, opening one eye reluctantly. She had been drooling onto her friend’s neck and she wiped that away. She smiled. ‘When did you come in?’

‘After lunch,’ said Storm. ‘Nobody spotted me.’

Dryffe sat up and yawned.

‘Tough night, huh?’ said Storm.

‘Yup,’ agreed Dryffe, ‘I was up til dawn. Made a nice bit, though.’

‘I will go if you like,’ said Storm, and made to rise.

‘No,’ said Dryffe, touching her arm, ‘you’re all right. Though I need to get to work soon anyway. How have you got on?’

‘Good, I did an old john at the docks,’ said Storm.

‘So you’ve eaten?’

‘Yeah, very good today, huh?’ said Storm. ‘I still have a pastry. We can share.’

Dryffe had not eaten that day, so they shared the bridie and Dryffe found what appeared to be an empty skin of wine. There was enough left, however, for a mug each after a lot of squeezing. The wine was sour though they did not care. Storm gave her one of her peaches, keeping the onions for later.

When they had finished, they lay on the cot well content, arm in arm.

The time slipped away.

A little later, as the full gloom of evening started to descend, Storm said: ‘I better go.’

‘See you soon,’ said her friend and grasped her shoulder. ‘Take care.’

Storm slunk out with the same wariness she had sneaked in, found her way to the entrance without being seen. 

Taking a look around, she went out into the courtyard and then walked boldly through the archway into the street. 

Aware people were coming towards her, she kept her head down and went on walking, purposefully but without running. Passing them she swept on.

She was mindful that, behind her, the men had stopped, four  or five men. She had noticed that one had his mouth mangled and caked with dried blood while his two front teeth were missing. 

That rich burgess from the drinking fountain that morning. 

He had recognised her, she was certain.

‘Huh?’ swore Storm and ran as fast as she could, tearing along the street.

‘That’s the scav bitch there!’ cried the fat fellow and waddled after her, quickly followed and then overtaken by his friends and bodyguard.

12 

The leader of the horsemen blocked Duinglas’s way. The officer was clad in the eagle of Helmund, he and his men were holy knights of that port and city, possibly the last warriors in the whole of the Fenigruin empire that Duinglas would have wanted. The knights of Helmund were renowned for their piety, yet even more so for their thieving ways, justified, they claimed, because they gave such plunder to the church, or their church anyway. 

These men looked very young, however, perhaps even raw recruits. Besides, they would not be expecting trouble so near to Tarthesius.

‘Greetings,’ said Duinglas respectfully. ‘How may I help you, sir?’

‘Greetings,’ replied the knight. ‘Who are you, and where are you headed?’

‘I am Dervag, a man of Midmirr,’ said Duinglas, and then went on to give false names for his companions. ‘We are travelling to Tarthesius, where we have business.’

‘What sort of business?’ asked the man, peering at them down his nose, not bothering to introduce himself. ‘And what do you carry on these ponies?’

‘We are hoping to join the garrison of that city,’ replied Duinglas easily. ‘And we have naught but supplies for our journey. We are newly come from Duindrax, where we were in the service of Lord Melkor of the Draggans. That campaign being over we now seek new work.’

‘I see,’ said the knight. ‘Yet your beasts look a little heavily burdened for mere supplies. Perhaps you are smugglers, trying to avoid paying taxes to the Empire. If you are law-abiding citizens of Tarthesius then you would not mind if we searched the ponies and yourselves.’

‘Lord,’ protested Duinglas mildly, ‘we have already been, ah, checked over by a patrol from Tarthesius, they who wear the lion on the chests. We have, ah, paid our dues, they took what little we had. All we have left are provisions, as I have said.’

‘That is no matter,’ said the man.

‘I thought we were in the domain of Tarthesius…’

‘We are knights of the Fenigruin Empire,’ replied the knight haughtily. ‘Do you question my authority?’

‘Of course not, lord,’ said Duinglas, ‘I was just thinking that, as fellow travellers on the road, it would be more sensible if you left us alone. Good of you to do that. For the sake of all these nice young men…’

‘What! Who do you think you are, you outlander dog? Down before me, or I will have you thrown into the dungeons!’

Duinglas bowed his head and gave way before him. The old warrior lighted from his horse, as did the others of the Sisterhood, they stood back to let the ponies be searched.

‘I apologise profusely if I have offended you, lord,’ said Duinglas, humbly.

The knights looked at each other and grinned.

Duinglas and his companions were apparently not going to put up a fight.

The knights also dismounted, relaxed and unwary, hopeful of easy booty.

Their leader approached Duinglas’s pony, opened his saddlebag, searched inside. He removed his hand and looked between his fingers. His eyes opened wide when he saw the many gold pieces. Raising his gaze, his eyes opened wider as he saw Duinglas’s axe whistle towards him. 

With a soggy thwump his head bounced off across the road. Zala whipped out her sword and slew two more before they could react, Brimsaga fought furiously, slashing left and right, Foldric hacking away at his side. The ponies panicked and bolted, the knights’ horses whinnied.

The knights were inexperienced, caught by surprise. Some drew their weapons, while others hesitated. Duinglas heard hooves, and then suddenly Chae, Viksgald and Sibil charged into battle, riding down two knights and butchering more.

The rest of the battle was fierce and brutal, the knights of Helmund were slaughtered, they were just no match for the Sisterhood. Had there been twice their number they would still have all died. Not one of the Sisterhood had even the smallest injury.

One knight, however, lay unnoticed among the dead, then suddenly leapt to his feet, sprang onto his horse. He galloped along the road towards the west. 

Chaegurd leapt onto his pony, chased after him, though his own mount was no match for the knight’s steed. Chaegurd sent a dagger spinning after the knight, but it struck his armoured shoulder, glanced off harmlessly.

‘Fuck!’ spat Chaegurd. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

The knight tore down the road.

Then Slim stepped out into the middle of the way, right into his path.

The young knight spurred his horse on, straight at her.

The horse thundered down on Slim.

‘No,’ said Viksgald, as Duinglas swore.

On the knight came. At the last possible moment, Slim stood aside, jumped up and plunged her dagger into the young knight’s thigh, turning the blade as she did so, then ripping it out. The flank of the horse struck her, she was knocked tumbling into the side of the road.

She lay still.

The rider cried out and there was a spray of bright red blood from his leg. He clamped his hands over it, letting go of the reins, blood bubbled between his fingers. The horse veered slightly, the knight tumbled from the saddle, bouncing broken along the road. He twitched once then lay still.

Chae and Viksgald ran to where Slim lay, while Sibil and Duinglas ensured all the knights were dead, by beheading them, the others retrieved their ponies. 

Chae took Slim in his arms, she stirred and opened her eyes for a moment, then went limp and moaned. 

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ muttered Viksgald. ‘We’re done for if anyone else should come along now. Slaves are taking an interest.’

Zala said, looking around: ‘Slaves won’t care if we’ve dispatched a few of their masters. But you’re right, we really should go.’

‘Slim,’ said Chaegurd urgently, ‘can you hear me?’

She mumbled.

‘Can you stand?’

She did not reply this time.

Viksgald said: ‘I don’t think anything is broken. She may be concussed. Or injured from the fall. Either way, we’ve got to get out of here. Now!’

They raised her to her feet, then half carried her, half dragged her back to the others, leading her horse. The great beast whinnied, tried to nuzzle her.

Chaegurd got onto his own pony, Viksgald lifted Slim into the saddle before him. The eight of them rode off to the west, and after a while left the main road and headed down a narrow track into the countryside. The slaughter would not remain undetected, they would be hunted. 

They turned to the south, heading for thickets and more broken ground. Though early in the afternoon they needed to find cover and go to ground before dark. Fields stretched away in every direction, the only slight cover was the occasional shelter belt or a wood of coppiced trees.

They continued south and west for several hours, and then came to a main road, the Tarthesius road that led down to Helmund. They travelled along this new way for only a short distance, before leaving it and going south again, back onto rough and meandering paths. In front of them were gentle tree-clad rolling hills, they made for these.

The sun was sinking to their right when they stopped for the night. They had wandered into the hills and found a ruined villa on the side of a wide river valley. The building had no roof, though the weather was still warm and fine, so they made camp in a large chamber with a shattered mosaic floor. Sibil and Brimsaga took watch, while Chaegurd and Viksgald tended Slim. The others made camp and lit a fire, ensuring it could not be seen beyond the walls.

‘How is she doing?’ asked Duinglas.

‘I think she is all right,’ said Chaegurd. ‘She took a blow on the back of the head and has been wandering in and out of consciousness.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t keep her awake, though. The bleeding has stopped, but there is a huge lump, while her arm and side are also bruised.’

‘She took a terrible chance,’ said Viksgald angrily. ‘She could have been killed!’

‘If that knight had escaped,’ said Duinglas, ‘it would have caused us no end of trouble, we could not have showed our faces in Tarthesius again. Slim did what she had to.’

‘I know,’ said Viksgald. ‘I know. I still say she shouldn’t come. The rest of us are warriors and know the risks. For her own safety.’

‘Try and stop her next time,’ sighed Chaegurd, ‘if you think you are tough enough.’ He kissed Slim on the forehead. At least she was warm and her breathing was gentle and regular.

‘I’ll watch her for a while,’ said Viksgald, sitting down. 

13

Eventually the bell for six sounded, by then the room was full of shadows.

Raechil sprang to her feet, smoothed her dress and closed the book. She went down and once again joined the family in the chapel, again her sister was not there, again she followed her parents to the dining room.

The highlight for Raechil was always the evening meal, the most substantial of the day, though the portions were actually quite meagre. More of the vegetable soup that they had had at midday, though this time there were also dumplings. Raechil enjoyed those, and the herby bread. After was a moist loaf of nuts, olives, lentils and peas with boiled potatoes and butter, which was good, and then a fruit and nut cake topped with toasted almonds, which was a very very thin slice of Heaven. And instead of water pressed oranges, cold and refreshing, just a mouthful or two.

Raechil was feeling, albeit secretly, effervescent.

After the service of thanksgiving, Raechil had to wait to make her daily confession to the priest in the small booth. 

The booth was divided in two, the priest sitting in one half, divided by a screen with a fine mesh. 

Raechil did not like the priest, although she had never been certain why: perhaps the way he looked at her, as if she was possessed by a demon. In the booth, she could smell him, sense the warmth of his slippery odorous breath. He asked her many strange and even, she felt, inappropriate questions. Not that she told anyone about his behaviour as nobody would have believed her.

Over the years Raechil had learned to confess to straightforward offences, certainly ones that the priest could not find a parallel in the Holk an Harnakos. He liked referring to the passages regarding the debauchery of sinners.

Raechil had already, of course, worked on the subject of her confession. Just the fleeting desire to add salt to her vegetable soup, which she assured him, had never happened before.

The priest hesitated, trying to think of a story to admonish her, but she had foiled him again. She was told to recite the prayer of the D-Harna one hundred times, soon she was free.

The family then got ready to go into Antok, to the daily service in the church there. Raechil washed in her room, and, with the help of her slave-girl, ensured she was presentable.

The trip was not as distracting as it might have been. Raechil only got to go a few steps into the open before entering the large horse-drawn carriage. All the family was there, including Cleppa, whose eyes were red with crying. Thick shades were drawn over the windows as they set off for Antok.

The journey took a very long half hour. No conversation, the only difference as time went by were the sounds and smells coming from outside. Loud voices and the hubbub of people, the stink of sewers and waste as they entered the built-up area. Eventually they came a halt in the courtyard of the church, out of sight of any of the townsfolk. Raechil had been to Antok virtually every day of her life, yet she had no more idea what the city looked like than she did the dark side of the moon.

They climbed out of the carriage, Raechil jumping down with just too little vigour. A crowd of D-Harna were in the courtyard: men, women and children. Few words, however, passed among them, except between the menfolk who nodded at each other or occasionally passed a word or two regarding the weather. 

Raechil ensured she did not look at any male. The women had a separate entrance and worshipping area, out of view of the main church, for that was an area exclusively the domain of the men. Sects of the Xenic faith permitted nuns and sisters, though not the D-Harna.

She followed her mother and sister to their box in a prominent position. There was no talking.

Drifting through the ceremony, Raechil afterwards remembered nothing, not even the gist of the sermon, reckoning any wrath would be reserved for her sister, so she had no need to attend. 

Her eyes were open, she mouthed prayers and her part in the liturgy, she stood and kneeled and stood again and stood and kneeled and stood and stood and kneeled some more and chanted and chanted and chanted again. 

The droning of the priest, whom she could not see, during the sermon seemed endless, she began to count to pass the time. Her first effort left her at around 5,000 before she lost count, she began again, this time she floated away before reaching 3,000.

Eventually, finally, thankfully the D-Harna Wheel of Life.

Born in Innocence

Grow in Sin

Live in Pain

Die in Redemption

By the grace of our Lord Harnakos, God of Everything.

Then the service was over and they were on their way home, again without a word being spoken.

Raechil returned to her room, and then went to the gloomy cloister to take half an hour’s exercise. Nearly dark outside, a cool and refreshing breeze wafted through the pillars, while the water tinkled away, sounding louder now that the house was quiet. She walked seemingly mechanically around the cloister, yet in truth she was engrossed in the heady scents, stronger now as sunset approached.

Then she went to the bathhouse, in one of the wings, as the bell for the eighth hour rang. Her father and mother were there, as well as her maid. They went into the chamber, where her slave helped out of her heavy dress. Her parents took keys and unlocked the Constract, then they left, fastening the door behind them.

Raechil’s maid helped her out of her boots, her scarf and the hated Constract. Raechil stood there, naked, glad to feel the air about her body. A large iron bath was sunk a few feet into the floor, Raechil climbed into the water. She lay there in contentment without moving. The water was warm, not hot but very pleasant, a subtle smell of lavender rising into the air. Raechil sighed in contentment.

Her slave helped her wash, lathering her back and limbs and chest and neck and abdomen with soap. Lovely, that, just the feel of another person’s hands upon her, the only physical contact she ever had, from as far as back as she could remember. Her maid washed the soap from her, then moved on to her hair, gently rinsing with fresh water from a separate basin.

The bath was all too brief, alas, she was only permitted a few moments. Raechil stepped out into a towel, allowed her slave to dry her. The slave then applied powder, before helping her mistress back into the Constract. Although her hair was damp, Raechil was dressed again in the scarf and even her boots.

Then she waited dutifully for her parents to unlock the door. A sudden mad whim took Raechil, so she embraced the slave girl and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. The slave returned the hug, then broke away as the door opened.

Raechil turned her back to the door, as her parents locked her back into the Constract. Her slave helped her on with her ponderous dress and footwear, and they left.

Raechil turned to her parents.

‘Goodnight Gan Garnussil,’ she said respectfully to her mother, with a bow of her head: ‘May Harnakos watch over you.’

‘Goodnight,’ said her mother. ‘May Harnakos make you worthy.’

Raechil followed her father to her room, entered the chamber with her slave.

‘Goodnight Garnussil,’ she said respectfully to her father, with a bow of her head. ‘May Harnakos watch over you.’

Her father grunted, shut the door.

Her maid lit a candle and then helped her out of dress, scarf and boots, and then tucked Raechil into bed.

‘May Harnakos watch over you,’ whispered Raechil softly.

The slave girl nodded very slightly, blew out the candle, turned to the door a wistful look on her face. 

The door was opened a moment later, by then the expression was gone and the slave girl stepped out. 

The door was shut and locked. 

Raechil was alone, the chamber growing darker as the sun sank in the far west. Raechil was content for this had been a good day, indeed as good as any day. 

The bell for the ninth hour tolled. She settled down and soon had sunk into an easy sleep.

A day like any other, except sunnier than most, though now nearer Raechil’s eighteenth birthday and her marriage to Simion an Simion.

14 

Storm ran around a corner, into a lane. She turned into another alley. Hearing the pursuit, she dared not look back. People up ahead. The chasing group was screaming for them to stop her. Instead, people stood aside.

The pursuit continued. Difficult to tell, but they might have been closing. She redoubled her efforts, forced herself onwards. Another alley. She turned into it, ran headlong into two men. One of them was knocked to the ground, she tripped over him.

‘Sorry, miss,’ said the man.

Storm scrabbled to her feet, leapt off again. 

Her pursuers were nearly on her. 

Several strides to get going. Another alley, on her left. She made to go down it, then at the last moment feinted and continued on straight. One of the men caught his heel, went sprawling. 

Still at least three after her.

She did not falter, she had no illusions what would happen to her. She broke to her right into a wider street, busier. On she sped, on they came. 

Finally, however, they were falling behind. Storm pulled ahead, she was younger and fitter and her need spurred her. Ahead of her was the square with the abbey church. Crowds of folk and many ways to escape.

The men were still shouting. The commotion attracted a patrol of city guard, ten or so men.

‘Oh fuck!’ muttered Storm. She swerved away from them, ran towards the gates.

The patrol saw the chasing group pointing and gesticulating, they started after Storm themselves. They were fresh and they quickly gained. Enheartened, the other men also redoubled their speed. 

They tried to cut her off, limiting where she could go. The patrol, too, was split into three, fanning out behind her. She was being forced into the main way that ran to the gate. 

The problem was that when she reached the gate there was no escape. The gates were shut and there were many sentries. They had already seen her, were loosening their swords.

She had to get back into the alleys, hoping she could avoid them in the maze of lanes. Stepping to the right, she then broke to her left, sprinting down an alley. Turning right again, she backtracked, praying that none of them had come that way. 

But they were still behind her. A guard, hidden in a doorway, sprang at her. She instinctively ducked. He sailed over her back. She ran on. Behind her there was swearing.

She turned another corner, then another. She took a look to her left. One group of city guards was running parallel to her. At the next junction, she gazed to the right. More guards there. No good! They were going to cut her off, they were behind her and on both sides. Soon they would be in front, too. 

In the middle of the block she slithered to a halt. A pend with an open gate led through to a courtyard. She ran down that and into the yard, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings. Rattling a door, she found it bolted, so was a second entrance, a third. All fastened, tight.

She was trapped. 

The ground-floor windows all had interlocking bars.

Footsteps rushing towards her. 

She was trapped.

Looking upwards, she saw an open window on the first floor. A trellis, up which grew a creeper. Jumping high, she grabbed hold of the creeper and scrabbled up. Part of the trellis came away in her hands. The creeper’s stems broke, leaves tumbled down. 

More footsteps and cries. She struggled on.

‘Shoot the scav bitch!’ said a voice.

A whoop, then a shower of sparks near her head. A crossbow bolt spun away from her.

Storm hauled herself up to the window, spun across and grabbed hold of the window ledge. 

Another whoop, then a shooting pain at the side of her waist. She clambered in through the window. A bolt shattered the window frame by her hand.

She fell to the floor, quickly regained her breath. 

Hammering on a door was coming from below, desperate shouting. Examining her side, she found blood, though the bolt had only grazed her. Not seriously, though the bolt had torn her dress.

A bedchamber, nobody else was in it. Springing over to the door, she flung it open, leapt into a corridor. Looking both ways, she saw a stair and ran, began to ascend the steps in twos. Turmoil below.

‘Intruders!’ screamed a voice. ‘Search the building!’

Storm continued upwards without hesitating, her plan to get up to the roof. 

The stair ran out, she went to a window and looked up. The eaves of the roof were above the window, out of reach. No way out.

She turned back. Must be another stair, she thought. Where? A door opened. Storm whirled around. A black girl, a slave, who recoiled.

‘Who are you?’ whispered the slave.

Noises came from the floor below.

‘They are coming for me, huh?’ said Storm. ‘I need to get on to the roof.’

The black girl nodded, peered about to make sure nobody saw her. She then took Storm through a door, into a small narrow stair, upwards to the slave quarters in the attic. 

An even narrower corridor at the top. The black girl led her into a dormitory with ragged blankets laid out on the floor, then to a small dormer window. Together they opened it. A squeeze but Storm wormed her way through.

‘Good luck,’ said the slave.

‘You too, huh?’ said Storm.

Then the black girl was gone.

Storm scrabbled up the slated roof to a chimney stack. Here she reviewed her options. Up on the rooftops was still light, whereas down below was shrouded in shadows. She had no time, though any mistake could prove fatal. 

She chose to climb down the roof on the lane side and then leap across to the next building. Risky, she could fall to her death. 

If she was caught, however, at best she knew that they would hurt her and brand her and probably ruin what looks she had and that would be death too, only slower. 

And they would hurt her, rape her hard, that is what they always did.

She let herself slide down the other side of the roof, on her stomach. Underneath her she could hear trouble coming. A clatter as a window was thrown back. She heard someone else climbing out, then another.

Her feet reached the gutter. She carefully turned round onto her back. Above her, coming over the roof ridge, were two guards. 

The leap to the next building was not too far, about six or so feet. She did not delay. She braced her feet against the gutter, bent her legs, sprang forwards. 

The guards almost had her.

The gutter beneath her gave way, and fell, clattering against the outer wall of the building. Her arms flailed forward, as she half jumped, half fell. 

She grabbed hold of the gutter on the other side. She did not look down. Luckily this gutter was not rusted and held. 

Storm was strong and she managed to pull herself up and on to the roof. She ran, stooped, up the slates to the roof ridge, and then down the other side. A whoop and a bolt shrieked off a chimney pot, its flight scoring her cheek.

Cursing came from behind her, but they made no attempt at the jump.

She came to a skylight, fastened tight. She heaved a slate off and shattered the glass. 

Undoing the window, she slammed it back and leapt down into the room below. Another dormitory. Slaves were huddled against the far wall of the room.

‘How do I get out?’ said Storm.

‘Down there,’ said one of the slaves. ‘The doors are open.’

She nodded. ‘Show me, huh?’ 

One of the black men took her to a small stair and pointed. 

She bounded down the steps, then descended the main stair. She passed one or two people or slaves, did not stop to find out. 

Calls of astonishment and alarm stalked her. 

At the foot of the stair, she saw an open door. Flinging herself through, she came into an internal courtyard. A wall and an archway led through into another street. She sprinted for it, then slithered to a halt. She poked her head around, searching the lane. She had escaped for now.

Without further delay, she turned into the lane and walked quickly away, did not run or look back, towards the harbour.

She was not discovered. 

One block of buildings passed and then another, she knew not to peer behind her. Still no pursuit. 

‘Careful, Storm,’ she chided herself, ‘careful.’ Too easy! Far too easy, huh? Were they playing it clever? All wrong, too quiet!They were on to her!

She suddenly sprang forward, just as two men leapt out of the shadows. She was off again. This time she stayed comfortably ahead of them. Their exertions had taken a lot out of them.

She swore again.

As she ran past, she saw another patrol. As soon as they saw that she was being pursued by the city guard, they started off after her too. 

They were fresh, they paced each other. Now Storm was being quickly overtaken. She redoubled her efforts. Her breathing started to become laboured. Despite her fear, her legs ached abominably.

Now she was approaching the harbours. Slatterns and their customers hung around, yet she saw no hope. The pursuit was too close for her to turn down into one of the closes. Her only hope was to run straight and fast without stopping.

Her final spurt left the chasers in her wake, the first edge had been taken off their speed. She ran across the wharf as the sea broke against the harbour wall. 

A long wooden pier stretched before her and she carried on. Her head was lolling and she panted, yet still she kept on. The pursuit was closer again. In a moment they would catch her.

Ships and mariners and cargo slid past. The pier end approached. She kept on. Her pursuers slithered to a halt, but she ran forward, made one huge bound off the end of the jetty and splashed into the sea.

She surfaced, flailing her arms and legs.

‘Help!’ she cried. ‘Help! I can’t swim!’

The guard watched her, chests heaving, did nothing to help. One of them loaded a crossbow, took careful aim and then with a whoop fired. 

Storm gave out a cry, shrieked for help. She went under the water, came up again one last time shrieking, and then disappeared beneath the waves.

‘Did you get her?’ asked the officer.

‘I am not sure,’ said the crossbowman. ‘Close. But I’m not sure.’

They were too far away, and the sinking sun glinted red off the water so they could not see if there was any blood.

The rich burgess hurried up then, red and sweating.

‘Did you get the scav bitch?’ he said, panting.

‘Yeah,’ said the officer of the guard. His face was also shiny with sweat. ‘She’s gone. Harnakos, she led us a chase! What did she do?’ Then he saw the burgess’s face, the swollen lips and broken teeth. ‘Oh, I see. How did that happen?’

‘An unprovoked attack!’ said the fat burgess, sounding defensive. ‘She put my face into a drinking fountain.’

The officer nodded, thinking there was probably more to the incident than that, yet in the end what did that matter? The death of a no-account street girl was not going to concern anyone.

The officer turned away, then looked back out over the silver rippling dark water. Wondering for a moment, he smiled slightly, shook his head, looked back.

‘Later, Storm,’ he said distinctly.

Storm was below his feet, underneath the jetty, holding on to one of pier legs. She was, of course, an excellent swimmer. 

Waiting until they had gone, waiting until full night, she swam out from the pier and came round in a half circle beyond the lights of the harbour. She found a quiet piece of beach and hauled herself up on the shingle. There she lay in the dark, listening. Everything felt right, this time: she was certain that she had escaped.

She rose and walked a way up the beach and sheltered underneath the seawall. She was dripping wet. 

Checking underneath her dress, she found she still had her dagger, two onions and two silver pieces. Her heavy dress was sodden though the night was pleasantly warm. The graze on her waist was nothing, just an irritating scratch, though it had stung when she went into the sea. 

She waited there, waited for two hours or so, doing nothing but eating the onions and listening.

Finally, she climbed the wall and padded soggily back into the harbour area, still taking care that she was not being sought. She breathed more easily.

She walked along a lane. Soon she would need to find a safe spot to dry herself off and to sleep.

Towards her came a well-dressed mother with two children. One, an infant, was in the woman’s arms, the other, a small brightly clad girl of around five-years old, was skipping along, a few paces behind her mother. 

She was a pretty wee girl with a warm nature, full of life and happiness and exuberance, without a care in the big bad world. 

Storm let the mother past and then, as the wee girl bounded up, Storm cuffed her around the head. 

The child fell to the ground, stunned and skinning her knees on the cobbles, then burst into floods of tears. Her mother ran back to the wailing child and took her in her arms, and then hurried away. 

Storm marched on.