Tales of
Erogenia
Based
on the online comic created by J.E. Draft.
Episode 2: Journey to
Jinqua
Chapter
6:
Detours
Zenaria stalked off into
the forest, ignoring the fact that she really didn’t know where she
was going. She simply felt an
urgent need to put space between herself and Sir Varden and his annoying
speech mannerisms. However, she
knew that it was more than just the knight’s personality she was running
away from. The knight reminded
her of her failings as a warrior in allowing herself to be captured, and
his belief that her gender excluded her from martial skills was especially
galling. If not for the fact
that he had saved her life she would have given him a quick lesson in
manners.
Thirty paces into the forest
she stopped. She had gone just
far enough for the forest to hide her from the
campsite. To her left flowed
the Fuln. Even where it narrowed
to pass to the west of the island it was a good bowshot across and the water
ran deep and fast. Just possibly
she might be able to swim across, but it was doubtful and in any case she
would have gained nothing. She
would still have to cross the thickly wooded island to the eastern branch
of the Fuln and then cross that stretch of
water. It would be better to
continue to follow the river until she reached a place where it could be
crossed even if that meant walking for several days along the
bank. Sooner or later she would
come to a settlement where a boat could take her
across.
Unfortunately, she had no
money to purchase a passage across, and her splendid armour was gone, denying
her the chance of making a dramatic entrance to the Fox
Tribe. However, she would just
have to do the best she could. She
frowned as she realized that she had so little in the way of resources that
she did not even have a blanket to sleep
under.
“Just have to make
the best of it,” she muttered.
It would not be the first time she had slept out in the open without
the luxury of a blanket. And
she still had Jaree. Snuggling
up to the leopard was a solid substitute.
She sent out a mental probe
seeking the cat and got a reassuring
reply. The leopard was sleeping,
not an unusual state of affairs considering that the leopard usually hunted
at night and then preferred to sleep by
day. Zenaria’s tendency
to travel by day and sleep by night did not sit well with the leopard, but
she graciously consented in order to keep her human companion
company.
Zenaria
shrugged. She might as well move
on. The cat would catch up at
night. She preferred to move
with the cat close to her, but she could manage without for
now. “Sleep then,”
she sent. “I’ll see
you tonight.” She was answered
by a drowsy purr. Moving her
feet once again she continued her course along the
river.
It was a hot day, and she
kept to the shade as much as possible.
However, it was not long before she was dripping with sweat and with
the proximity of the river she decided that a cool swim might be a good way
to break her trek. She walked
on a bit farther and found the ideal spot where a bend in the river created
a sheltered backwater. Quickly
she stripped off her clothing and placing them on a large rock, plunged into
the water.
She found herself wishing
that Shalandra had come with her.
If she had perhaps she would not have been captured by the rivermen,
and she missed having her sister with
her. She had grown used to the
younger woman’s lively presence during their journey to the Hawk
Tribe. However, she reflected
that Shalandra was where she had to be in order to improve her shaman’s
skills and who better to teach her than a man like
Guntig.
She splashed around in the
river for awhile and then swam slowly over to a large rock and pulled herself
onto it. Warmed by the sun, the
rock radiated heat, compensating for the cool touch of the air on her wet
skin. She rolled over on her
back and watched the water trickle down her
body. And then she
froze.
“What in the name of
the Moon?” she gasped. Her
fingers swept over her body touching places she knew well or thought she
did. Her fingers lingered on
her left thigh where a Sandak arrow had pieced her
flesh. There should have been
a scar there, but it was gone, leaving only smooth, unmarked
skin. She checked her shoulder
where she had gained a scar in the arena and then looked for a dozen other
scars she had earned during her short
life. They were all
gone.
She flushed in
anger. What had that accursed
knight done to her? She could
remember the incredible feeling that swept through her body as he had placed
his hands on her and the power of his healing had coursed through her
body. She had lost all of the
symbols of honour she had earned during a life spent in
combat.
She had a sudden
thought. No, that would just
be too much, but the knight had continually referred to her as a
maid. She slid her hand lower
and muttered a vulgar curse she had heard the rivermen
use. “That pious bastard
owes
As she strapped her sword
on she reconsidered. Much as
she would like to give the holier-than-thou knight a good thrashing she realized
that it would gain her nothing. She
owed him a debt of honour, not a beating and she doubted that the knight
was even aware that by healing her he had taken away not only her injuries,
but had restored her virginity as well.
It would not sit well with the
cha to attack the man who had saved her
life. And in any case it was
not likely that the knight could undo what he had
done. She tossed her quiver over
her shoulder and stepped back onto the path she had been
following. She had wasted enough
time. By now the knight might
be trying to follow her and she did not trust herself if they met
again. It was best if she got
moving. She stepped briskly
forward.
Half a league on she came
to a point where a rocky bluff lay across her
path. It offered only a slight
obstacle to someone on foot, but she knew that anyone on horseback would
have to detour. “Let’s
see that knight follow me here,” she said as she climbed the rocky
slope.
Reaching the top she found
the ground broken and thick with blackberry
bushes. It was a welcome find,
but one she needed to approach with
caution. Bears often frequented
such spots and she didn’t want to surprise one of
them. A quick check, however,
assured her that none were present and she busied herself gathering
berries. Her fingers and lips
were soon purple with their juice, as she ate one for every two or three
she placed in her makeshift bark bucket.
The act of gathering berries
brought memories of her youth when she had engaged in the same task alongside
others of her village. It was
as pleasant then as it was now and she didn’t hurry as she gorged herself
on the ripe fruit. It was perhaps
for that reason that she didn’t hear anything until the creature that
was stalking her was right on top of her.
There was a loud roar as
the ogre burst out of the patch of berry bushes where it had been
snoozing. Zenaria had seen ogres
before, but not one this big. It
stood half again her height and was probably five times her
weight. And in spite of its enormous
size it moved faster than a running
horse. She barely had time to
draw her sword before it was upon her.
Unfortunately, her sword made little
difference. The ogre swept one
huge paw toward her, catching her blade along with her body and picking her
up and hurling her thirty feet into a thick patch of blackberry
bushes.
The barbed blackberry vines
saved her life. If she had slammed
into one of the trees or rocky outcrops that were spaced about the ridge
top she would probably have been killed.
Nevertheless, she could hardly have been considered to have had a
soft landing. The sharp thorns
of the berry bushes shredded her clothes, ripped her skin, and tangled her
so badly in their vines that she was almost inextricably
caught. Dazed, she struggled
to free herself even as the angry ogre stalked toward
her.
She saw that her sword had
done some damage. There was a
nasty cut on the ogre’s forearm, but hardly enough to do more than annoy
the monster. It crashed through
the berry bushes with the ease of a child crossing a grassy
meadow. Helpless, Zenaria saw
death standing before her, but strangely, the ogre made no move to finish
her off. Instead it stared down
at her, and growled though its tusked
mouth.
Zenaria had never beheld
a more terrifying sight. The
ogre was humanoid in shape, and covered in shaggy, reddish brown fur that
covered all of its body from shoulders to its
toes. Only on its chest and belly
did the thick fur thin a bit to reveal leathery brown
skin. Its head was covered by
a shock of stringy red hair that reached to its
shoulders. Through this thick
mat erupted two horns that sprouted from its forehead and then curved inward,
almost in the shape of a lyre. Two
bloodshot eyes and a wide fang-filled mouth gave the beast a frightening
appearance.
“You hurt Grock,”
the ogre growled. “She-bitch
stick long knife in Grock. Grock
should crush you.” The ogre
paused, raising a fist the size of a large cooking pot and Zenaria prepared
for death, but then it lowered its fist and gave what was the ogre equivalent
of a smile. “No,” it
rumbled. “Grock have better
way for you to die.” Reaching
down it plucked her like a doll from the berry patch and grabbing her by
the ankles in one huge hand, dangled her in front of it the way a man might
raise a fish for others to admire.
Almost naked, her clothes
torn away by the thorns of the blackberry bush, Zenaria hung
helplessly. Escape from so powerful
a captor was impossible as she well knew.
She had been captured once before by ogres and they had held her prisoner
until she had been sold to Sandak
slavers. Only the fact that she
would fetch a better price as a virgin had kept the male ogre from raping
her and she suspected that her present captor might have the same thing in
mind. Swinging upside down her
eyes were perfectly placed to take in the huge organ that hung between the
ogre’s legs and she knew if that was her captor’s intent she would
probably die most horribly.
Whatever the ogre had planned
for her, it seemed that it did not intend to carry it out right
away. Still holding on to her
with one hand, Grock gathered up her sword and bow and arrows in the other,
and strode off through the trees.
Zenaria remembered from her previous captivity that the ogres had
been just as interested in making money by selling her and whatever else
she had as in molesting her and that had saved her from the sort of brutal
treatment she might have suffered.
She wondered if this ogre was motivated in the same
way. If so, she could be expect
to be sold into slavery, but at least she would probably not be
harmed. It was not the most
optimistic hope, but as the ogre carried her like a dead squirrel through
the forest, it was all she had except for one thing.
“Jaree,” she
called. She filled the signal
she sent the cat with images of alarm and fear and got an immediate
response. The leopard was on
the way, but would it find her in time?
The only way Jaree could
intervene was to follow her trail from the camp, and although she had not
gone far the each stride of the ogre took her farther and farther away from
the snow leopard. And the ogre
moved with incredible speed, pushing through stands of trees and thick brush
as if it were so many weeds. Even
Jaree would have trouble matching that pace and the cat would be slowed down
a little as it followed the trail.
And then the ogre dashed even that brief hope of
salvation.
The ogre approached what
appeared to be a rock wall blocking their
path. With a growl he set Zenaria
down and quickly looped a length of rawhide around her ankles, binding her
tightly. Then he moved to a large
boulder and with considerable effort heaved the rock aside revealing a dark
hole in the side of the cliff.
Zenaria had no time to untie the knots binding her ankles in the brief
time it took to move the boulder and the ogre had carefully set down her
sword and dagger too far away for her to reach
it. With the rock out of the
way he returned to her, picked her up by the feet once again and carried
her to the cave. Then returning
to the entrance he dragged the rock back into
position. It appeared to be balanced
so that it was easier to roll back than remove and Zenaria’s heart sank
as she realized that even if Jaree tracked her, the leopard would never be
able to move the boulder.
Zenaria expected it to be
completely dark when the rock was rolled into place, but a faint glow in
the distance revealed that there was another
entrance. This was confirmed
when the ogre picked her up once again and carried her toward the
light. They emerged into another
forested region, much like the one where she had been caught and the ogre
immediately began to stride down a well-marked
trail.
The upside down position
was beginning to make Zenaria dizzy as the blood rushed to her head and she
moved her arms in an attempt to keep her blood
moving. Although she thought
the ogre might object he seemed oblivious to her, carrying her the way someone
might carry a chicken and ignoring her
movements.
Even upside down Zenaria
was able to notice a few things as she was carried
along. One of them was the fact
that where the ogre was walking was no ordinary forest
path. Clearly at one time there
an ancient road had cut through the forest, and not of the sort of road Zenaria
had seen so far in Erogenia. This
was constructed of finely cut blocks of stone that were so well fitted that
they had resisted the ravages of time.
Only once before had Zenaria seen such finely cut stonework and that
was in the Sandak city of
The mystery deepened a few
ogre paces farther along the road when the ruins of once great buildings
came into view. Whomever had
built the ancient city had built to last.
In spite of the fact that most of the stonework was being attacked
by mosses and lichens and many trees and bushes had taken root among the
once great buildings, the shape of the city could still clearly be
seen. Great pillars marched along
the road and the ogre passed beneath several huge
arches. Here and there piles
of stone marked collapsed walls, but even the shattered ruins could not hide
the fact that a magnificent city had once existed in the middle of what was
now wilderness.
Held as she was by the ankles,
a great deal of the splendour of the ruins was lost on
Zenaria. She frequently had to
raise her head and twist her torso to keep from being thumped against some
lump of stone or dragged through a bush.
But that finally came to an end when the ogre entered what was left
of a once splendid building.
What the building had once
been used for was difficult to determine and Zenaria did not know enough
about architecture to guess. To
her it was simply a very large stone building decorated with elaborate carvings
depicting warriors in various heroic
acts. It might have been a temple
or part of a palace. Whatever
it had been, the ogre had converted into a comfortable ogre
den.
During her previous time
as a captive Zenaria had learned that the brutish creatures were a bit more
sophisticated than they looked. The
cave where she had been held captive had been neatly kept and even had fairly
sophisticated amenities like a spring that acted as both a source of water
and also served to carry away any waste.
Grock, however, appeared quite different from her previous ogre
captors. The centrepiece of his
den was a huge iron kettle suspended on chains from the
ceiling. The fact that the firepit
he had created beneath it had destroyed an exquisite mosaic was evidently
lost on the ogre, especially given the fact that he had used several pieces
of what had once been beautiful statues of nude female warriors as stones
to encircle the firepit. What
really caught Zenaria’s eye however, was the fact that the floor was
littered with bones, many of which still had bits of rotting flesh clinging
to them.
Zenaria was used to bad
smells. Snow Leopard settlements
were full of them, especially in winter when bathing was difficult if not
impossible. However, even her
nose was offended by the filth and offal that was scattered about the large
room. Grock apparently thought
of the entire world as being his privy and the stench of urine and ogre excrement
was almost overwhelming. But
all this was lost by the frightening discovery that many of the bones scattered
about the tiles floor were human in
origin. Zenaria suddenly realized
that Grock’s main motive in capturing her was probably as
food.
She had plenty of time to
think about his intentions as he carried her to a part of the room just a
few feet from the large kettle where a length of chain dangled from a pulley
suspended from a wooden derrick.
Attached to the end of the chain were two heavy
shackles. Removing the ropes
that bound her ankles, he snapped the iron fetters on her ankles and left
her hanging head-down six feet from the floor.
To make good and sure that she
could not escape he used the rope that he had taken from her ankles to bind
her wrists tightly behind her back.
Upside down and helpless, Zenaria could only watch with growing terror
as the ogre went about making preparations for supper.
He began by piling brush
under the kettle, and then using a flint and steel he kindled a fire and
then piled larger pieces of firewood onto the
blaze. From her elevated vantage
point Zenaria could see that the cauldron was already filled with
water. Once the fire was burning
nicely the ogre moved across the room and picked up a
sack. Returning to the kettle
he reached into the sack and tossed in handfuls of onions along with a number
of cloves of garlic and some wild
cabbage. Finally he added a small
handful of salt and nodded in
satisfaction. “Good,”
he growled. “This make good
soup once meat is added.”
The way he looked at Zenaria
left no doubt what the “meat” was going to be, something that was
confirmed just a few minutes later.
After tossing a few dozen parsnips into the kettle Grock moved over
to where his helpless captive hung from the
ceiling. Reaching out he ran
his hands over her body, stopping at her
breasts. “You be a bit tough,
but lots of meat here.”
In spite of the mortifying
treatment there was nothing Zenaria could do as the ogre stripped off her
tattered clothing; everything but her
boots. Then he went to the beam
from which she was suspended and turned the support post, moving her directly
over the kettle. Although the
water was only just beginning to steam, the heat from the fire was tremendous
and Zenaria had to struggle to get her breath in the rising waves of
heat.
“Soon water boil,”
Grock grinned, barring his fangs, “then you be part of
soup.”
Almost suffocating in the
heat and smoke of the fire, Zenaria strained at her bonds, attempting through
sheer strength to snap the ropes that bound her, but although they stretched
a little they did not break.
Desperately, she twisted her body putting all of her strength into
the effort. Grock merely looked
at her, the equivalent of an ogre leer on his face, clearly enjoying watching
his victim squirm. Zenaria knew
that her efforts were hopeless, but she couldn’t just let the ogre lower
her into the boiling water. She
had to try something, no matter how futile it
was.
She succeeded only in rubbing
her wrists raw and working herself into a state of near
exhaustion. By now clouds of
steam were boiling up from the kettle and she knew that her time was running
out. She had no idea how long
Grock would let her struggle, but knew that no matter how much he enjoyed
the spectacle of seeing her struggle eventually he would tire of the sport
and lower her into the boiling cauldron.
It occurred to her very
briefly that there might be some way she could bargain with the ogre, but
it was a thought instantly dismissed.
She had nothing to bargain with.
The ogre already had what he wanted, which was her as dinner and she
doubted very such she could get him to change his mind no matter what she
offered. All she could do was
die as bravely as she could and hope that she would not scream as she was
lowered into the boiling water.
“Now you become
soup,” Grock said. He placed
his hand on a winch holding the chains that suspended Zenaria above the cauldron
and began to lower her toward the steaming
surface.
Bubbles of steam exploded
from below her, splattering scalding water over her head and
shoulders. Choking from the smoke
and exhausted from her struggles, Zenaria could not help but think what a
sad end it was for a warrior of the Snow
Leopard. But she would not beg
for mercy. The only sound was
her ragged breathing as she struggled to
escape. Her actions became even
more frantic as she was slowly lowered toward the bubbling
brew. Although her situation
was hopeless she would not give up.
As her thick braid sank into the soup she bent her head toward her
toes in one last effort to avoid the
inevitable.
“Grock like you,”
the ogre grinned, showing his fangs.
“You fight. Too bad
you look so tasty.” He stroked
Zenaria’s naked buttocks, his fingers fondling the smooth, rounded flesh
before once again placing his hand on the winch and lowering her into the
kettle, the ratchet of the winch clicking out her
doom.
At the last instant Zenaria
held her breath. She hoped that
she would not scream as her body entered the boiling
water. Horrible as her death
would be she wanted to die like a
warrior.
“Hold
varlet! Release that fair maid
in the name of Saint Brenna!”
Zenaria could hardly believe
her ears. How could Sir Varden
have possibly found her when there was still no sign of
Jaree? It was inconceivable that
the knight could have tracked her and the leopard not have done so as
well. But no sound was more welcome
than the knight’s voice or the sight of his gleaming armour as he rode
into the room.
“Who you be?”
Grock asked, more surprised than anything
else. He had no reason to be
afraid of the knight. Even mounted
on his stallion, his spectacular plumed helmet barely came up to the ogre’s
head.
“I am Sir Varden, Knight
of the…” Sir Varden began, but the ogre cut him
off.
“You be fool to come
here. I cook you in your metal
suit over slow fire. Will be
nice to hear you sizzle as grease runs from your
flesh.” As he spoke, Grock
removed his hand from the winch and moved toward the
knight. He carried no weapon,
but as Zenaria had discovered, the ogre was capable of managing very well
without one. He hunched forward,
his arms spread wide to prevent the knight from escaping, and moved toward
his intended victim.
In a seemingly suicidal
attack, the knight spurred his charger forward, the point of his lance aimed
squarely at the ogre’s chest.
Zenaria, who had experienced first hand just how fast the ogre could
move waited for Grock to avoid the attack and was not surprised when the
ogre batted aside the lance before it reached him, but she was surprised
by what happened next. Without
changing his line of attack Sir Varden drew his sword and drove his warhorse
into the ogre. It was something
the ogre had not anticipated, but it was a tactic the charger seemed quite
familiar with. The huge horse
struck out with its front hooves catching Grock in the chest with two blows
that struck with the force of twin
sledgehammers. The impact knocked
the ogre back, allowing the knight to swerve his mount to the ogre’s
right and to strike with the full force of his sword arm.
Rising in the stirrups the
knight brought the sword down, severing the ogre’s right hand at the
wrist. Grock screamed with pain
as blood fountained in a great arc from the bleeding stump and clutched at
his wrist with his remaining hand.
At the same time Sir Varden jerked hard on the reins, pirouetting
his charger around and striking once more. Too late Grock
reacted. A foot of steel cut
through his throat slicing through his
jugular. With a gurgling cry
the ogre staggered backward, turned in a complete circle and then fell forward
with a deafening crash.
Sir Varden swung off his
horse and strode quickly toward the helpless
Zenaria. Reaching the derrick
he swung it around so that she was no longer over the boiling
cauldron. Almost overcome by
the steaming heat, Zenaria sucked in air, relief and then chagrin sweeping
over her as the knight lowered her to the floor and then removed her
shackles. Once again she owed
her life to the knight. Adding
to her mortification was that for a few minutes she could do nothing except
lie helpless while he ministered to her.
“Fear not, fair
princess. I will care for
thee,” Sir Varden said as he used a scrap of what had once been her
clothing to wipe the sweat from her face.
“Bring blankets and brandy,” he shouted to Derwald, who
had appeared in the doorway carrying a crossbow almost the same size as he
was. The boy nodded and disappeared,
returning a few seconds later with a blanket and a leather
flask.
The knight lifter her under
the shoulders and swept the blanket beneath her, in spite of Zenaria’s
feeble protests. The ordeal had
taken so much out of her she could barely move and she was forced to tolerate
the knight’s ministrations.
Folding the blanket over her nude body Sir Varden took the flask from
his squire and held it too her lips.
Reluctantly Zenaria
swallowed. In spite of her natural
tendency to resist the knight’s help she was not so stubborn that she
did not recognize the need for what he was trying to
do. The brandy burned as it coursed
down her throat, but somehow it helped and in spite of the knight’s
attempt to hold her down, she pushed aside his arm and got shakily to her
feet. “I can stand on my
own,” she said gruffly, as the knight moved to assist
her. She instantly regretted
her tone of voice, but the disgrace of being captured twice in just two days
and rescued by the same man was the ultimate in
humiliation.
“I regret your garments
seemed to have been damaged beyond repair, princess,” the knight said,
as he took her arm. “But
there may be something of mine you can fit into until more suitable garments
can be found.”
Zenaria was about to shake
off his hand when her legs buckled.
Dropping the blanket she collapsed and would have fallen had not Sir
Varden caught her. “Come,
Princess,” he said. “Let
us get out of this vile place.”
Cradling her in his arms he carried her through the ogre-sized door
and out into the paved road.
Placing her in the shade of a large piece of broken statuary, he arranged
the blanket around her.
“Build a fire,”
the knight ordered Derwald.
“I must see to the princess’s
injuries.”
“I’m alright,”
Zenaria protested weakly, but in truth now that the excitement of her ordeal
had worn off she ached all over, but especially on the side of her body where
the ogre’s hand had struck her.
“Forgive me, princess,
but I must see thee before I can tend thy
hurts.” Sir Varden knelt
beside her, the bevor of his visor raised so that her could see
better. It left only his blue
eyes and part of his nose visible, but Zenaria suspected that he was
blushing. However, whatever his
feelings, he moved the blanket aside, exposing her body to the
waist. Zenaria saw now why she
was in so much pain. The entire
right side of her body, from her shoulder to her hip was one gigantic purple
bruise, the imprints of the ogre’s fingers clearly marked by an even
darker discolouration. Not had
her left side escaped injury. Not
only was it bruised in several places, but it was also badly scraped where
the blackberry brambles had torn her
skin.
Removing his gloves, Sir
Varden helped Derwald start a small fire.
While the squire fed wood into the blaze the knight placed an iron
pot full of water from a nearby spring on a rock next to the
coals. Once the water came to
a boil he dipped a cloth into it and set about cleaning Zenaria’s
wounds. She suffered the pain
of the treatment in silence and refused the offer of a medication to dull
the pain. However, when the knight
was ready to begin the second phase of his healing she was not so
cooperative.
“Now, princess,”
the knight said, “I must once again lay my hands on thee and call on
the holy blessing of Saint Brenna.”
“No,” Zenaria
said, pushing the knight away from her.
“I will heal without your
assistance.”
“Princess,” the
knight protested. “Thy injuries
are most serious. Without my
help they may take many weeks to
heal.”
“I will do without
the blessing of Saint Brenna this time,” Zenaria
answered. “There is no telling
what changes might take place if I do.”
The knight looked at her
strangely, but made no effort to use his healing powers other than to bind
up her wounds. He settled her
close to the fire and then he and Derwald busied themselves setting up a
proper camp.
It was finally decided to
move the camp to another ruined building a short distance from the ogre’s
lair. The building selected was
not as large as that used by the ogre, but more practical for human purposes
being easier to heat and also to defend.
It also was free from the stench of the ogre and the heaps of bones,
many of which turned out to be human, that littered the ogre’s
den. Zenaria had to be carried
there, her body suddenly stiffening from the numerous bruises she had
received. It was an embarrassing
situation for the proud warrior, but she knew that she could not have made
it on her own.
“Since thou deny the
blessing of Saint Brenna I and Derwald will stay with thee, princess, until
thy wounds have properly healed.”
The tone of Sir Varden’s voice clearly indicated that he thought
her somewhat foolish for refusing to make use of his
talents. Zenaria, however, was
too tired and sore to care. She
wanted nothing more than to curl up and
sleep. But even as her eyes closed
a disturbing thought haunted her.
Sir Varden had now saved her life
twice. That would certainly have
created a serious imbalance in the
cha, a balance she could only restore by doing a service
equal to the once she had received.
It would mean that the knight was going to play a major part in her
life for some time to come. With
that reassuring thought in her head, Zenaria drifted off into
dreamland.
The next day Zenaria came
close to reversing her decision not to let Sir Varden heal her as she did
the day after that, and even up to the third day of her
convalescence. She hurt in almost
every part of her body and her lungs kept on coughing up smoke from the fire
the ogre had hung her over. It
was a painful healing process and it left her so sore and weak that she had
to be helped in everything except eating.
Her helplessness grated at her, but she reminded herself that she
had brought it on herself in the first place by allowing the rivermen to
take her prisoner and then not respecting the
cha
by staying with Sir Varden after he had rescued her the first
time. Now she was doubly in his
debt and she would have to put her mission on hold until it was
repaid.
She spent four days on her
back. She had no choice in the
matter. For most of that period
she could barely move and was forced to allow the knight and his squire to
wait on her. It gave her a chance
to learn a bit more about him and
visa-versa. The first thing she
learned was that the knight had once again been guided to her assistance
by a vision. Apparently this
one had occurred while he was riding after her and was so strong he had been
drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
He had removed the giant boulder that blocked the tunnel by hitching
his charger to it like a common plough horse and then ridden after her, arriving
just in time.
It was a story Zenaria would
rather not have heard, but she now realized that for whatever reason her
destiny and the knight’s seemed to be linked, and until she could repay
her debt she was going to have to put up with
him.
They exchanged information
about one another’s cultures.
Sir Varden seemed to find Erogenia especially fascinating, particularly
the status of men and women. The
concept of a society in which the sexes were seen as equals and in which
sex was regarded as a normal part of everyday life was something he found
very difficult to grasp. In many
ways they were so different that a proper understanding of one another was
almost impossible. “You
mean to say,” the knight asked, his voice rising in disbelief, “that
you exercise no moral restraint when it comes to matters between men and
women?”
“Of course we do,”
Zenaria replied. “Erogenians
are no more lacking in moral restraint than you
are. The only difference is that
we do not hide behind a mask of hypocrisy.”
“But in your society
men and women copulate indiscriminately.
And what do you mean ‘mask of
hypocrisy?’”
“That is not so,”
Zenaria replied hotly. “I
have always chosen my lovers with care.
And as for hypocrisy, is it not true that in Kivalia women are subjected
to the wishes of men?”
“That is because women
are …” Sir Varden began.
He stopped, seemingly embarrassed, colouring the way he always did
when he confronted by something that confused him.
“Yes?” Zenaria
asked. “Were you about to
say that women are not as strong as men?”
“Well,” the knight
said, “most are not.”
“I see,” Zenaria
said, “and so you favour the rule of the strong over the
weak?”
The knight looked at her
and frowned. “I see that
you are clever with your tongue as well as your
sword. I cannot match words with
you; I am but a simple knight.”
“Simple might be an
understatement,” Zenaria thought.
But she said nothing.
Instead she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the fact that she
was completely nude. Aloud she
said, “Erogenians value one another by their deeds, not by their sex
or by who their parents were. From
now on I will care for myself. I
will show you how strong a woman can be.”
“But,
princess…” the knight began, his face bright red in
embarrassment.
“I am going to
bathe. Perhaps you might join
me.” She walked from the
camp, Jaree following. Dumbfounded
Sir Varden looked after her, making no attempt to
follow. Zenaria had learned that
there was a place where a spring ran into a shallow pool creating a perfect
place for bathing.
As she walked through the
ruined city she studied the broken
buildings. There was something
about the ruins that made her uneasy, but at first she couldn’t place
it. Then as she came across a
huge statue lying on its side she understood what it
was. The statue was of a female
warrior brandishing a sword in one hand and holding a round shield in the
other. The arm holding the sword
had shattered when the statue came down, and lay in several pieces across
her path. But it was the face
and hair of the statue that caught her
attention. It was clearly an
Erogenian warrior, right down to the fighting braid that hung down the
woman’s back. She furrowed
her brow at this. Could it be
that Erogenians had built this grand
city? If so, what had caused
its fall? It was something she
puzzled over all the way to the bathing pool and then forgot about as she
stepped into the water.
She kept her movements slow
as she entered the water. She
was still covered with the cuts and bruises she had gained in her encounter
with the ogre and moving too quickly brought an instant reminder of her injuries,
but it felt good to feel the water washing off the grime that had accumulated
on her body during the four days she had spent on her
back. “Tomorrow,” she
thought as she sluiced water of her head, “I’m going to try and
get back in shape. I’ve
sat around long enough.”
The next day she almost
regretted her decision, but she knew that the longer she waited the harder
it was going to be and so she forced herself into something resembling a
normal routine. Getting up, she
ate the oatmeal porridge Derwald had prepared and then picked up her bow
and quiver. Sir Varden watched
her in silence and made no effort to stop her as she headed out the doorway
of their makeshift dwelling.
The first thing she did
was go hunting with Jaree. The
leopard had turned up the night of the day she had been captured, somehow
working his way to her side by a route different from the one the knight
had taken. With the cat to help
her, she brought down a buck and hauled it back to the
It took her a day to create
a serviceable set of clothing and the next day she began to work herself
back into shape. Moving to an
open area outside the ruined building where Sir Varden had set up camp she
began to go though her sword drills.
The knight and squire came out to watch her, at first with amusement,
and then with intense interest as they realized that the princess they had
rescued did not fit their image of what a princess was supposed to
be. That was made all the more
obvious by the fact that Zenaria had stripped down to her breeches and was
wearing only the briefest of halters to contain her
breasts. To her surprise, the
knight did not turn away but instead sat down on a stone and watched her
go through her sword drills.
After watching Zenaria swing
her blade for a short time the knight joined in, but not without bowing to
her first. “Forgive me,
princess. I misjudged
thee. It is now apparent to me
that thou art not what I supposed a princess would
be. May I have the privilege
of joining you?”
Zenaria nodded and the knight
drew his sword and went through his own
drills. It did not take long
before each of them noted differences in the other’s
technique. “Perhaps, sir
knight,” Zenaria suggested, “we could spar with one
another. It would quicken my
recovery and I am interested in learning something of your
technique.”
“Agreed,
princess. It appears that I badly
misjudged your ability to use a blade and I
apologize.”
“No need to apologize,
sir knight. It is apparent that
you have not traveled widely.”
Zenaria could not resist a jab at the knight’s comparative lack
of sophistication. Although he
was about her age, it was obvious from his comments that he had led a relatively
sheltered life. She raised her
sword in readiness and the knight moved to meet her.
Sparring with Sir Varden
was exhausting even though it was evident that the knight was holding
back. She immediately felt a
surge of resentment, but quickly realized that there was little she could
do about it until she fully recovered from her
ordeal. It revealed to her just
how badly she had been hurt and she consoled herself that she was making
a fairly rapid recovery. Most
of the bruising seemed to be subsiding.
She was now no longer black and blue, just blue; and the numerous
cuts and scrapes had scabbed over nicely.
All she needed was good food, rest, and a bit more
conditioning.
She didn’t spar with
Sir Varden every day. Some days
she and Jaree slipped into the forest and
hunted. They were usually successful
enough that they didn’t need to hunt every day, especially not after
the day she and the leopard brought down an
aurochs. The enormous horned
herbivore fed them for a week, even with the huge amounts of meat that Jaree
consumed. Just as important,
her hunting seemed to impress the knight just as much as her martial
ability.
By the end of two weeks
Zenaria judged herself fit enough.
She had made good use of the time, preparing another set of hides
to use as clothing. This time
she intended to make sure they were properly cured before making another
shirt and trousers.
More importantly, however,
she had a mission to complete, but one that was now delayed due to her obligation
to Sir Varden. Balancing the
cha
now took precedence over everything else.
However, she was not quite sure what to
do. By rights she should help
the knight complete his mission, but the knight’s mission seemed to
be to protect her, a job that Zenaria regarded as quite
unnecessary. It was a bit of
a conundrum and one that Zenaria was not sure how to
solve. Finally, in desperation,
she approached the knight and explained her
problem.
“I do not understand
this
cha,” Sir Varden
said. “I simply did my duty
as the blessed saints guided me.
Thou owest nothing.”
“That is where you
are wrong,” Zenaria replied.
“I must repay my debt.
If I do not my life with remain out of balance and misfortune will
follow me wherever I go as was shown by my encounter with the
ogre.”
“Somehow I do not think
what happened to thee at the hands of the ogre was anything but an unfortunate
happenstance. It is my duty to
serve and I deserve no reward.”
“A reward was not what
I was not what I had in mind. I
have an obligation; a debt of honour.
If I cannot repay it misfortune will follow me wherever I
go.”
“I see I cannot dissuade
thee from this,” Sir Varden
conceded. “Have it thy way,
princess. I return to Kivalia
tomorrow. Thou mayest accompany
me.”
Zenaria nodded her
thanks. There were no doubt many
dangers to be encountered on the road to
Kivalia. Perhaps she could repay
a portion of her debt on that journey.
“Tomorrow then,” she
said. “I will be
ready.”
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