Barbarian Tales
Episode 1
Mistress of the Sword
by L'Espion
Chapter
5: Death of an Emperor
Shailaja was subjected to
humiliation of a different sort at the beginning of the next
day. She awoke before dawn and
was followed by Cleron a turn of the glass
later. Not surprisingly, the
Prithian emperor awoke in good spirits.
The same could hardly be said of
Shailaja. Stiff and sore from
her ordeal, she could barely move.
It seemed every part of her body between her nipples and her loins
hurt and her inner thighs sported dark
bruises.
However, she was given little
time to rest. Cleron hauled himself
from the bed, bellowed for food and drink and set about preparing himself
for the day. He did nothing for
Shailaja other than to stroke her thigh and pinch her
nipples. “Today we break
camp. In two weeks, princess
we will be in Stendor.”
“You cannot hide me
there,” Shailaja protested.
The Hasta will learn of your
treachery. All of Kaltara will
move against you.”
“I care little for
the threat of a few barbarians,” Cleron
sneered. However, no one will
learn of your whereabouts. Your
abduction was carefully staged. It
will seem to the Hasta that you have simply disappeared; perhaps taken by
the legendary beasts that haunt these mountains.”
Shailaja knew that the beasts
frequenting the Mountains of Storms were far from legendary, even though
she had never seen one before.
However, she had never been in this part of the mountains
either. It was a region that
Kaltarans gave a wide berth and Kaltarans were not easily
frightened. Unfortunately, the
chance intervention of legendary monsters was not something Shailaja could
depend upon.
Keltor appeared shortly
after Cleron with food and drink for the
emperor. In spite of the fact
that she was hungry and very thirsty, nothing was offered to Shailaja, and
with the painful shackles still on her arms she would have been unable to
eat or drink anyway. Cleron paid
her no further attention until he had finished eating, then he ordered her
out of the tent. “Get her
cleaned up and return her clothing.
She will ride with me.
Release her arms, but make sure she is properly
secured.”
“As you wish,
Excellency,” Keltor replied.
Taking Shailaja’s arm he led her from the
tent.
The walk from Cleron’s
pavilion to the stream was one of the most humiliating of Shailaja’s
life. Marched between the campfires
and tents of Cleron’s retinue she was subjected to the gaze of every
man in the camp. The marks of
her ordeal were clear upon her body and no words could have expressed the
shame she felt as their eyes fell upon the bruises on her breasts and thighs
along with the other evidence of her
degradation.
She looked straight ahead,
ignoring the remarks directed toward her.
But some hurt much more than others.
“Not much of a warrior
is she?” one of the men mocked.
She’s tall but I doubt she can match any of
us.”
“True enough,”
another agreed. “Judging
from all the noise she was making last night I think she probably does her
best fighting on her back.”
The last remark hit hard,
bringing Shailaja further shame as she recalled how she had moaned and cried
out as Cleron had taken her.
However, she ignored the taunts and waited while her ankles were once
again shackled and the irons removed from her arms.
Free from the painful restraints
for the first time in almost a full day, she almost groaned as the blood
surged back into her arms. But
she managed to hold back any sign of her torment as she stepped forward into
the water.
The chill of the stream
acted as a welcome balm, taking away the pain of her bruises as it numbed
her skin. It also seemed to help
with the throbbing pain between her
thighs. More than anything it
felt good to be able to wash away the sweat and stink of her
violation. She imagined the dishonour
she had suffered being carried away by the swift-flowing current although
she knew that such shame could never be so easily
assuaged. It would take blood
to atone for what she had suffered and she intended to have
it.
Her desire for vengeance,
however, would have to wait. Soon
enough she was called from the water.
But this time she was not subjected to the painful shackles above
her elbows. Instead, after being
allowed to dress, her wrists were joined in front of her by a short chain
that allowed her some freedom of
movement. With her ankles still
shackled there was still very little chance of escape, but at least it was
a bit more comfortable.
She was given a simple breakfast
while the camp was broken. It
was not the quality of the food served Cleron, but it filled her stomach
and helped restore some of her strength.
Now she just needed some sort of opportunity to
escape.
She did not get it right
away. While a number of soldiers
stayed behind to attend to the tents and wagons, Cleron mounted up taking
Shailaja with him. She was given
a horse to ride and was stationed just behind
Cleron. However, there was little
chance that she would make a dash for it.
The shackle around one ankle was temporarily removed so that she could
mount and then clamped back on with the chain passing beneath the belly of
the horse. In addition she was
not allowed to guide her horse.
Instead the reins were wound through the bindings of Cleron’s
saddle. However, the situation
was much better than being slung over the back of a horse or plenya the way
she had been when she was first captured.
Halvar was somewhere in
the procession, the Prithians preferring horses to the
plenya. As Cleron had pointed
out the plenya were animals of the northern wastes and not well suited to
more southern realms. However,
it appeared that Cleron was taking Halvar with him as well, perhaps with
an idea of breeding a strain of the huge beasts more suited to warm
temperatures. Whatever the case
Shailaja could hear the huge animal bellowing his displeasure at being towed
along like a pack horse near the rear of the procession.
They rode steadily for most
of the morning, taking a narrow trail that followed the stream they had camped
beside. Shailaja rode in silence,
refusing to respond to Cleron’s occasional attempts at
conversation. Strangely, he seemed
to think her rude and arrogant for refusing to speak to
him. It seemed a strange attitude
to take so far as Shailaja was concerned, considering that this was the man
who had spent the night using her against her
will. Instead of speaking she
focused on escape, constantly looking for some weakness or lapse upon the
part of her captors that might give her a chance to make a break for
it.
No chance came during the
first part of the day. They rode
without incident, taking a short break at midmorning and a longer one at
Shailaja detected the attack
moments before it came and could have given warning; but she saw no reason
to do that. The trail had taken
an upward turn past a picturesque waterfall that tumbled several hundred
yards down a steep cliff before splashing into the shallow creek they had
been paralleling. Her horse picked
up her ears and whickered nervously while at the back of the column Halvar
roared in defiance.
“What is that beast
about?” Cleron demanded, half turning in his saddle so he could speak
to Shailaja, but he had no more than asked the question before it was
answered. From the top of the
cliff a hair-raising howl sounded.
Shailaja had only heard that sound once before when she had been hunting
with her parents and several other Kaltaran warriors and knew what it
was. She also knew that no one
in the hunting party had suggested investigating it
further.
“Shandors,”
Shailaja’s mother had commented.
“They are best left alone.”
Typical of her nature, Shailaja
had urged her fellow hunters to at least see what a shandor looked like,
but was overruled. “Those
who see a shandor,” her father warned, “seldom see anything else
again.”
And so they had ridden on,
leaving the howling beasts to their mountain
domain. Now for the first time
Shailaja set eyes on the mysterious beasts responsible for the almost human-like
shrieks that erupted about them.
In size the shandor resembled
a large racoon, but there the resemblance
ended. These creatures had none
of the charm of the ring-tailed outlaw who raided the campsites and chicken
coops of the unwary; instead they resembled something from a
nightmare. They had heads that
seemed far too large for their bodies; heads equipped with enormous jaws
that yawned open like buckets as they charged down the
cliff.
Incredibly they moved
down the sheer rock face as if they were running over level ground, and as
they neared the bottom of the defile Shailaja was able to see
why. Each of the shandor’s
four limbs was equipped with four long claws that acted as climbing
hooks. There was also little
doubt that both their teeth and claws would make very effective
weapons.
“Kiiillll!” the
shandors screamed. The sound
issuing from several hundred throats was almost
deafening. But even more frightening
was that what they shrieked sounded vaguely
human. The noise, coupled with
the suddenness and swiftness of the attack, sent a chill down Shailaja’s
spine. It was obvious that the
number of soldiers at Cleron’s command was not enough to withstand the
hordes that were swarming toward them, and she was sitting weaponless and
chained to her horse unable to fight back or escape.
She watched as the first
of the shandors reached the column of riders, hurling themselves from the
cliff and onto the riders almost before they could draw their
weapons. Although each of the
beasts weighed much less than a man, the impact knocked some riders from
the saddle, leaving them flailing at their attackers on the
ground. Horses reared and screamed
in terror; men cursed and shouted, hacking at their attackers and trying
to control their unruly mounts.
Directly in front of her
Cleron drew his sword and with a sweep of his arm cut the shandor leaping
upon him out of the air. At the
same time his horse reared, the sudden action snapping the reins of
Shailaja’s horse that he had tied to his
saddle.
Shailaja reacted almost
without thinking as her horse broke free.
She had no weapon and the position on the back of the horse left her
wide open to the attack of the shandors.
Behind her Cleron’s men hemmed her in even as they fought for
their lives, and there was nowhere to go in front of her without forcing
the other riders from the trail.
Realizing that she had to get off the horse she pushed herself backward
and slid from the saddle and over its
rump.
She landed hard on her backside,
unable to stop her fall. Her
horse bolted, thankfully not catching the chain that tethered her ankles
in its hooves. As she scrambled
to her feet she was almost knocked flat again as the horse behind her crashed
into her pushing her to one side.
She saw that it was riderless and was being savaged by two
shandor. There was nothing Shailaja
could do as she watched the horse heaving and bucking as it tried to shed
the two beasts. Looking behind
her she saw its former rider lying on the ground, a shandor tearing at his
guts. She had no proper weapon,
but she had the length of chain between her
wrists. It gave her two feet
of cold iron and she used it as well as she
knew. A sweep of her arms sent
the chain slamming into the shandor’s head, the impact sending it flying
into the creek. It was, of course,
too late to save the man the shandor had been attacking, but that was not
Shailaja’s goal. What she
wanted was his sword.
She snatched it up from
the ground just as one of the shandor launched itself toward
her. She struck at it two-handed
and spit it on the end of her blade.
With a flick she hurled its body after the first and spun back toward
the front of the column. Through
the confusion of attacking shandors, neighing horses, and men fighting for
their lives she spotted the one man she sought.
It was not Cleron, but Keltor
that she went after. In spite
of the fact that she had to hold her sword two-handed she cut down two more
shandors before she reached him. He
was fighting hard against two of the beasts, his back to the
cliff. She took out one, allowing
him to concentrate on the other.
With a sweep of his sword he took off its head, only to find himself
looking down the length of Shailaja’s
blade.
“The keys,” she
demanded, the point of her sword a hand’s breadth from his
throat.
Keltor took one look at
her and quickly fumbled in a pouch at his
belt. Producing a ring of keys
he tossed them at Shailaja’s feet.
She had to lower her blade to pick them up, but the Emperor’s
lackey made no effort to challenge her.
Within moments she was free and able to swing her sword
freely. All along the rough track
Cleron’s remaining men were fighting for their lives, each man fighting
two or three of the shandors. She
ran down the track each sweep of her sword taking out one of the attacking
beasts. And then she reached
Cleron.
The emperor was lying on
the ground, propped up against a large
boulder. Scattered about him
were the bodies of several shandors.
His sword lay beside him as his both of his huge hands clutched at
his belly, trying to hold his intestines
in.
Shailaja’s brow creased
in anger, but not because of what Cleron had done to her, but because she
saw that she had been denied proper
vengeance. Never again would
Cleron face anyone with sword in hand.
The wounds he had suffered at the teeth and claws of the shandors
were too terrible for him to have any hope of
survival.
The emperor knew it as
well. With an effort that must
have taken all of his strength and caused him excruciating pain, he managed
to roll forward onto his knees.
Still clutching his spilled guts, he stared into her eyes and raised
his head.
Shailaja did not mistake
his invitation. Gripping her
sword two-handed she swept back the blade and then with a single powerful
stroke cut off the emperor’s head.
From behind her came a
scream.
“Murder! The Kaltaran
bitch has murdered the emperor!”
Shailaja turned to see Keltor
pointing at her. His accusation
came just as the remaining shandors fled back the way they had come, climbing
the cliff face with ease. There
were only half as many as there had been before, but their attack had decimated
the ranks of Cleron’s guard.
Where there had been almost sixty warriors there now remained barely
twenty and many of these were wounded.
She glared at them, daring
them to come at her. “I
murdered no one,” she growled.
“I put the coward out of his misery.”
“You lie,” Keltor
shouted. “I saw Cleron kneeling
defenceless before you and then you struck him
down.”
“I will kill you for
that lie,” Shailaja said, moving toward
him. But she was not fast
enough. Keltor ran for the nearest
horse, and mounting up put his spurs to it and galloped down the
trail. For an instant Shailaja
considered chasing him, but gave it up.
She had better things to do than pursue Cleron’s
lackey.
“I am leaving,”
she announced to the remaining men.
“Any who attempt to stop me will die.”
Wisely, no man made any
attempt to challenge her as she strode to the back of the line, where Halvar
was tethered to one of the pack horses.
Her saddle and a few of her other possessions were not with him, but
she knew where they were, and swinging onto his back she headed back they
way they had come. Although she
left a score of Cleron’s men behind her she did not fear being
followed. After the casualties
they had sustained from the shandors she doubted that they would remain long
in the mountains. Instead she
expected that they would head back to Prithia as quickly as they
could.
A league down the trail
she encountered the slow-moving supply wagon carrying Cleron’s pavilion
and other personal goods. It
took little persuasion to convince the single guard and the waggoner to give
up what she wanted.
With her possessions once
again restored to her, including her dagger and medallion, she headed Halvar
in the direction of home, or rather; she headed Halvar in a direction that
would take her close to home.
She could not return the
way she had been taken. It would
have been impossible to transport Halvar across the
lake. However, there were other
longer roads she could take that would get her back to
Lorholm. She could, of course,
have headed deeper into Prithia, and circled back toward home from there,
but having just experienced Prithian hospitality at Cleron’s hands she
had no wish to go that way, especially as she was more than likely to encounter
more of the now dead emperor’s
soldiers.
Riding around the lake would
take her several days, and take her to higher elevations, but she was not
going to leave Halvar behind. Even
if it took her a full moon longer she would come back with her faithful
plenya.
A sudden snowstorm as she
moved above the lake made her prediction about taking a moon close to
reality. It was an annoying delay,
but one that her familiarity with the wilderness fully equipped her to deal
with. She quickly built a crude
shelter and waited out the storm, using Halvar as one side of the lean-to
she constructed. By burrowing
into his thick fleecy hide she was able to wait out the storm in
safety. However, waiting for
the storm to abate delayed her for a full six days; six days that would have
a significant affect on her life.
She was short of food by
the time the snow stopped falling and she rebuked herself for not taking
the time to stock up before riding away from the Prithians, however, it took
her only a short time to bring down a couple of rabbits and then prepare
them for dinner. The meal filled
her belly and the next day she added to her food supply when she chanced
across a deer.
All of this resulted in
a delayed return to her home. In
fact she finally spotted the outskirts of the city some three weeks after
the shandor attack had allowed her to free
herself. She kicked Halvar into
a gallop, expecting a joyous reunion with her family and got a complete
surprise.
As she neared the city a
rider suddenly galloped toward her.
It took her a few moments to realize it was a figure she knew well,
her brother, Eram. She laughed
and smiled at him as he neared her, but received no smile in
return. Instead he reined in
his plenya and spoke urgently to her.
“Shailaja, I am glad to see you, but you must not go into
Lorholm. You must come with
me.”
Shailaja looked at him,
mystified. Eram was the closest
to her in age of all her brothers, being just a summer older, and they had
always been close. She opened
her mouth to ask what he was talking about, but he cut her
off. “Not
now. I will explain
later. Please come with
me.”
Confused and somewhat hurt
at this unexpectedly brusque welcome, Shailaja nodded and turned Halvar to
follow Eram. He led her through
the streets to a small inn on the outskirts of the
city. Dismounting, he tossed
the reins of his plenya to a stable boy and waited for Shailaja to do the
same. Then he led her through
the doorway of the inn.
Inside it was dark and Shailaja
could see very little as her eyes adjusted to the
gloom. Eram, however, had no
trouble finding his way and he led her across the almost deserted room to
the back of the tavern. Opening
a door in the back wall he waited until she caught up with
him. Frustrated, it was only
with difficulty that Shailaja contained her bursting
curiosity.
Eram ushered her into the
room and she got another surprise.
Two of her other brothers were there, Torm, the eldest and, Loram,
the fourth oldest. They both
stood up as she entered.
“Did anyone see you
bring her here?” Torm asked, surprising Shailaja by not greeting her
first.
“I think not,”
Eram answered. “As we hoped
I intercepted her on the
“Forgive me,”
Shailaja, “Torm said. “I
am glad to see that you are back. I
wish our reunion could be a happier occasion.”
“What is going on?”
Shailaja asked. “Why have
I been intercepted and prevented from going to the Great
Hall? And why am I being treated
like an unwelcome stranger by my own brothers?”
“Forgive us,”
Shailaja, Torm answered, advancing to embrace
her. “Our conduct has not
been what it should be.”
Loram too, took her in his
arms and kissed her on the forehead.
“Welcome, sister. I
am sorry we had to meet this way, but we have news that is most
disturbing.”
“What is it?”
Shailaja cried, alarmed. “Has
something happened to father or mother?”
“Rest easy, they are
well,” Eram answered. He
motioned to one of the chairs.
“Please sit. I will
get food and drink and all will be revealed after you have
eaten.”
Puzzled, and her anger rising
at the treatment she was receiving, Shailaja took the chair and waited until
Eram returned. He set down a
tray containing ham, cheese, sausage, and bread, along with a pitcher of
ale and several cups. Shailaja
put aside her anger, realizing that she was very hungry, and ate while Torm
spoke.
“When you did not return
from the hunt we thought you were lost.
It was clear you had been kidnapped, but the trail we followed led
nowhere. It was most mysterious
and we could only suppose that whoever had taken you wanted you alive for
the usual purpose that women are
taken.” He held up his hand
as Shailaja began to speak.
“Finish your food first.
I can tell from your appearance that you must be
hungry. And then tell us what
happened.”
Shailaja expected that there
was more in her appearance than hunger.
Almost certainly her brothers suspected what had happened to
her. Barely able to contain her
curiosity she forced down the food, took a mouthful of ale and then set down
her cup.
“What is this all
about?” she demanded.
“Why is it that I have been treated to so strange a
welcome? And why have I not been
taken to the Great Hall?”
“I must ask you to
be patient, sister,” Torm answered.
“Tell us your tale first and then we will
explain.”
Tipping her cup back one
more time, Shailaja settled herself in her
chair. Speaking of her capture
and shaming was going to be difficult, but it appeared to be
necessary. Taking a deep breath
she began to speak.
Her brothers listened with
a growing sense of outrage as she detailed her misadventure at Cleron’s
hands and her surprising escape.
Although she burned with shame she held almost nothing back; leaving
out only the arousal she had felt as Cleron had taken her and her shameful
cries of passion as she had responded to what was done to
her.
“So it was rape,”
Eram cried, leaping to his feet.
“You acquitted yourself bravely under the circumstances and gave
Cleron a death he did not deserve.”
“You are right,”
Loram agreed. “He should
have been brought back here and subjected to the appropriate
punishment.”
Shailaja understood their
references. Using a woman against
her will was punishable in Kaltara by nailing offender to a tree in a wilderness
location and then drawing out his
entrails. The hapless wretch
was then left for the wolves to finish
off. Her swift execution of Cleron
was considered humane punishment by
comparison. However, now that
she had told her story, shameful as it was she needed to know why her brothers
had welcomed her back in so strange a
manner.
“Now tell me why you
have hidden me away and prevented my return to the Great Hall,” she
demanded.
“It is unfortunate
that you did not return sooner,” Torm
said. “If you had things
might be very different.”
“Explain,” Shailaja
ordered.
“Two weeks ago a messenger
arrived from Prithia. He brought
a note stating that you had murdered Cleron in cold blood when he lay helpless
and unarmed before you. The act
was witnessed by twenty of his men.”
It was a lie, but Shailaja
could see how Cleron’s men had twisted the
truth. “Did they explain
that I was with the emperor against my will?” she
asked.
“Of course not,”
Torm answered. “They accused
you of being a witch who followed Cleron as he left for Prithia and then
led an attack of forest demons upon him and his
men. It was only due to their
great valour that your attack was beaten off, unfortunately they were unable
to save the emperor.”
The sneer in Torm’s
voice as he finished clearly indicated his contempt for all
Prithians.
“They lie,” Shailaja
raged. “I will gut every
one of them.”
“Sadly, I have even
worse news.” Torm continued.
“You have been condemned by the Grand Council and have been declared
outlaw.”
“Outlaw?” Shailaja
gasped. “But it was I who
was wronged.”
“You innocence could
not be more obvious,” Torm agreed.
“However, your delay in returning seemed to confirm the accusations
of the Prithians. It was thought
that you had fled to safer parts in order to escape
justice.”
“I would never do such
a thing even if I was guilty,” Shailaja
exclaimed.
“We know,” Loram
said, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“You are a true Kaltaran.
Unfortunately you were not here to defend yourself and in your absence,
the Grand Council acted as it thought best.”
“Then I will defend
myself,” Shailaja said, rising from her
chair. “I will go to the
Great Hall and demand to be heard.”
“It is not quite that
easy,” Torm said, motioning that she should sit
again. “There is more to
the Grand Council’s decision than outrage over your supposed
treachery. Prithia threatened
war, a threat the Hasta laughed at.
But what Prithia did next caught our
attention. The new Prithian emperor
seized all Kaltaran property in Prithia and cut off all trade routes passing
from Kaltara to Prithia. Our
trade has been strangled and the Hasta had little choice but to go to
war.”
“And so they should,”
Shailaja raged. “But I still
do not understand why I have been declared outlaw.”
“I was getting to
that,” Torm replied. “As
I said the Hasta prepared for war, but before the clans could be assembled
the Grand Council removed our parents from their position and replaced them
with Warlan and Darha of the Eagle Clan.”
Suddenly Shailaja understood
what had happened. Her parents
were no longer the Hasta, replaced instead by their traditional rivals from
the Eagle Clan. Warlan and Darha
had taken the coward’s way out, preferring negotiation to action and
had promised her to the Prithians in return for a return of Kaltaran property
and the reopening of trade. It
did not escape her that the members of the Eagle Clan were the most involved
in the lucrative trade with Prithia.
As Torm finished explaining
it turned out that her guess was correct.
The desire for profit had won out over honour, something she would
have hardly believed of any Kaltaran.
But then the Eagle Clan had always been a bit short when it came to
matters of honour.
“I will give the truth
of the matter to the Hasta and demand that mother and father be restored.”
Shailaja said.
“No, sister,”
Torm said. “You cannot do
that. As an outlaw you have no
rights. Attempting to plead your
case would give the members of the Eagle Clan the chance to kill
you.”
“Let them try,”
Shailaja growled, rising from the table.
“I will kill anyone who stands in my
way.”
“That is just it,”
Torm replied. “The Eagle
Clan would all be set against you and the Clan of the Ice Wolf would fight
with you. It would be civil war
at a time when Prithia might still wish to
invade. We cannot risk
that. There is only one thing
for you to do.”
“And what is that?”
Shailaja asked.
“Leave
Kaltara. Give us a chance to
prove your innocence. As an outlaw
you have no rights, not even that of a fair
hearing. We will find the Prithians
who defamed you and get the ban lifted.
Then you will have a chance to restore your
honour.”
“I will not flee,”
Shailaja said stubbornly. “I
will not commit so dishonourable an act.
I will face the Eagle Clan and die with
honour.”
“I that case,”
Eram grinned, “I will stand with you and die
also.”
“You will not go alone,
brother,” Loram said.
“If one is to die then we all die.”
“No,” Shailaja
protested. “No one should
die on my account.” She
stood with head down, finally realizing why Torm had suggested she leave
her homeland. If she stayed it
would be civil war with the Clan of the Ice Wolf against the Clan of the
Eagle with the other clans lining up on either
side. Such a war would devastate
Kaltara and perhaps lead to what Prithia had long desired; the addition of
the northern land to its empire.
“I will go,” she
said resignedly. “I only
ask I be able to see father and mother before I
go.”
“Sadly,” that
cannot be,” Eram said.
“They are closely watched.
That is the reason why we had to meet with you
here. By now word may have reached
the Hasta of your return. You
will not be safe in Lorholm for long.
It is best if you go as quickly as
possible.”
It was hardly the homecoming
Shailaja had envisioned. But
it seemed she had little choice.
“I will go then,” she
said. “But one day I will
return, and I might not wait until you have restored my
reputation.” With that she
rose from the table and walked out of the room and into
exile.
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