Authors: Tony Shillitoe
H
er hands were tied and she was gagged. She was bound on a pole. A bonfire raged in the centre of a circle of men whose dirty, bloodied and sweat-stained faces were leering at her. Her head throbbed, but the pain was steadily receding. She was aware of other men, bound and nakedly displayed as she was, but even turning her head as far as she could she couldn’t recognise who hung beside her.
The flickering firelight and shadows played across the shaman who gesticulated as he spoke vigorously to the large crowd. Although his speech was similar to her Shessian tongue, she couldn’t understand him, but each time he punched his right fist into the air the crowd cheered. He pointed at a prisoner. Three soldiers strode across the circle, cut the prisoner from his pole, dragged him into the centre, and dropped him beside the shaman. The shaman spoke again before viciously driving his staff into the prisoner’s side, causing the prisoner to yelp and writhe in a vain attempt to free his hands from the binding cords. The shaman barked an order and the three soldiers forced the prisoner to stand, facing him, as he began to circle his naked and bloodied captive. Chanting rhythmically, he reached
inside his animal pelt patchwork cloak and threw a handful of sparkling dust over the prisoner. Then he circled again, bending to pick up a firebrand.
He left the centre to stroll along the line of polebound prisoners, past Meg, waving his firebrand in their faces as he snarled at them, as if he was exhorting the prisoners to respond. She translated what she could, but all she could make sense of were the words and phrases ‘chance’, ‘save death’, ‘speak’, and the rest was indecipherable.
Raging with spite, the shaman spat on the last prisoner. He wheeled on his heel and strode to the prisoner in the centre, and with deliberate cruelty drove the end of the firebrand into the middle of the man’s chest. The victim screamed and staggered back. In the same instant, his entire body erupted in fierce white flames. He hopped and gyrated, screaming, to the rapturous delight of the cheering audience, overbalanced, and jerked and kicked wildly on the ground as the fire ate his flesh. The shaman threw another handful of dust on the burning prisoner, which exploded in a rainbow of colour as the flames ignited. Mercifully, the victim stopped moving, as the flames flared with greater intensity and died as the incinerated body disintegrated into a pile of white ash. The crowd applauded and cheered, and the shaman bowed low.
When he was satisfied with the shower of appreciation, he pointed to another prisoner and the guards fetched the man. This time the shaman touched the prisoner on the neck with the end of his staff. The man winced, while the shaman simply stepped back and began a conjuration. Meg recognised the victim—the Elite Guard Leather. The crowd noise diminished to random voices and then silence. All eyes were riveted to the scene playing out in the centre of the circle. Initially, nothing appeared to happen. The shaman muttered his
incantation and made delicate stroking patterns in the air in the direction of the prisoner, while Leather stared back defiantly. Then Leather started to sway. He struggled to keep his balance with his ankles hobbled, and he gasped for air. His face reddened and he sank to his knees, crying out, ‘Help me, Jarudha!’ and toppled sideways, frothing from the mouth. The shaman’s hands seemed to orchestrate Leather’s throes of agony until Leather lay still—at which point the shaman raised his hands to the awed audience. Spontaneous cheering erupted and the shaman smiled as he acknowledged the crowd’s enthusiastic adulation. He pointed to another prisoner.
As the guards moved forward, the crowd parted and a man in variegated green garments, a gold-handled sword strapped to his waist, with an entourage of ten soldiers, stepped into the circle, and the crowd noise evaporated as everyone respectfully lowered their heads. The new centre of attention spoke briefly, glancing down at the body and the pile of ash, and at the remaining prisoners as he finished his address. He approached the prisoners and walked along the line, and stopped when he reached Meg. She met his darkeyed stare resolutely, ignoring his cursory study of her body when he broke eye contact. ‘I did not know the Queen was so short of men that she had to recruit women,’ he observed in perfect Shessian, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. His face was flattened and heavily scarred, and beardless, and his narrow eyes glittered with energetic determination. He reached forward and slipped her gag from her mouth. ‘I heard a rumour there was a woman Seer in the Queen’s army. Is that you?’ Meg silently gritted her teeth, while her antagonist inspected her. ‘Very pretty. What a waste.’ He shook his head, glanced at the corpse on the ground by the fire, and looked back at her. ‘You don’t have to
die. I can order your release and take you with me. But you have to tell me what I need to know.’ He paused, as if expecting an answer. She stayed silent. He moved closer, and traced the line between her breasts and down her stomach with his finger. ‘I can make a beauty like you think of nothing but me.’
‘Take your hand off me!’ she snarled.
He raised an eyebrow, and smiled. ‘One night with me, and you would beg otherwise.’ Her mind raced through her inventory of spells—so many she’d skimmed over when she’d read the texts without soaking them in. After the handful she’d learned from Emma, and in her early readings, she’d concentrated on powerful spells—spells that she wished she hadn’t learned because of their destructive nature. Now, they were her best recourse. But how? ‘I’ve given you a choice, woman. What is your answer?’ Meg spat on him. He wiped her spittle from his green coat, and grinned. Then he hit her sharply with the back of his hand, and strode away.
Her cheek stung and her jaw already throbbed, and her eyes were watering. When she lifted her head, tears streaking her dirty face, the shaman had resumed his performance with the crowd’s encouragement, and another man was being dragged before him. The shaman struck him with his staff and the captive collapsed onto his back. The shaman kicked him in the ribs, rolling him over, and ordered his assistants to lift the prisoner back onto his feet. As they hauled him up, facing Meg, cold recognition shivered through her spine. Westridge. The enemy soldiers spun him to face the shaman, who circled him, chanting and sprinkling powder as he had on the first victim he’d incinerated.
Anger and fear exploded in her. She whispered an unmaking spell. The shaman was parading around the circle, brandishing a firebrand, exhorting the crowd
into a frenzy, stopping occasionally as if intending to apply the fire to his captive but then turning away, teasing his audience. Her wrist and ankle bonds loosened and dropped away.
What now? What can I conjure to save Westridge?
As she hesitated, the shaman wheeled and thrust his burning brand into Westridge’s back. Flames exploded. ‘No!’ Meg screamed. She charged the shaman, but his guards grabbed her, wrestling to hold her back as the bright flames engulfing Westridge highlighted her anguished face. Desperately, she yelled a string of Targan words and she, too, burst into flame. The horrified soldiers scrambled away from the human inferno, brushing their garments and thankfully discovering that her flames hadn’t burned them. She yelled another phrase, and as the flames over Westridge vanished so did the illusory conflagration enveloping her.
The shaman, as shocked as his audience by the unexpected turn of events, still held the firebrand in his right hand. He slipped his left hand inside his fur cloak. ‘Let them go!’ Meg demanded, indicating the other prisoners. She saw the shaman’s hand come out of his cloak, the powder leaking from his clenched fist, and said, ‘No. Drop it now.’ He moved towards her. ‘I said no!’ she warned. He took another step, and the crowd leaned forward, anticipating his magical show. Pointing her finger, an arrow of fire flashed across the space and exploded through the shaman’s chest, throwing him backwards. His firebrand spun into the crowd and the powder sprayed harmlessly across the ground. ‘Go away!’ she screamed at the onlookers. ‘Leave us alone!’ She waved her arms, as if fending off flies, and her wild action made the crowd retreat. Sighing, she knelt beside Westridge’s charred remains, and could no longer hold back her tears. Overwhelmed by sorrow, she even forgot the crowd—until a voice broke her agony.
‘So you are a Seer.’ She looked up to see the green clothes and scarred face of the man who’d hit her. He looked at the shaman’s body. ‘And a dangerous adversary.’
‘Take your army and go home,’ she snarled.
‘I can’t do that,’ he replied.
Meg rose. Westridge was dead. The brutes who’d killed him weren’t human. She wanted them dead. ‘Leave us alone,’ she hissed through her teeth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘I can’t do that either,’ her antagonist answered. He raised his right arm, and a dozen archers stepped out of the crowd, bows loaded and trained on each of the prisoners. Two aimed at Meg. ‘It’s a shame and a waste,’ he said. ‘You’re very good.’ And he lowered his arm.
Meg was conjuring. As his arm began its descent, her spell swept through the enemy ranks, a raging river of flame that overwhelmed the crowd, the archers, and their leader. The arrows meant for her whistled wide of their mark as the archers were swallowed by fire. The air filled with the screams of those who survived the explosion. Through the wall of smoke billowing into the evening sky, men ran from the demon the woman had unleashed. Her anger unsheathed, Meg loosed magical fire arrows at escaping individuals, mercilessly cutting them down, until a wave of intense exhaustion sapped her energy. She staggered, almost passing out, and sank to her knees. When she’d caught her breath, and steeled herself to rise, the enemy had retreated and she was momentarily safe.
Smouldering corpses littered the assembly space beyond the bonfire. Little flames still flickered on charred clothing and hair, and the air was tainted with the stench of burned flesh. She turned to the prisoners and was shocked to see two impaled. Eight were staring
in amazement at what they’d witnessed. She wanted to release them quickly with an unmaking spell, but the thought of casting overwhelmed her with a strange weariness from deep in her chest. Instead, she searched the corpses for a sword and freed the prisoners one by one. They struggled to stand, their rope bonds having cut the blood to their limbs, but six regained their strength enough to help the two who couldn’t walk because of injuries. Together, they began the descent towards the lights of Greenhill.
Meg walked behind them as they left the smouldering hillside and entered the dark bush. Again, against her will, she’d used magic to kill another host of men. And this time she had enjoyed it. No. She hadn’t actually enjoyed it—not in the sense of fun or happiness. But she
had
relished the act of revenge. She’d killed randomly for revenge. ‘Having the Blessing for magic does not give you the right to act as Jarudha.’ She remembered Emma’s warning. She had only wanted to save her friends and herself, at first, but the shaman’s cruelty had infected her. Westridge’s horrible murder had enraged her. And she had killed wildly.
An Elite Guard survivor slowed to accompany her. ‘We’re grateful for what you did back there. We knew we were going to die. Thank you, Lady Amber.’ She didn’t know how to respond to the soldier’s heartfelt appreciation. Her guilt dulled the impact of his elation. ‘We owe you our lives,’ he continued. ‘Whatever we can do to repay that debt, we will do for you.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she replied. ‘Let’s just get back to safety.’
The soldier stopped. ‘Lady Amber—this isn’t a good way to go.’ She stopped to hear what he had to say. ‘The enemy still hold this side of the town. Getting across the river will be very difficult.’ The others gathered to listen.
She’d forgotten the obvious. ‘What should we do?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. We need weapons. If we surprise a small lookout party and take their equipment, we might be able to fight our way through. With your magic.’
The soldier’s intention to fight and kill again made her angry, but she stifled the emotion by biting her lip. ‘I have another way,’ she said. ‘Find me two trees, close together, like a doorway.’
Although the blue haze between the thin twisted mallee trunks was barely tall and wide enough for a man to pass through, it would suffice. But she was less sure of whether or not the portal would transport several people, one at a time. She explained the magical door to the mystified soldiers. ‘You’ll appear outside the town, on the road leading in, the one we came in on this morning. You might feel very sick, but you’ll be safe.’ She hoped that her ability to accurately recall the appearance and position of places was effective at night, because even peering into the portal at close range she still couldn’t discern the land features within. ‘Who wants to go first?’ The soldiers held back until the young man who’d spoken to her volunteered. ‘Just step through, as though you’re going through a door,’ she encouraged. One by one the soldiers squeezed into the blue glow and vanished. The two injured men were half-pushed in by the last two soldiers before they took their turns. And Meg was alone. She listened to the sounds of the night—the breeze rustling the leaves—and shivered, remembering her first portal and the unexpected passage into a world of grey dust and intense blue sky. She was confident she hadn’t made that error again. Her second projection into her palace room had worked, so this would work, too. In the morning, she intended to convince the Warmaster that
negotiation with Beranix’s army was still a possible solution to the war. Mindless killing wasn’t useful to either side. How could it be?
Warmaster Waters looked over the assembled troops from the back of his black stallion. ‘Weapons ready!’ he yelled. Leaders relayed his order along the ranks, their voices echoing off walls. He nodded to Meg, before wheeling his horse to lead the army across the bridge towards the southern quarter of the town. Scouts had brought reports to the Warmaster before dawn that the enemy had withdrawn overnight and were heading south. They also reported the carnage they discovered atop the southern hill overlooking the town where Beranix’s main army had camped before beginning the assault on Greenhill. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Leader,’ one scout said. ‘Dead bodies everywhere, like they’ve been caught in a fire. The bush is all charred ash.’