Battleaxe (27 page)

A
xis stared at the man, his mug of ale raised, forgotten, halfway to his mouth. “You’ve what?” he barked in his astonishment. Belial put his own mug down carefully on the table, all traces of amusement wiped from his eyes.

Hagen looked well pleased with the reaction his news had caused. “Eight of the village men were out late checking the rabbit traps when they ran straight into the pair, trying to cower behind Goodman Harland’s haystack.”

Harland nodded vigorously. “It was a battle worthy of a bard in King Priam’s court,” he said proudly, omitting to mention that he and his family had hid underneath their bedstead until it was all over.

Hagen glared at him, then turned back to Axis. “The men trusted in Artor to save them from the Forbidden’s dark magic, BattleAxe. We have brave men in this village.”

In truth, the men had run in terror when they first discovered the Forbidden behind the haystack, fearing their dark magic, and one of the older men had tripped and dropped his lantern. The burning oil set the haystack ablaze and, in the ensuing panic, the Forbidden tried to escape but fell themselves. The village men would have skewered them then and there with their pitchforks had not Hagen, alerted by
the fuss, arrived and ordered that the senseless man and the screaming child be imprisoned in the Worship Hall cellar. “He might tell us if there are other Forbidden about,” Hagen had said, “don’t worry, Artor will protect us from his evil sorcery.”

Hagen’s words proved correct and, in the days since the capture, the villagers not only became increasingly bold about their prisoners but also reworked the story of their capture until it was their bravery that had captured the creatures, not a combination of panic and ill-luck.

Axis nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. I’m sure your men are extraordinary.” Two against eight did not seem a great battle to him. “Now, let me see these creatures.” He almost pushed his chair over in his haste to rise. Belial was already hovering by the door.

Hagen rose more slowly. “We have interrogated them extensively, BattleAxe, but have learned nothing. The beasts refused to answer any of our questions. We will all be relieved when we can put them to the torch tomorrow.”

Even in his haste to get to the door, Axis noted that Azhure had blanched at the mention of the burning.

Hagen led the group outside and across the courtyard to the Worship Hall. The back door was unlocked and Axis glanced questioningly at the Plough-Keeper.

“Be assured we have them under close guard, BattleAxe. They will not escape.”

The Hall was empty of people and their steps echoed across the stone slab floor as Hagen took them across to a stairwell and then down to the cellar. Axis, his heart racing, almost pushed the Brother in his impatience to reach the bottom of the steps.

But well before he reached the cellar a sickening stench caused him to choke momentarily. “What?” he began to ask, but Hagen was leading him off the stairs and across a large windowless cellar. The rear quarter of the cellar, partitioned off with sturdy metal bars and normally used as a lock-up for drunken husbands, was now being put to a more vile purpose. The stench that came from the barred cell was overwhelming, and Axis had to cover his nose and mouth until he acclimatised himself to the smell of old blood, stale urine
and faeces. Every time Axis encountered unnecessary cruelty it sickened him—and he could smell it now in this cell.

When he finally managed to look at the cell, he was not surprised to see that Ogden and Veremund had managed to find their way down there before himself. Hagen was obviously overjoyed to see two of his fellow brothers and exclaimed with delight as he hurried over to them, pointing into the cell as if showing off prized pets. Axis could see that both Ogden and Veremund were white with anger.

Axis finally gathered himself and looked more closely—and within the space of a heartbeat he completely and utterly lost his temper. Huddled in a corner, as far as they could get from the iron bars, were a dark man and a small female child of alien although attractive features. They were naked, filthy and covered with bruises and abrasions. Looking briefly at the long iron bars that the two village lads, acting as guards, held, Axis realised that Hagen’s “interrogation” probably consisted simply of poking and prodding the two until pain made them confess to whatever crime Hagen had in mind. Obviously no-one had been inside to clean the cell, or to offer the two the simple decency of a bucket for their bodily needs. Sores running across their lips and down their faces suggested they had not received any water in the four days since the good people of Smyrton had imprisoned them in this iron-barred chamber of horrors.

For an instant the strange man’s eyes, full of velvet darkness, met Axis’ through the iron bars of his cage.

“You curdled clot of whore’s piss,” Axis snarled, reaching over to Hagen with one hand and slamming him back against the bars of the cell. “In whose name do you dare to treat
anyone
like this?”

Hagen went as white as the underbelly of a fish. The BattleAxe’s hands had him pinned so viciously by the throat that he could hardly breathe, and the BattleAxe was leaning over him with a look on his face that suggested Hagen was not long for this world. Blood trickled down his neck where his head had been pushed roughly against the iron bars. He could feel the hilt of Axis’ sword pressing painfully into his ample belly.

“What?” he gulped, unable to comprehend why the BattleAxe had reacted like this. The two village lads on guard stood helplessly to
one side, stopped from trying to prise the BattleAxe off their Plough-Keeper by his lieutenant, who looked almost as furious as the BattleAxe himself.

“In Artor’s name,” the Plough-Keeper finally managed to whisper. “They are filth, beasts, there is no point in treating them as if they understood what was going on. This is all they deserve.”

Axis’ face was white with fury. Did Artor call for such treatment of prisoners? “
You
are filth, Brother Hagen,” he spat at the terrified man and, seizing him by his hair and the cloth of his habit, hurled him against the far wall of the cellar where he crashed senseless to the floor. The Goodmen Hordley and Garland cowered back against the steps of the stairwell, terrified that Axis would attack them next, but the woman Azhure stood her ground, retaining her composure before Axis’ fierce stare. “I have brought water and food every day for the past four days,” she said calmly, indicating a bucket and tray of food standing unused by the foot of the stairwell. “But Hagen would not let me minister to them.”

“Then get the water now,” Axis said gruffly, and turned on his heel to the two guards. Both of them backed up to the wall, patently horrified. What had they done wrong?

“Belial, will you get the keys to the lock off these craven deformities that think to call themselves men?” Axis said tightly. “I do not trust myself to get too close to them.”

The guard holding the keys voided in sheer terror when Belial snatched the keys from his hand. Belial turned and spun them through the air to Axis, their eyes meeting in complete understanding as Axis caught the keys. Whatever either might have thought about the people in this cell, no-one ever treated prisoners like this, nor did anyone
ever
imprison a child that could barely walk.

Axis turned and slipped the key inside the lock; he felt Azhure at his shoulder with the bucket of water. Goodman Garland gasped in horror as the lock swung free. “They are dangerous, BattleAxe! Do not go in there!”

Axis turned and caught Garland’s eyes. “You do not know what danger really means, Garland,” he said quietly but menacingly. Garland paled and shut up.

Ogden grabbed Axis’ arm. “Axis, I beg of you, let them go!” he whispered, his face completely distraught. Forgetting that Azhure was right behind him and within easy listening distance, Axis grabbed Ogden’s hand and threw it off his arm. “That’s hardly a sentiment the Seneschal would approve of is it,
Brother
Ogden?”

The woman frowned at the exchange, but the next moment Axis had thrown open the door of the cell, leaving his sword and axe by the door, and was walking slowly across the filthy space towards the pair huddled in the corner. Azhure slipped in behind him, and Belial stepped up to guard the door.

Axis turned and caught Azhure’s arm as they were halfway across the cell. “Wait here,” he said quietly, and took the bucket of water from her.

Axis hesitated before he moved over to the prisoners. He had always wondered how he would react to the Forbidden. Now, instead of the anger or fear that the Seneschal had taught him, Axis found himself regarding these two with sympathy and, even more confusingly, empathy. Looking into the great dark eyes of the man, Axis discovered that he was incapable of hating or even fearing this man.

Raum watched as Axis approached. He had recognised the black uniform emblazoned with the twin axes as soon as the man had stepped into the cellar. That uniform had not changed in over a thousand years, and every Avar was raised to fear and loathe it. Yet, just when Raum was about to commend himself and Shra to the Sacred Grove for eternity, everything had exploded in a direction that he could never have foreseen. The BattleAxe had seized the Plough-Keeper and had half-murdered him in a rage that would have done a Horned One proud. And now, after Raum and Shra had endured four days of unimaginable terror, pain and thirst, the BattleAxe had disarmed himself and was approaching with a bucket of water in his hands and sympathy in his eyes. Raum hugged Shra to his chest protectively. She had been unconscious for the past twelve hours and was now scarcely breathing.

Axis put the bucket on the floor and squatted down in front of the man.

“Do you understand me?” he said quietly. For a moment Raum did nothing, then he nodded tiredly.

Axis regarded the man. He was strong, very strong, and of strange features, but Axis could see nothing about him to warrant the tales of cruelty and evil that the Seneschal told about these men. What creature of evil could hold a child so lovingly? He remembered some of what Ogden had said about these people. “You are Avar?” he asked.

Raum’s eyes widened a little. Then he nodded again, a little more strongly this time. Axis’ eyes shifted to the girl. She had been brutally treated by the Smyrton villagers, and Axis could see that she was near death. Her breathing was shallow and irregular, gurgling through fluid-filled lungs, and her fingernails and lips had a bluish tinge. His throat constricted, and compassion for the little girl consumed him. Tears filled his eyes.

“Please,” he said very quietly so that none but Raum or Azhure could hear him, “let me hold her.”

After an instant’s hesitation Raum held out the little girl’s limp body. She would need the BattleAxe’s help if she were to survive the day. Axis gathered her gently into his arms. After a moment he dipped his hand into the bucket of water by his side and washed some of the dirt from her face.

Then softly, very, very softly, he began to sing for her. It was a strange song, almost with no melody, filled with breathy catches and lilts, but extraordinarily compelling and beautiful. It shocked Raum to the core of his being; he had heard this Song sung only once before in his life, and then it had been no human that had sung it. Only the most powerful of Icarii Enchanters could sing this enchantment; yet even they were normally too weak to make it work. He sank back against the wall of the cell, his eyes wide and unbelieving. Not even the Horned Ones could do this, and certainly no human could!

Azhure stood puzzled. What was the BattleAxe doing to the child?

Ogden and Veremund, however, could feel if not hear the Song. Tears welled in their eyes. “Oh dear one!” Veremund whispered almost inaudibly, “Save her!”

Raum had no eyes for anyone save Shra and Axis. Axis’ voice began to grow in intensity, though not in volume, and then…then…Shra began to stir. Tiny, jerky actions at first, then stronger movements as
the child visibly squirmed in the BattleAxe’s arms. He stopped singing, stared quietly at the child for a moment, then looked up and smiled into Raum’s eyes. “She lives,” he said, genuine surprise in his voice. Raum had the strangest feeling that the BattleAxe did not quite know what he had done.

Raum held out his arms for Shra, but the BattleAxe continued to hold her tight. She was awake now and staring at Axis curiously, then she reached out and touched his beard. “I can get her out of the cell for the night,” Axis said very softly to Raum, “but I am not sure that I can save your lives. I am bound by my oaths as BattleAxe to the Seneschal to destroy the Forbidden. And…” He frowned. Why was he even thinking about trying to save them? They were
Forbidden
!

Raum nodded. He understood that the BattleAxe of the Seneschal was the last person in the land who would try to save them. Yet…what had he done for Shra? No BattleAxe could have sung that Song. He leaned out a hand and briefly ran his fingertips along Axis’ cheek, ignoring Belial’s sudden movement of concern. “I understand,” he whispered, “but I do not know why one with the soul of an Icarii Enchanter wears the black and this badge of destruction. Surely the Icarii hate as much as we do? But I thank you for the Song that you sang for Shra.” As he dropped his hand from Axis’ face he briefly touched the twin axes on Axis’ breast.

Axis’ face hardened at the man’s words and he abruptly stood up, fighting desperately not to think about what they meant. “Azhure,” he said, turning and handing the child to her. “Look after her for the night.” He glanced back down at the man lying amid the filth of the cell and then turned and walked from the cell. “Belial, get two of our men and get this place cleaned up!” He glared at the Plough-Keeper, who had regained consciousness, ignored Ogden and Veremund, and then strode out of the cellar without saying another word.

A
zhure took the child back to the house she shared with the man she called her father. She was still bewildered, though she felt little sympathy for Hagen; the man was a coward and a fool, and cruel besides. She had hated and feared him ever since she could remember. His cruelty had driven her mother away and he had since made her own life unbearable. The violence the BattleAxe had dealt to Hagen had been only a fraction of the violence Hagen had meted out to her over the past twenty years. Up until this afternoon Azhure had included the Axe-Wielders in the hatred she bore for the entire Seneschal, a sentiment rivalled only by her hatred for Hagen. Now, a little uncomfortably, Azhure had to admit to a small amount of respect for the BattleAxe and his lieutenant. They had treated the man and child with both respect and sympathy.

As she cleaned and dressed the child Azhure continued to think, growing more and more excited. One of her secret dreams, held ever since her mother ran away, was that one day she, too, would find the opportunity to escape. Tonight seemed the perfect time. The village was distracted by the arrival of the Axe-Wielders and the altercation between Hagen and the BattleAxe. Azhure would not only escape but save both man and child in doing so. For the past few years she had
been trying to persuade GoldFeather that she could be trusted to help with the Avar children. She wanted to help in whatever way she was able. Now she could.

Azhure had stumbled upon the secret of GoldFeather some twelve years before when she was fifteen. Driven by the need to escape Hagen, she would often slip out of the house in the middle of the night and sit watching the Fortress Ranges and the dark shadows of the forest beyond. One night she had caught the furtive shadows of people moving out of the Forbidden Valley and had followed the Acharite woman she had since come to know as GoldFeather as she and one of the young Avar men took two children stealthily past Smyrton and into the Seagrass Plains. Over the next year or so she tracked and followed the woman again, until finally she made one noise too many and the woman had heard her.

Azhure had been lucky to escape with her life. The Avar man with GoldFeather became frighteningly angry, but GoldFeather had persuaded him against any action and had then reassured a frightened Azhure. They had later formed an intense friendship and, over the following years, they met maybe three times a year, and talked through the night. GoldFeather would tell her a little of the life of the Avar people, but, surprisingly, she never wanted to hear any tales of life in Achar. “My old life is dead and gone, Azhure,” she would smile sadly, “and I have started a new life now.” Azhure never told anyone in Smyrton of her new friend and, sometimes, when she was feeling very lonely, Azhure would pretend to herself that GoldFeather was her long lost mother.

Now Azhure smiled at the little girl she held in her arms. She was bruised and cut in several places, but she looked much better than she had. She gave the child something to eat, and was relieved when the little girl placidly took the food and water she was given. Azhure cuddled her close as the girl ate. One day she hoped to have a child of her own, but not if it meant one of the village oafs giving it to her! No, Azhure was going to escape this village and lead a life of adventure and purpose. She would find a hero to father her children. She smiled. She had absolutely no doubts that a hero would turn up precisely when needed.

She heard raised voices outside. It was Hagen, now recovered from the crack across his pate, and the BattleAxe (so
he
was the bastard son of the Princess Rivkah!). They were arguing about the Avar man. Finally the arguing ended and Azhure heard Axis stalk off. Hagen entered the house and glared at Azhure but simply went and lay down. Perhaps his head pained him. Azhure breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed her arms about the child. She knew she was lucky not to have received a beating for her earlier remark about her mother. She had only just recovered from the three broken ribs he had given her two months ago.

As Hagen began to snore Azhure sat by the fire, rocking the child to sleep, and planned.

She moved during the dark hours of the night. In the hours before dawn, when the human body and spirit were at their lowest ebb.

First she wrapped the sleeping child in a warm blanket, whispering to her to be quiet, then grabbed a cloak herself. She would have liked to take some food with her, but she dared not take the risk that it would weigh her down.

As Azhure bent down to lace her boots her nervous excitement grew.

Courage, Azhure, she berated herself. Another hour at the latest and you and the Avar man can be racing for the Forbidden Valley. And then you can spend the rest of your years wandering with GoldFeather. Free from Hagen.

Azhure swore silently as one of the bootlaces stubbornly refused to tie. She had the child tucked under one arm and, combined with her nervousness, it made her fumble-fingered. Quickly laying the sleeping child on the floor, she began to relace the offending boot.

“Bitch!” Hagen grunted behind her and grabbed the child.

“No!” Azhure cried hoarsely, too frightened to scream. She tried to turn around, but overbalanced and fell to the floor.

Hagen threw the now crying child on the bed. Stepping over to the table he dealt Azhure a vicious kick in the ribs on the way.

“No!” Azhure wheezed, doubling up on her side, trying to draw breath. Hagen had kicked her in the very ribs he broke two months
previously; now it felt like fire flickered up and down her ribcage. Her face contorted in agony, Azhure squinted towards Hagen.

He stood at the table, ignoring the wails of the child, riffling through the plates and cutlery that Azhure had washed earlier and had yet to put away.

“No,” she whimpered. “No!” She had to move, she had to do something, but the pain in her ribs crippled her and she could hardly draw breath, let alone get to her feet.

Hagen grunted again, his hand clutching at a bone-handled knife.

“The Forbidden child dies now,” he said conversationally, lifting the knife to inspect its edge.

He spent hours each week honing that knife.

Azhure knew how sharp it was.

He lifted the knife…

Azhure groaned and closed her eyes.

The flames cracked and popped.

She rolled over so that she was lying on her belly and pressed her face into the stone floor, desperate to escape both the scene before her and the memories fighting to break free.

The smell was terrible.

Hagen stepped over Azhure’s still body and took another step towards the child on the bed.

The little girl. Frightened. Watching. Unable to escape.

He was not worried about Azhure. He had beaten her into submission enough over the years to know that she would not act now. He had trained her well.

“Why not kill me?” she screamed.

Hagen reached the bed and began to pull the little girl’s outer clothes apart.

“Because I like to see you suffer,” he replied.

Azhure finally managed to rise to her knees, but she was still bent double with pain and fear. Not now. Not again!

“Shall I check the bandages this morning? See what’s there?”

Hagen raised the knife.

Hagen raised the knife…

Azhure raised her hands to her head, rocking backwards and forwards, keening under her breath. Not again! Not again!

This time she could stop it. This time
she
could save the child, and in doing so, save herself.

…and dug.

Azhure launched herself forward, grabbing frantically for the hem of Hagen’s robe.

He heard her movement and half turned, the knife still raised, his face masked in rage.

Her grasping fingers caught at the hem of his robe, but the material slipped through.

Howling in anger now, Hagen raised his foot to stamp on Azhure’s fingers, the knife glinting wickedly in his hand.

With the last of her strength Azhure grabbed his foot and twisted, took a desperate breath, and twisted again.

Hagen teetered backwards and forwards, his face surprised rather than angry. Then, with a small “Oh!” of utter astonishment that Azhure would actually do this to him, he toppled to the floor.

Azhure rolled out of the way and scrambled to her feet, one hand clutching her ribs. But her breath was coming more easily now and she stood ready, sure that Hagen would leap to his feet with a savage roar, intent on her final murder.

But Hagen lay still, his right arm twisted under his body.

The Avar girl’s wails began to subside and Azhure quickly checked her. She was unharmed, but Hagen had come so close…so close…

Azhure took a quick, deep breath, fighting to forget the brief images that had flashed through her mind.

That never happened!

“No,” she whispered, her mind slipping dangerously close to the edge of madness. “That never happened. Forget it, Azhure. Forget it. It was your imagination.” In her battle to disremember the horror, Azhure unconsciously murmured the words that had been shouted at her for so many years. “Wicked child. That’s what you are. Wicked.”

She finally slammed the door on the memories, composing herself with great effort, and stared at Hagen. Had he knocked himself
unconscious in the fall? Azhure hoped so. If he was unconscious then she and the child would still be able to scramble free.

Slowly, lest the man only be pretending, Azhure bent down and touched him quickly on the shoulder. He didn’t react. She shoved him and leapt back. But still Hagen didn’t move.

“Oh, no,” Azhure whispered as she watched his still body, her stomach starting to churn. “Oh no!”

On the bed Shra rolled over and sat up, her tear-streaked face curious.

Biting her tongue to stop herself from gagging, Azhure seized Hagen by the shoulder and rolled him over, grunting at the flare of pain in her ribs as she did so.

He was dead.

Everything told Azhure that: the spreading pool of blood beneath him; his staring eyes, comically surprised; his hand still grasped about the hilt of the knife, its blade stuck its entire length in his lower abdomen. As she watched, his dead hand slowly unclenched and slid to his side, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Azhure turned away and retched. Shra stared, then slid down from the bed, toddling over to the body. Almost overbalancing on her plump legs, she squatted down and rested both hands in the pool of blood.

“Azhure,” she lisped and Azhure looked back, stunned to see the child with both her hands swimming in blood.

“No!” she cried and snatched the child from beside Hagen’s body. What did she think she was doing?

Then the child did something even more strange. She lifted one hand to Azhure’s forehead and ran her fat little fingers down the woman’s face, leaving three trails of blood.

“Accepted,” she said clearly. “Accepted.”

Azhure sat trembling at the table for a very long time, the child in her lap, staring at Hagen’s body.

She had killed him. She had
killed
him. The words ran through her mind over and over. Murder. There was no other way to dress it up.

And every time
that
thought ran through her head a wave of sickness enveloped her. Murder.

She had not wanted to kill him. She had simply wanted to protect the child and escape from him.

Eventually Azhure roused herself. She could not stay here now. The village people would undoubtedly lynch her the moment someone discovered the body. Then they would burn the Avar man and the little girl.

And Azhure would not have escaped Hagen at all.

Hurriedly she wiped her face and the child’s hands, leaving the blood-streaked towel lying on the table. “Come,” she whispered to the child. She rewrapped the girl, adjusted her own cloak and left the house she had called home for almost twenty-eight years behind her without a backward glance.

Outside Azhure recovered the cloak she had secreted for the Avar man and walked to the rear door of the Worship Hall.

Could she go through with the rest of the plan, when the initial stages had gone so disastrously wrong?

“I must,” she murmured determinedly, “if I am to save this girl and the man. We are all dead if we stay.”

She forced herself to think of what she needed to do. How many guards had been left to watch over the Avar man? She stepped down the stairs to the cell, making no effort to move silently. She did not want to appear to be sneaking.

When she walked into the cellar, the Avar girl-child held tightly in her arms, Azhure fixed a bright smile on her face. She breathed a quick sigh of relief. Only one man sat in here on guard, but as that one man turned to look at her Azhure’s relief turned into dismay. It was Belial, the BattleAxe’s lieutenant. Azhure hid her dismay by widening her smile. She rather liked Belial, he had a good-humoured face yet acted decisively when needed. He might not be a hero, but he had kind hazel eyes that now crinkled at her in some puzzlement. She did not want to hurt Belial, but she would do what she had to do to save the Avar man.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” he asked, rising to his feet, puzzled but not anxious. Good.

Azhure made a face and smiled at the child. “She wanted to see her father, and fretted at me for so long that I had to bring her.” Azhure made her face fall, and she leaned a little closer to whisper to Belial. “And tomorrow morning…well, I couldn’t refuse her one last hour spent with him, could I?”

Belial relaxed a little. Of all the Smyrton villagers in the cellar this afternoon Azhure had shown the most courage and independence; besides, she was very attractive. Belial was normally a little shy around beautiful women, but Azhure did not flaunt her beauty nor seek to use it to intimidate. He patted the child a little awkwardly on her head. “Poor little girl.”

“Yes, I know.” Azhure simply wanted to get this over and done with. She could see the Avar man begin to stir behind the bars. He had been given water to wash and was warmly dressed against the night cold. Good. Azhure gritted her teeth a little, this was going to be hard. Courage, girl, she repeated to herself. You have already killed once tonight, and that a man you called father. Surely disabling this stranger should not be a problem.