Poem of Death III
so weary of torment
hours and days of agony
will it ever end?
will my captors ever tire?
but now you are here
i wondered where you had been,
just me you came to save,
my friend, my salvation, guillotine.
After a while Fyen became aware of the world outside. She heard voices shouting and laughing in the tavern downstairs, horses pulling carriages, and crickets chirping in roadside bushes. The room was almost completely dark now, the only light coming from the ember in the fireplace. The bath tub looked slightly suspect but not only was she still bloody and muddy, Fyen hadn't had a bath since Kumby and she smelled rank even to herself.
The longsword lay next to her, its perpendicular crossguard gleaming in the dim light. She grabbed the hilt and examined the weapon. The black leather wrapped around the grip felt sticky. Wonder if it's just the leather or... blood? Never knew blood was so sticky. The red hue from the ember gleamed on the steel surface and Fyen noticed several imperfections and slight blemishes on the blade. No big dents or anything but... scratch marks, some nicks here and there... this wasn't made for me. It was some highwayman's... wonder if he killed anybody with it? Wonder if... She ran a finger along one of the cutting edges. This nick... was it there already? Or did it come when the blade connected with... bone? She couldn't recall seeing the mark when examining the blade by the campfire the previous night but she couldn’t be absolutely sure since back then she had given the sword only a cursory once-over.
The girl tilted her head to the side, wondering if the sword had drawn more lives than one. Now there were dark-brown splotches here and there, a streak of color running down the fuller. Reynaer promised to clean it first thing in the morning but... I suppose a swordswoman should be able to clean her own sword.
As she sat there deep in her thoughts, someone knocked on the door. The maid who came in was probably about the same age as Mirlín but infinitely younger in manner and composure. Fyen observed the maid as she stepped into the room. She's still just a girl... Mirlín is already a real woman. The girl carried two large buckets of steaming hot water and disappeared into the hall to get one more bucket filled to the brim with cool water.
After the maid had stoked up the fire and left, Fyen poured the buckets into the tub and looked around the room. She tossed the blanket she had been wearing on her bed and, after a moment's hesitation, grabbed her sword. As she stepped into the tub, it felt like it had been ages since she had last even touched let alone bathed in water. After having washed herself with a crude bar of soap and rinsing her black hair, Fyen blinked the water out of her eyes and looked at the sheathed blade lying next to the tub. The girl reached for it, water dripping on the wooden floorboards from her elbow and fingertips, and drew the weapon out of its scabbard. Fyen turned the sword in the light of the rekindled fire and looked at the reflections the fire cast on the cold steel. Its simple design appealed to her, she had liked it from the start.
But it feels different now that... I've made it truly mine. Just yesterday she had felt a certain kind of dark pride of owning such an item and while she still felt pride every time she drew the blade, it was a different kind of feeling. Yesterday I felt like a kid with a new toy. Today... perhaps this is how an executioner feels about an axe that hasn't let him down once? Is it pride? Or trust? Or both? Despite still liking the weapon, she also felt that it had been stained for good, that she would always feel a dark undercurrent from now on whenever she held the sword, that she would never again feel the same, more innocent brand of joy and pride of ownership she had felt just a day ago.
Still slightly melancholy, Fyen grabbed a towel and dipped the sword into the bathwater. She had to scrub hard but eventually the stains started coming off the blade. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that, in a way, she was bathing in the dried up blood of the creature she had killed but at the same time it also felt somehow right; that she deserved it, having come out as the survivor. When she had gotten the last stain off the sword, she lay back in the tub and placed the sword length-wise on herself so that the pommel rested right under her chin. It was a part of her now, she and the sword were one. The blade would be an extension of her hand forever. It's just us. Nobody else was at the clearing when it happened. Only we share what happened that day.
She remembered the despair she had felt during the last seconds of the altercation. It had reminded her of the time when she had found a dying puppy in the woods around Kumby. She had been almost two years younger and though she had successfully nurtured a few nestlings before, the puppy had been so badly injured, possibly having fallen off a fast cart by the road that it wasn’t going to make it. Its eyes hadn’t even opened yet and Fyen had cried while kneeling beside the wounded animal, a rock in her hand. Every time she remembered the incident, shivers of revulsion, guilt, and sadness shook her. The frightened, pained squeals the puppy had let out after the first few strikes at its head stuck with the girl ever since but she had had no other option but to put the animal out of its misery.
By the time she had gotten the creature back in the woods on its knees, hacking away at it, it had let out similar sounds, cries of pain and fear instead of anger. No longer had it tried to scare her: its exclamations had been spurred only by the dim hope that perhaps, perhaps the attacker would find pity in their hearts and stop the process of killing. But by then it had been too late, like it had been with the puppy when she had found it. The creature would have only died a slow, agonizing death if she had stopped so she had kept hacking at it, praying for it to die, to stop the screams.
The water had grown cold when the girl finally dried her tears and stepped out of the tub, shivering. The towel was already wet so she dried herself on the blanket she had worn earlier. Fyen reached for a fresh pair of linen underwear which she had hung before the fire to dry and put them on. She had washed her hose, gambeson, and tunic with Mirlín but the garments felt still moist. To her relief, one of her spare tunics was sufficiently dry. After slipping into the garment, the girl let her hands fall and just stood for a moment. For some reason, instead of sadness or panic, she felt surprisingly numb. The thought of the screaming man no longer got her heart racing. It was almost as if a part of her had shut down. Well, it's better than being in pieces all the time.
Fyen went back to her sack and dug out her mother’s spell book. She then sat on the floor cross-legged with the book in her lap, the candle to her left, and the sword to her right. The bloodstone necklace she had gotten from her mother felt strangely cold against her chest. Fyen opened the book and skimmed through the spells she knew and went straight to the ones her mother had told her to stay away from. One was called a binding spell. Whatever that means! Fyen chuckled quietly as the thought about casting a spell that would bind the dead man’s pieces back together without bringing him back to life. It wasn't until after a moment that she noticed with surprise how morbid the thought was and how she had laughed at it. Who am I? she asked the night. There was no reply. Of course not.
She went through the whole chapter dealing with the darker side of magick, trying to find something she could use to find her mother or, at the very least, help her to destroy the Sons of the Sun. On the next page of the spell book she found a hex called ‘Three Nights of Hell'. The curse was supposed to give its target intense physical pain, lesions, sores, and all kinds of ailments for three nights, and the last two lines said that when three nights passed, the gods should make the victim well at last.
Fyen lit a candle, waited a few moments, and then dropped candle wax around her to form a circle. Then she placed the light in the center in front of her and started chanting:
"As I do this candle spell,
bring my enemy three nights of hell!
Candle black, black as night,
bring him pains of flesh tonight!
Lesions on his skin,
Boils of pus fill’d to the brim,
For three nights he'll wonder,
how dukes of darkness, kings of hell,
bring him anguish, bring him hell."
Before the last lines, Fyen stopped for a second and then continued: "When three nights of pain have passed, make him dead, dead at last."
Then she put out the candle and stood up in the dark room. It was as if there was another presence in there with her, something wild and untamed. Her instinct told her to grab her sword but she knew nothing had entered the room, at least nothing that could be killed with a blade. Instead she stepped towards the darkest corner of the room and stared right into the black in front of her.
Fyen's chest rose and fell as she breathed rapidly, shivers going through her body and her heart beating almost audibly. She closed her eyes and spoke in her mind. Yes, I want to, from all my heart, with all of my soul. The air around her seemed to shift, a slow coldness moving over her, surrounding her. She opened her eyes and, for a moment, thought she saw a face in the black. Squinting, she could make out the wooden boards of the wall before which she was standing but she remembered the face. It had been the face of a man but it was the eyes she remembered most vividly. No, not just the eyes. Both, the eyes and the expression, the smile, all of it... She had never felt anything so purely malevolent and evil.
Fyen backed off, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed. She went to the fire and hurried to put on her hose, ignoring the still annoyingly damp cloth, grabbed her sword, sheath and belt, pulled on her boots without lacing them, and hurried out of the room. As she started to close the door behind her, she could have sworn she felt a tug, as if someone inside the room had taken hold of the door handle to wrench it back open. It was only for a brief moment though, and then Fyen managed to slam the door shut and she skittered downstairs without looking back. There were goose bumps creeping along her neck as long as she had her back facing the room. I have to get out of here, she thought as she belted her sword, marched out of the inn, and into the twilight. A stiff drink, that's what I need right now.
She walked down the thoroughfare, not really knowing where she wanted to go. Her feet took her to an area with several dilapidated buildings and drunkards stumbling about. As she passed a dark alley, Fyen heard strange noises and peered into the shadows. She could make out a rich-looking older man with a vast belly humping away. Before him was a young, beautiful girl who was leaning against a wall. She was wearing dirty, ordinary clothes and her hair stuck to her face as if she hadn’t bathed for a couple of days. The man, in turn, was dressed in a fine, expensive attire befitting a nobleman. Fyen felt an odd sting in her chest she hadn’t experienced ever before. She couldn’t understand why this beautiful young woman was with a fat, ugly, old man.
Then the woman noticed Fyen. “Fuck off, bitch!”
The old man turned to look at her as well and smiled lewdly. “Hey, girl, come here! I’ll pay three silvers if you join us!”
Now revolted, Fyen hurried away, shivers running down her spine and her hands cold and trembling. I would never let someone like that… no matter how much they… not ever! Once again she had forgotten her cloak and realized it might mean trouble but she didn’t want to return to the inn just yet. Right now she needed a stiff drink to alleviate her rattled nerves. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the vision she had seen. It didn’t make any sense to the girl. They didn’t look like… did he put it in her ass? Why would anyone let… She thought back to the ragged appearance of the girl. Because if she doesn’t let him do it, she won’t be eating supper tonight?
Confused and upset, Fyen was glad to come by a small tavern just around the next corner. From outside, it looked rather quaint, cozy even. The girl stepped inside and was greeted by a moist room full of drunken people, mostly men in their thirties and forties. Feeling like she would look silly if she turned around now, Fyen swallowed and walked over to the counter. A gruff, unshaved man with a potbelly looked at her from behind the bar.
"What d'you want?" he grunted.
"An ale," Fyen said, trying to sound casual and grown-up.
She tried to ignore a group of uniformed men sitting at a nearby table who were staring at her and whispering to each other. The bartender handed over a tankard and took the silver she gave him. As Fyen turned around, one of the uniformed men waved at her.
"Oi! Girl! Come over here for a second!"
Hesitating, Fyen stepped closer but stayed out of reach. "What?"
"There's no need to be rude, dear," another man smirked.
Ignoring him, Fyen waited for a reply from the first man. He was thin, maybe in his early thirties, and had a face that resembled that of a wolf-dog. The man looked at Fyen and smiled but not in a friendly way.
"You want to join us?" he asked.
As Fyen thought about a myriad of ways to say ‘hell no', one of the men, a stout individual, pointed at a huge pitcher of ale in the middle of the table and said: "Grab a chair and have a drink with us, won't you?"
For the first time Fyen actually considered accepting their offer. The Wolf-dog kicked a chair in front of her. Oh what the hell, Fyen thought and sat down. After all, I too am a wanderer now, just like Mirlín and Reynaer. I can take care of myself.
"So, what's with the uniforms?" the girl asked, putting on her cool face.
The Wolf-dog kept grinning as he spoke. "We are Sun Collectors, just kicking it up." Then he leaned closer and very purposefully looked at Fyen’s thighs. “Say, that outfit is mighty pleasing to the eye. You know that the book of the Sun discourages girls your age from wearing such… suggestive garments?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Uh-huh,” the man nodded with a grin. “And there are punishments. Like the Harlot’s Chair. Do you know what a Harlot’s Chair is?” Fyen’s shake of her head seemed to give great pleasure to the man. “It’s a chair the shape of a pyramid and the harlot is lowered onto it with a rope slowly, very slowly until her whole weight rests on the spike. Her hands and feet are tied so she can’t get off and then weights are attached to her feet. You know, when the spike gets into her cunt or ass, she will slowly tear apart.”
“Oh,” was all Fyen could say with a cold sensation running through her guts. All right, remain calm, just stay calm… change the subject! "So, have you caught many witches lately?"
The stouter Son guffawed. "Have we caught many witches lately, she asks! You hear that, lads?"
The Sons laughed, making Fyen feel uncomfortable, not really understanding why they were laughing. She tried to maintain her cool and took a long swig of ale. The Wolf-dog kept staring at her from under his brows, the grin never leaving his face.
"What's a little girl like you doing here, all alone?" he asked.
Without meaning to, Fyen drew herself up. "I'm not a little girl. Besides, I'm meeting up some friends in a moment." Her voice did not seem to carry the same confidence it had when the words had first gone through her mind.
The Wolf-dog nodded, poured a fresh pint, and placed it before her. "Then have a man's drink, lady."
She glanced at him and put the pint next to her half-empty tankard. "Thanks."
The stout Son stared at her chest and spoke without raising his eyes. "We actually caught a witch yesterday. Didn't we, lads?" The others laughed.
Fyen tried to look interested but crossed her arms over her chest as she felt uncomfortable under the lewd gazes aimed at her upper body. "Oh, is she in prison now?"
This time they positively roared. Now what? Fyen thought, feeling more than annoyed.
The Wolf-dog took a drink before replying. "No, she's not in a prison now, but she might as well be."
As if that makes sense? "Huh?"
The stout man leaned forward, still staring at her chest. "We took her to a shed and gave her the Spider, didn't we?"
A tall, gangly, blond Son sniggered. "That we did, gave her the Spider we did."
The girl was confused. "You gave her a spider?"
The Wolf-dog leaned forward for the first time. His teeth were thin, long, and deep yellow. "No, doll, we gave her the Spider. One of these..." He rummaged around in a sack that had been under the table. Then he brought out a cruel-looking instrument that looked like a metal rod with six sharp spikes in one end, curving in like the legs of a dead spider. "This is the Spider, doll," he said, still grinning.
"What does it do?" Fyen asked, regretting her question the moment the words had slipped out of her mouth.
The fat Son finally raised his eyes from Fyen's chest and stared right into her eyes. "Rips her tits off!"
The gangly blond tittered. "Rips ‘em clean off it does!"
Feeling cold shivers crawl down her spine, Fyen took a large gulp of her ale. "What had she done?"
The fat Son sneered. "She had a miscarriage!" And as if suddenly remembering something, he added: "And she was a witch!"
The blond giggled. "A witch she was!"
A very uncomfortable silence landed and Fyen felt all eyes looking at one part of her or another.
The Wolf-dog still hadn't averted his stare. "You should have seen her face when we did her ass with the Pear."
Fyen let out a nervous laugh, trying to think up something to say that would spare her the description of what the fruity tool did. "I bet." She finished her beer but hadn't touched the one the Sons had poured for her. "You, you do those things to, uh, all witches?" The thought of her mother being tortured in the way the Sons had described made her stomach churn uncomfortably.
The Wolf-dog sneered. "When there's not a priest with us."
A glimmer of hope sparked in Fyen's heart. "But when there is a priest with you…"
The fat Son spat. "Those poofs take them straight to the citadel." Then he grinned. "Not that it prevents us from doing what we want when we get down to the dungeons."
The blond yelped again. "No it don't, it don't prevent the Pear!"
Suddenly Fyen had to get out of there.
She started standing up when the Wolf-dog put his hand on her shoulder. "Say, doll, what's that thing around your neck?"
Pushing back dawning panic, she waved her hand. "Just a trinket." Then she stood up, forcing the Wolf-dog to let go unless he also stood up, which he did not. "I'm gonna go see what's taking so long with my friends," she muttered, trying to smile.
The Wolf-dog looked her up and down. "We can help you find them. And show you the Pear if you want. There's still some blood on it."
The fat Son chuckled. "We need to use it more often."
The blond laughed. "Shit! It's still got shit on it!"
Feeling her game was up, Fyen spun around and walked briskly, staring at the door. She didn’t dare look back and when she stepped outside, she broke into a run. Fyen dashed to a side street and was nearing a corner when she finally glanced back over her shoulder. The Sons had just stepped on the same street but were so drunk they hadn't noticed her.
"Where'd she go?" she heard the fat Son bellowing.
"Couldn't have gotten far," the Wolf-dog replied.
Fyen didn't stay to listen but sprinted forward as fast as she could. She did not stop until she was back on the thoroughfare but several blocks from the tavern where the Sons had been. Fyen saw the inn where they were staying and hoped Reynaer and Mirlín would be back already. She stepped into the tavern and looked around. On one hand she felt like having a stiff drink, on the other she felt sick to her stomach.
The evening was just starting to liven up and the innkeeper with his bushy mustache was pouring tankard after tankard for thirsty travelers and bored locals. Fyen walked over to the counter and somehow the crowd of men in front of her stepped aside, forming a human gauntlet for her. Several eyes were aimed at her, whispering and pointing among men and women alike, most of them apparently disapproving or approving her hose. Surely enough, Fyen hadn’t seen any other girl her age wear a similar garment.
Still grossed out by the stories the Sons had told her moments ago and feeling rather self-conscious and uncomfortable, Fyen was glad she didn't need to order anything called the Thirsty Cock. The innkeeper gave her a large tankard of foaming ale.
"How old are you anyway?" he asked eyeing her suspiciously from behind thick eyebrows.
Fyen tossed her head to move a strand of her hair off of her face only to have it return to its previous place. She laid five copper coins on the bar, took the pint, and blew froth off the reddish drink.
"Old enough."
Relieved that the barkeep hadn’t made a bigger number of her age but fearing she might falter if she pushed her luck, Fyen turned to find the darkest, emptiest corner of the tavern where hopefully nobody would come to talk to her. As she walked away from the counter, she could still see she was the center of attention. Feeling strangely anxious, Fyen took a hearty swig of the warm ale and grimaced. Its strong, bitter taste filled her mouth and she would have wanted to spit it out but eventually managed to swallow the drink as she yearned to forget the gruesome, shocking images she had been described so vividly. Never before had she even thought about such horrors and when she realized her own mother might be subjected to similar tortures right now, Fyen’s throat clenched and the pit of her stomach fell. Quickly she drank up, trying to ignore the bitter taste of the warm ale, and hoped the alcohol would soothe her nerves and make her forget.
What she saw then almost made her drop her pint. Reynaer was on the other end of the counter, deep in conversation with a woman. She was blonde, tall, and very beautiful. She wore a white dress, a red bodice, and plenty of make-up. Fyen squinted at the pair and frowned. Sure, she looks really good but why isn’t he with Mirlín? They’d make such a nice couple! And I’d— Her narrow eyes widened. He is with Mirlín! But why is she dressed up like that? The raven girl stood up and took a step forward but felt something stop her. No, not now. It looked as if the two were having a moment of some kind and Fyen felt that it would be wrong to intrude. She returned to her empty, dark table and sat down, her back to the wall. Tonight she would be the observer.
Desiderius had tried to fall asleep but kept tossing and turning on his narrow bed that smelled slightly suspicious. Finally he gave up and decided to catch some night air. He put his gambeson and shoes back on and left his room. The corridor was empty but he could hear distant voices coming from downstairs. There was probably a tavern of some kind down there, he reckoned. In fact, Desiderius recalled that on this side of the river there was no other village with as many taverns. There's probably a tavern in the outhouse too. ‘You want peanuts with that?’ ‘No thanks, just toilet paper today!’
He didn't feel like drinking. Fyen would stay in tonight too so he figured he wouldn't be a complete loser for staying sober. Soon the youth was strolling down the thoroughfare, whistling a merry tune to himself. An idea was forming in his head. What if I bought a small notebook and started to write down our adventures? With poetic license, of course. That would be fun and later on I might become a famous minstrel, singing our incredible tale to beautiful dames!
Desiderius spotted a mixed item shop that was still open and went in. He walked straight to the counter. "Good evening, ma'am! Do you happen to have any notebooks for sale?" he asked a robust woman.
"Why, sure. I must have seen a notebook or two somewhere..." she replied and started rummaging through a row of trunks. Suddenly she got up and looked at Desiderius again. "Wait a minute! Aren't you Alistair's son? You sure look just like him, the same nose and hair," she said with a wide smile.
"Umm... yes, actually. I'm Desiderius and you must be... one of my aunts?" he asked.
She started to look for notebooks again, talking fast at the same time. "Call me Aunt Beatrice. Now what are you doing here in Coilea? I thought Alistair lives somewhere in the north nowadays!"
Desiderius felt a bit uncomfortable. "Uh, I'm here with some of my friends, just seeing the world."
He had heard stories about aunties like Beatrice. They were all nosey and once they got their hands on a nephew, they were very reluctant to let go. Just offered cakes and biscuits and wanted to know about the girls Desiderius hadn't been with. He hoped the woman would find a notebook soon.
"That's very nice. You have many friends? What kind? Girlfriend?" she kept asking.
"Err... well, I'm traveling with two girls and this swordsman."
"Wonderful, wonderful.... good gals?"
"One of them is my age. She's pretty good."
"Would I know her? She from around here?"
What kind of a shop is this? Can't even find notebooks for respectable customers! Desiderius thought before replying to Beatrice's question. "Uh, no. She's from Kumby, that's where I live too, actually. Dad's farm is nearby but I moved out... now I'm just traveling around with her and my other friends."
"Are you planning on marrying her?" Beatrice asked, smiling. She was missing two teeth.
"What?” I wish! “No, I don't know, uh, what about the notebook?"
"It's right here dearie, but do stay longer and chat with me a little. I haven't heard anything about Alistair and the rest of your family in ages!"
"Yes, sure, uh..." Desiderius noticed a familiar looking instrument on one of the shelves. A lute? His mother had taught him to play it but Desiderius had left his own lute home as he had just thought he'd never play it again. But now, for some reason, the boy felt like it would be nice to have a lute and maybe compose new songs, sing his stories. Desiderius liked singing even though he was a bit shy about it.
"How much for the lute, Auntie?" he asked.
"Oh, thirty silvers. You used to play one when you were younger, eh?" Beatrice asked, fetching the instrument.
"Yeah, but I haven't played in a while. I'll take it... uh, how much was the notebook? Oh, and a bottle of ink, too. Please."
"Three silvers, please. Oh, but why don't you stay and play me something?"
Desiderius counted his money and handed them over to his aunt. Then he grabbed the items and shook his head. "I'm sorry but my friends are waiting. They need me to be around, you know how it is... with friends. When you have friends... like I do."
"Oh yes, friends can be like that but you shouldn't turn your back on your family either, young man. I sure would have hoped to hear more."
"Thank you for everything, Auntie. Sorry, that I'm in a hurry but I'll stop by some other time and we'll catch up then, ok? I'll play you songs about my adventures, I promise!" he said and with that left the shop.
He was in no mood for fat aunties now. He hurried back to the inn and up the stairs to their room. Desiderius jumped on the bed and took a pen from his bag. Then he wrote about the day they four had met. Every now and then he glanced at the lute and smiled to himself.
After a couple of hours Reynaer stumbled in. He was obviously quite inebriated because it took a while for him to focus his eyes on Desiderius.
"Oh, you're still up," he grumbled with a burp.
"Yeah, I couldn't get any sleep... so, did night air smell good?" Desiderius asked wryly, biting on the pen.
"What you on about, boy?" Reynaer growled and swayed a little.
"Was I right about Mirlín?" Desiderius went on asking. He wanted to write this scene to his notes.
"Right about what? We had a perfectly good time," he answered.
"Aha! So she wanted company even though she said otherwise," Desiderius said and scribbled it on his notebook.
Reynaer's eyes grew dark and he strode to Desiderius. "You're getting on my nerves, boy." He grabbed the notebook and flung it out of the open window.
"Hey! Rude!" Desiderius cried and rushed to the window only to see his notebook lying in a pile of manure. "Why'd you do that?"
"You ask too many questions and need to learn when to shut up," the big man grunted.
"Must not have been a very fruitful night for you," Desiderius muttered, grabbed his lute so that Reynaer couldn't destroy it too, and walked out. Before he pulled the door shut, Reynaer kicked it from the other side causing Desiderius to slam against the opposite wall.
"Bloody hell, I'm not gonna sleep in the same room with that brute!" Desiderius fumed, stomping downstairs as loudly as he could.
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