Dark Crusade - Chapter 4 (Sekilda)

Sekilda

         The last drops of blood fell into the waiting pool on the altar, and Sekilda bowed her head. The silence lasted a full minute before she raised her view to the women assembled before her.

         “Now, sisters, the time has come for us to leaven praise to the Dread Mistress.” She clapped her hands, and a rattling of chains came from the alcove behind her and to her right. A long line of men were led out, chained hand and foot, and all with hoods tied over their heads.

         As Sekilda watched, the women seated on the floor rose and began to disrobe. Old women, young women, and every age in between. All of them hers. They would do as she bade them. She singled out Farast’s brewer girl in the back corner and watched her.

         The girl seemed to flutter between the impulse to jump into the utter hedonism before her, and the urge to run screaming into the night. She awkwardly removed her dress, and folded her smallclothes on top of it; then she seemed to feel Sekilda’s eyes on her.

         Sekilda crooked a finger at her, and as she moved hesitantly towards the altar, Sekilda removed her own robes. The glyphs tattooed on her left side flared with blue light as the rough grey robe fell away.

         Rissa stopped before her, her head bowed submissively, her hands folded over her sex. Sekilda roughly grabbed her chin with her right hand, and looked her straight in the eyes as she stroked the tattoo over her left hip.

         Rissa’s eyes glazed slightly, but when they cleared, they showed exactly what Sekilda had wanted. Lust. For her.

         The brewer’s daughter reached for her, but Sekilda slapped her hand away. “You presume much,” she said, slowly walking around the other woman.

         “I only wanted to please you, Priestess,” Rissa answered, bowing her head again.

         “Many wish to please me, but few are allowed to rise to such heights.” Sekilda responded, continuing to circle. “Someday, if you prove yourself, you may be allowed to touch me, but for now, you may not.” She ran her fingers over the glyph again, and watched as Rissa’s knees trembled.

         “How may I become worthy of you, Priestess?” It seemed like the words were coming from much farther away, the poor girl had to work so hard to get them out.

         “The Dread Mistress has need of your lover,” Sekilda said, stopping her circling and leaning against the altar.

         “You mean, Far-“

         Sekilda slapped her cheek, whipping her head to the side. “You know who I mean, idiot! Haven’t we told you time and again not to speak any names when in this place?”

         Rissa held a hand to her cheek and sank to her knees, almost in tears.

         “The Dread Mistress has need of him. You will surrender him to me, and I will give him to her.”

         “When shall I bring him to you, Priestess?”

         “We must move quickly. War is coming, and the Dread Mistress will need him. I must have him within a fortnight.” Reaching into the pooled blood on the altar, she turned Rissa’s face up and drew a glyph on her forehead in blood.

         “That will burn until you bring him to me. If you do not, it will kill you.” Sekilda motioned towards the massive orgy in process before the altar. “Now go give your offering to the Dread Mistress. I have no more time for such foolishness tonight.”

         The younger girl quickly moved towards the line of slaves still waiting to be used, grabbing the first one she laid hands on, and commenced with her worship.

         Sekilda shrugged back into her robe and pulled it closed. The pressure in her head was gone now. Vivendei was sated. For now. She still felt the insistent pull for her brother, but Rissa would deliver him, she felt confident in that.

         When the ceremony was done, the women filed past her, begging her blessing. As usual, she chose a random few, and sent them home into the night.

         Sekilda herself changed back into her usual clothes, black leathern leggings and jerkin, over her tunic of blue linen. She pulled on her riding boots and slowly walked to her horse, tied to a tree in a hidden grove, not far from the cave.

         As she placed her hand on the pommel to mount, she heard a twig snap behind her. Instinctively she ducked under her horse, and came to her feet on the other side, facing her attacker.

         Farast looked at her across her saddle.

         She let out a breath and slid her knife back into the top of her boot. “You should know better than to be sneaking up on women in the night, dear brother.”

         “I wanted to talk with you, Sekilda.”

         She arched an eyebrow at him. “Should we be talking here, or is this something we could discuss on the way back to our rooms?”

         “I think we should discuss it here.” He looked nervously around the grove, as if certain someone would come leaping from the trees at any moment. “I want to know what you’ve done to me.”

         “Done to you?” She schooled her face into a puzzled expression.

         “Stop it.” His voice was stronger now, more certain. “I know you’ve done something to me. All I can think about is bedding you. That never used to be the case, before…”

         Sekilda smiled and started around her horse towards him. “Before what? I grew these?” She grabbed her small breasts and pushed them up into his face.

         Her brother backed away, his lips moving silently, and his eyes screwed shut. “Please, Sekilda, stop this. This is unnatural. Brothers and sisters are not meant to bed each other.”

         “You are a man, and I am a woman. What does it matter who our parents were?” She reached under her tunic and stroked the glyph over her hip, watching her brother shudder as she did.

         Finally, he could stand it no longer and ran from the grove, retreating before her power overcame his will.

         Sekilda smiled to herself and mounted her horse to ride for home.

         The morning of her journey to Vanmar dawned bright and clear, with Sekilda preparing to begin her journey. The tourney at Vanmar would begin in two days, and she wanted to see Jon before the jousting began. She lashed her light pack onto her horse, and swung up into her saddle. The castle was still around her, everyone off and away from the main gates, as her brother had promised.

         She smiled to herself. She really must do something nice for her brother one of these days. She put her heels to the mare and it leapt forward, galloping across the soft dirt of the bailey and across the drawbridge.

         The quiet darkness of the ironpine forest closed around her as she left the castle behind. She slowed the horse to a walk, making her way carefully through the hunters’ paths that snaked through the pine scented gloom.

         By late afternoon, she had reached the main road. This close to the capital, the road was always busy. Farmers and drovers plied up and down the road, leading their carts and herds, all heading for the markets of the city. She was unlikely to draw attention among so many people, and her usual clothes were ordinary enough to pass without notice.

         So she nodded and smiled to all the people heading south, as she slowly worked her way through them. It was slightly unfair of her, she mused, to tell Rissa to bring Farast to her, and then leave. But, the girl didn’t really believe anyway, so her loss would be insignificant to Vivendei.

         As it began to grow dark, the skies opened up, and rain began to fall. It was a warm rain, and Sekilda left her cloak rolled behind her saddle. Soon her raven locks were plastered to her head, and her tunic stuck to her body. She enjoyed the surreptitious stares of the passing farmers and cattle drovers as she passed them, and her sharp ears heard the rebuke of their wives after they had passed, admonishing them for looking.

         She left the main road and wandered half a league or so into the woods before she stopped to make her camp for the night. It surpassed her skill to start a fire with her tinderbox in the rain, so looking around carefully; she spread her palm over the pile of logs and whispered under her breath. “Burn.”

         Immediately, the logs were engulfed in a ball of pure blue flame, instantly evaporating any water in them and setting them to burning merrily. Sekilda smiled to herself and retreated under the cover of her tiny tent. Her clothing was soaked, so she removed it, luxuriating in the feel of the warm night air on her naked body.

         The fire hissed and spit as the rain fell into it, but Sekilda knew it wouldn’t be extinguished as long as she needed it. As she sat by her fire, she let her mind turn to Jon. Jon was something of a quandary for her. True, she did love him, but they had met before Sekilda had decided to follow Vivendei’s path.

         Now that she was on that path, there was no leaving it. She could no longer bear children, the glyphs on her body would see to that. And what man would want a barren, hedonist wife? She knew that Jon had to be put behind her, and that she must leave her father’s household before he married her off and some petty lordling had her burned as a witch for the glyphs on her body.

         She sighed, running her fingers over the glyphs. They were useful to have, no doubt, but they complicated things terribly. That was when she heard a twig snap out in the woods. Silently she cursed her stupidity at sitting in the light of the fire. There was no time to dress, so she simply grabbed her sword and turned her unmarked right side towards the direction she had heard the noise from.

         Almost too soft to hear, there was a noise behind her. She started to whirl, but a pair of arms grabbed her around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides, Sekilda kicked frantically, but she was a small woman, and the bastard that had her was out of the reach of her sword.

         “Let me go!” she screamed, feeling the glyphs on her body starting to burn. Jerking her head around, she saw the faintest tinges of blue light starting to emanate from them. The arms released her, and she felt one grab a fistful of her hair as the other plucked the sword from her hand with contemptuous ease.

         The hand buried in her hair twisted, and she felt herself spin around to face the bastard that had her. Her head was forced back, staring up into the branches of the trees, and at the stars beyond them.

         “What the hell are those?” The man muttered. By now the blue light was pouring from the glyphs, overpowering even the firelight, tinting everything blue. He stared at Sekilda, torn between the light blazing from the markings on her body, and her body itself.

         In his moment of utter amazement, Sekilda’s knee came up between his legs. Hard.

         Instinctively, he released her hair and covered himself with both hands, and Sekilda dove for her sword. The worn leather of the grip slapped into her hand as she slid through the loose pine needles on the forest floor. She felt sap sticking them to her body, felt the dirt and rocks beneath them cutting into her breasts, stomach and thighs.

         But then she was back on her feet, facing her attacker with steel in her hand. The blade glittered in the blue-tinged light, and she padded closer on her bare feet. Sekilda said nothing, merely glared at him with hatred in her eyes. She ran her fingers over several of the glyphs, making her exude raw sexuality, and enhancing her already considerable beauty.

         The man before her was curled in a fetal position on the ground, still clutching himself where she had struck him, but he whimpered in frustration as the glyphs worked their magic on her body.

         Still lightly stepping forward, Sekilda rested the point of her blade on the side of his neck, lightly scratching the dirt-encrusted skin. “I am a priestess of Vivendei,” she declared.

         “It is not for you to touch her body, gifted to me.” Her bare foot kicked him in the stomach. Crouching down, she spit in his face. She made a marking on his face in the saliva. “The next time you force a woman, that mark will drop you dead on your feet, you pig. Now get out of my sight before I have your head.”

         Sekilda returned to her tent, this time well back from the light of the fire, and rummaged through her pack for a clean set off smallclothes. She pulled on dry clothing over them, and by the time she turned to face her fire again, the man had staggered off, out of sight into the trees. She was still half a day’s ride from Forest Town, and she was tempted to ride through the night to get there, but decided against it. Her mare was tired, and Jon wouldn’t be there until late tomorrow anyway.

         She nibbled on some fruit she had brought with her, then slid down into her bedroll and prepared to wait out the night.

         Morning came with a piercing brightness. Sekilda opened her eyes, silently cursing herself for falling asleep. The fire still burned brightly, and she waved her hand at it, extinguishing it. Hastily she struck her small camp and swung back up onto her mare. She would eat a cold breakfast as she rode. Between bites, she fought with her brush, trying to force her hair back into some semblance of order.

         I should have killed that bastard last night she thought to herself. Now there will be stories everywhere about Vivendei and her priestesses, and probably another series of witch hunts. Joy.

         Sure enough, as she drew closer to town, the stories were already starting. Of course, in the telling she had grown from a short woman weighing eight stone to a whole coven of giantesses, each big as a mountain, armed to the teeth, and glowing with evil blue lights.

         At the gates of Forest Town, there was a group of men, heavily armed, thundering their way through the gates and into the woods. They accosted her nearly at once.

         “Here now, Missy,” The leader of the group drawled at her. “You shouldn’t be wandering alone, pretty little thing like you. There’s dangerous men out in them woods.”

         “Thank you, but I can look after myself,” Sekilda replied, nudging her horse past them.

         A hand shot out and grabbed the bridle of her horse, pulling her to a stop. “And how would you be doing that, Missy? Figure you wave that sword around a bit and everyone will just run in terror of you?”

         “You have no idea who I am, do you?” Sekilda asked, her eyes going hard. “Lord Laingcaster will be very upset with you when he learns of your rudeness towards me.”

         The group of me laughed. “So go on, tell us. Who are you, Missy? His cook? Maybe a serving wench? Or perhaps just his favorite bed warmer.” They laughed again, loud and coarse. The laughter of barely civilized men who knew they were right.

         “No, I’m his daughter, you barbarian, and you will address me as ‘my lady’,” Sekilda growled.

         “Oh, apologies, My Lady,” The leader laughed again. “I’m Brock, Lord of the golden pisspot, meself. Come on Missy, You ain’t fooling no one. Get down off your horse and come with us. We’re gonna see if you’re a witch.”

         “I will warn you once, Brock. Take your men and go find your witch somewhere else. If you’re ignorant enough not to recognize your own Lord’s daughter when you live less than two days from his castle, you deserve whatever happens to you.”

         Brock’s jaw hardened and he was about to spit out a reply when one of his group elbowed him in the ribs. “She does talk awful pretty. Maybe she’s tellin’ the truth, Brock.”

         “Anyone can talk pretty,” Brock insisted mulishly. “I want to see if she’s a witch.”

         “Witches are all gnarled and ugly, Brock. She’s too pretty to be a witch. Come on, that drunked up fool said he left her in the woods, let’s go look there.”

         Reluctantly, Brock released the bridle of her mare, but not before looking threateningly at her. “You’re getting off easy, witch,” he spat at her. “Next time I see you, we’ll have us a witch-burning.”

         “And if I see you again, it will be in irons,” Sekilda spat back. She nudged her mare again and rode through the gates; silently thanking Vivendei she hadn’t been caught.