NIGHTSEED [7]
By Heck

Comments to heck@heckster.co.uk

CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wispy tendrils of early morning mist snaked between the trees at the 
roadside, and laid a soft, damp blanket over the winding road. The world, 
muffled by the waist-high layer of fog, was silent save for the steady 
clopping of three sets of hooves, each with it's own rhythm, according to the 
gait of the horse, setting up a soothing counterpoint.
  Also virtually silent, the three riders sat astride their mounts, each lost in his 
or her own thoughts, letting the horses wade sedately through the mist. The 
only sound made by any of them was Brannagh, quietly humming a favourite 
dwarf tune. In the way of dwarves, the tune was more of a dirge than 
anything else, pitched so low that it was almost inaudible to the two humans, 
so that to their ears in seemed that Brannagh was merely rumbling in a 
monotone to himself.
  Part of Lon's mind was still filled with the horrific scene in the cottage of 
the slaughtered young couple and the state of the bodies, described to him 
with not a little relish by the dwarf. The other part was going over the parting 
with Shandri three mornings ago; he had liked her, and hoped to see her 
again one day.
  He recalled the red-faced old lady, standing outside her humble hut, eyes 
glistening as she hugged the tall young warrior. "Take care", she said. "Don't 
you leave it so long before you come back and see me. Ten years between 
visits is too long". She folded her arms sternly under her ample bosom, 
although the twinkle in her eyes belied her severity. "I'm an old woman, 
now, you know. I might not last ten years. And don't leave it until you're on 
your way somewhere else".
  The road now turned south through scattered stands of trees that gradually 
thickened to form deep forest. Brenhya recalled the last time she had 
travelled this road, in the opposite direction. She had been nine years old, and 
had been close to total exhaustion, mechanically putting one foot in front of 
another, driven only by her determination to carry out the dying wishes of her 
father.       On this occasion, travelling on horseback, the trip that had 
consumed six days was completed in three. Gyre's End, the small village 
where she had been raised, swung into view as they rounded a bend. Many of 
the buildings were still charred shells, more than ten years after the event that 
had razed the community, but a number of new houses had been constructed 
and the village was beginning to recover the aspect of a thriving settlement. 
Brenhya drew her horse to a halt with a huge sigh. Her companions came to a 
standstill at either side, and as she turned to face them they were a little 
dismayed to see her hard, set expression and the moisture glistening in her 
eyes.
  "Wait here". Her voice was very calm and quiet. "There's something I have 
to do".
  She heeled the big bay mare into a walk, and turned her off the road into the 
trees. Lon made as if to follow her, but the look she gave him made him 
hesitate. Brannagh laid a small, hard hand on his arm. "Leaves 'un", the 
dwarf advised.
  "What's wrong with her? I've never seen her like this".
  "'Er'll be OK. 'Er jus' needs some times on she's own".
  "Do you know what's up?"
  "Yus. I finks so. This's where 'er was brung up. 'Bout ten 'r 'leven year 
ago, load 'o vandals attacks this village. Them kills 'er mum 'n dad pretty 
badly, I reckons".
  "They would have been the Black Marauders", Lon put in. "I've seen some 
of their work. Brenhya and I dealt with them, when we went to Pallandry. 
Well", he amended in response to Brannagh's raised eyebrow. "Brenhya 
dealt with them. But I helped. A bit".
  "Yers. Be's that as it mays. Any road, tha's what sets she off, lookin' fer the 
Sisters o' Themyra, an' 'er was on she's way when 'er comes across we, at 
the Shows. Stopped  along o' we fer an 'ole seasons, an' a winters, too. Then 
'er goes off and learns to be a warriors, an' I reckons you knows more 'bout 
wha' 'appens after that than what I does. Minds you, I c'n see a big changes 
in she since then. I never sees she cry afore. Never sees any feelin's in she 
'tall, fer tha' matters. So I reckons 'er must'a done what she sets out to do. 
Can't blames she, neither".
  "She certainly did", Lon agreed. He was getting used to the dwarf's peculiar 
way of speaking, by now. "It was like a great weight had been lifted from 
her. Without going into detail, she was out of it for a few days, and when she 
came to, it was like a complete change. She could laugh and cry, and show 
her emotions like anyone else. It was wonderful to see".
  The majestic horse carried her through the woods, where used to be a 
winding path, now overgrown and hard to navigate. But Brenhya knew where 
she was going and it was not too long until she came to a wide clearing. She 
reined Maakar to a halt, and slid to the ground.
  The skeletal remains of the cottage where she had spent her childhood, and 
her father's blacksmith's forge, stood stark and blackened against a backdrop 
of trees. Even after all this time, she imagined she could still detect the 
smoky smell of burnt wood and flesh. She wandered among the ruins, lost in 
memories, picking her careful way over the ashy timbers of her family home. 
She found two or three charred skulls amongst the debris; one of them, she 
knew was that of Galliane, her mother, but with a lump in her throat she 
realised that she would never know which was which and, therefore, would 
never be able to give what was left of her mother a decent burial as she had 
hoped.
  Outside in the clearing, the ancient elm tree to which Harroc, her father, had 
been nailed on the instructions of the inhuman tyrant, Boulic, still stood, the 
wide swing, where she and her parents had sat on many a summer's evening, 
hanging forlornly by one chain. Nearby, the trestle table on which she had 
laid his bloody battered body, and on which he had later died, remained in 
position, now moss-grown and friable with rot, fettered by bindweed and a 
bank of nettles.
  It took mere minutes for her to locate the grave of her father, a grave she 
had dug herself and in which she had laid the big man to rest. It was marked 
only by the broken shovel she had used to excavate it, jammed firmly into the 
earth in place of a headstone. Head bowed, she knelt at it's side, allowing the 
dreadful memories of that terrible night and the trauma-filled day that 
followed to wash over her.
  Brenhya knelt in silence for long minutes. Then, with a huge sobbing gasp, 
she began to weep. She wept long and mightily, shoulders heaving and tears 
gushing down her cheeks, sobbing her heart out, crying as if it would never 
end, releasing the grief that had formed a hard knot deep within her and had 
never been totally exorcised until this moment.
  Eventually, her sobbing eased and she regained sufficient control of herself 
to speak to her dead father. "It's been a long time, Daddy", she told him. 
"Too long. I did what you told me. I went to the Sisters of Themyra, and they 
took me in like you said they would. They inducted me into the Warrior 
Caste, and trained me up to be a good warrior. I think you would have been 
proud". She sniffed and sighed deeply before continuing.
 "I know you wouldn't have expected it, but I made an oath over your grave 
to avenge you and Mummy, and to put an end to all the suffering that Boulic 
had caused. I just wanted to tell you that it is done. I carried it out. Boulic is 
dead, the Black Marauders have been disbanded, and Pallandry is now a safer 
place to live. The Emperor will see to that". She gave a little snuffling laugh. 
"He'll be too scared not to. And just in case, I left a very capable man to see 
that he does".
  Brenhya rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion. "I'm engaged on another 
matter, right now", she said. "But soon, I'll come back and see that you get a 
proper headstone and tidy this place up a bit. Goodbye, Daddy".
  At the roadside, Brannagh was sitting on a grassy verge, throwing stones at 
a stump, while Lon paced anxiously back and forth. He was about to say 
"what's keeping her" for the umpteenth time, when Brenhya appeared 
between the trees leading her horse. She was dry-eyed, but her face was 
streaked and wore a wistful expression. 
  Whether due to some silent telepathic rapport that passed between them, or 
just that she looked as if she needed it, the dwarf and the youth came to her 
without a word, and enfolded her in a comforting hug.

  High in the domed ceiling of the atrium, Fool sat glumly in his tiny cage, 
watching the activities on the floor below. Coloured filters had been placed 
over the candles, bathing the chamber with a dim and eerie red glow so that it 
was not easy for him to discern exactly what was happening. 
  And that, he thought, is probably just as well.
  Far below, the floor heaved with a writhing mass of humanity. A full scale 
orgy was in progress, and eighty-four naked men and forty-seven nude 
women had abandoned themselves to total carnality. Practices were taking 
place that Fool, in his wildest nightmares, had never even dreamed of. The air 
was redolent with the stench of human sweat and male and female bodily 
fluids.
  Directly below him, two men buggered each other in turns, while next to 
them a woman was sitting astride the face of a man who was obviously 
engrossed in the warm moistness that enfolded him. Nearby, a woman was 
being held down by one man while another raped her with a thick candle. 
Manacled to a wall, a woman writhed in agony as two men took turns to flog 
her with a multi-tailed whip. A man rode on the back of a strapping young 
woman, and another couple performed oral sex on each other simultaneously. 
In a corner, one woman was enjoying the attentions of three men. One 
copulated with her in the normal way, while another sodomised her at the 
same time. The third rode her head as she sucked greedily at his phallus.
  Fellatio and cunnilingus. Copulation in all positions and combinations. 
Homo- and heterosexual partnerships, and collations of both. Sadism and 
masochism. Buggery and all kinds of fetishes to which he could not put a 
name. All were taking place among the seething masses below, and Fool tried 
to avert his gaze and swallow his rising gorge at some of the things he 
witnessed. Yet he could not tear his fascinated eyes from the spectacle.
  Like an island of calm amid the surging bacchanalia, only two figures 
remained fully clothed in their cowled blue robes. Atop the altar table, 
Amillie sat cross-legged, upturned palms resting on her widely spread knees, 
eyes closed and chanting softly, channelling the energy released by the sex 
acts to attract the Dragonkind toward this place.
  Behind her, V'Daa watched the goings-on with a wicked grin on his cruel 
lips. His glittering, darting eyes tried to take in everything at once, taking 
vicarious pleasure from the orgy. Just below the surface of his outer calm the 
cauldron of his madness boiled, heated by the stove of human lust. The 
voices in his head told him that this was right, this was good. He was 
indestructible and unstoppable, his paranoid delusions told him, and when the 
daemon was his to command, he would show all those insignificant insects 
who had decried and persecuted him all his life, just who was in charge, who 
was the superior being. The thought of the fate of weak, insipid humanity at 
his hands was, to his insane way of thinking, extremely funny, and he began 
to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
  Way above, Fool clapped his hands over his ears to shut out the shrieking, 
maniacal laughter that
assaulted his senses.

  The three companions journeyed on, keeping to well-travelled roads, 
questioning passers-by for news of any strange occurrences. They travelled as 
far as they could by day, well into dusk, and spent the night in hedges and 
hayricks, the warm nights demanding no shelter.
  One morning, Lon and Brannagh sat by the campfire brewing herb tea and 
frying bacon for breakfast. In the centre of the road, at an hour unlikely to be 
disturbed by other travellers, Brenhya went through her morning exercises, a 
routine she never missed unless absolutely necessary.
  Preparatory to beginning, she shook out her long, glossy, rich red hair and 
stood motionless for a few moments, eyes closed and a serene expression on 
her lovely upraised face, centering herself before launching into her strenuous 
workout. Even relaxed, there was no mistaking the fact that she was an 
extremely strong woman. Her stupendous musculature gave her a shape that 
was at once powerful, shapely, and very feminine. Most noticeably, her arms 
and legs conveyed the impression of pure, unadulterated strength. Barefoot 
and armour-less, she looked like a goddess come to earth in the soft morning 
light. 
  She began her routine with ten minutes of stretching, bending and twisting 
her supple body into positions that seemed impossible for such a large 
woman, but which she accomplished with little effort. This was followed by 
fifteen minutes of jogging up and down the road, interspersed with bursts of 
furious sprinting. Her speed and lightness of foot was exceptional and, if 
required to do so, she could run down and overtake the fastest of athletes. 
Over a very short distance, she was even faster than most horses, but only 
because she had fewer legs to sort out.
  Her lithe body thoroughly warmed by these exercises, she began to work 
out in earnest. In less than two minutes she cranked out two hundred push-
ups, and without pause continued with one-arm push-ups. One hundred with 
each arm in two sets of fifty each. Barely pausing to catch her breath, she 
turned onto her back to churn out several hundred sit-ups, keeping her knees 
raised to avoid unnecessary strain on her lower back.
  When she could, she used whatever was handy to carry out various weight 
training routines, and had been known to utilise Lon or Brannagh, or both 
together, as weights to this end. This morning, however, she contented 
herself with performing a few dozen chins on an overhanging branch.
  Her main routine over, Brenhya went into a series of combat drills, 
performing set piece high kicks, leaps and punches with controlled power and 
precision. She particularly enjoyed this part, as it reminded her of a lethal 
dance performed with balletic skill.
  Lon had seen her go through this routine hundreds of times, but never failed 
to be enthralled by it and rarely willingly gave up the opportunity to watch. 
This morning, though, his brow was creased into a frown with the effort of 
deep thought, and he seemed curiously distracted.
  Brannagh was always fascinated by Brenhya's exercise routine although, as 
was his way, he affected not to be impressed. But for some reason, on this 
particular morning, he felt moved to speak to Lon about it.
  "Looks at she", he said. "Brenhya cert'nly turns out beautiful, di'nt 'er".
  Lon did not look up from his reverie. "Mmm".
  "Look at th' way 'er moves. Graceful, like. Full o' strenff".
  "Mmm"
  Brannagh turned to stare at the youth with a gimlet eye. "You listenin' to I, 
boy?"
  "What?"
  "You's in a worl' o' yer own, 's mornin'. Wha's up wi' yer?"
  Lon shook himself, bringing himself back to the here-and-now. "I was just 
thinking", he explained. "Those footprints, and the state of those bodies, 
reminded me of something I saw in an old book that belonged to Ralagant. 
My old Master. That three-toed shape. Those claws. The woman's body, all 
blackened and dried out to a husk, and the man just ripped apart. It all rings a 
bell, but I just can't put my finger on it". 
  "Means sump'n, do it?"
  "I'm not sure. But nothing good, if it does. That book was a daemonologie".
  "Like I says afore, if'n it's daemonses, it can't be good. D' yer fink it's got 
anyfink to do wi' Fool?"
  "Don't know. Could be. Brenhya seems to think so. Too much of a 
coincidence not to be."
  "Hmph. I doesn't b'lieves in quinsy dinkies, eithers".
  Brenhya rejoined them, very slightly out of breath, her superbly muscled 
body covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She took a towel from her 
saddlebag and began to rub herself down vigourously. "What're you two 
chatting about?"
  "Lon finks 'e's seen tha' footprint an' them corpseses afore", Brannagh told 
her.
  "Oh?" The warrior was genuinely interested. "Where".
  "Well, I haven't actually seen them", Lon explained. "But I've read about 
something similar in an old daemonologie".
  Brenhya made a face. "I'm still skeptical", she said. "I don't know if I 
believe all that daemon stuff". She threw a sly wink to Brannagh.
  Lon was exasperated. "Oh, come on! You must. Your old friend, what was 
her name? Shandri? She recognised the work of a daemon, and you seemed 
to take it a face value".
  "Yes. But I've had a chance to think, since. Seems a bit airy fairy, to me". 
Brenhya deliberately kept her face straight and her voice level, but she could 
see that Brannagh was having difficulty.
  "How can you say that?" Lon demanded. "You believe in your Goddess, 
Themyra, don't you?"
  "Ye-es. In my own way".
  "And you believe in magic. You must. You've seen me do it".
  "I've seen you try. Your point?"
  "Well, you admit the existence of good supernatural things". He was getting 
wound up, now. "How can you deny the existence of evil ones? If there's 
good, there has to be evil, doesn't there? There has to be a balance. I may not 
be very good at practical magic, but I know the theory inside and out."
  "Ha!" Brannagh barked a laugh. "Young 'un's got a point, you".
  "Yes, maybe", Brenhya acceded. "But if you'd have me believe in daemons. 
I'd have to believe in faeries, pixies, sprites, dragons, unicorns, all that...."
  Lon jumped to his feet so suddenly that Brannagh almost rolled over 
backwards. Even Brenhya started at the unexpected movement. "That's it!". 
He cried.
  "What is?", Brenhya wanted to know.
  "Dragons! Well, not dragons, exactly, but the Dragonkind!"
  "Dragonkinds?" Brannagh queried. "Wha's that? Something kinda like a 
dragons? I dunno as 'ow I 'olds wi' dragonses".
  "Uh-huh. Not too far off". Lon began to pace up and down, waving his 
hands excitedly. "Brenhya, this has to be it. The Dragonkind. It's a daemonic 
beast. It's supposed to be manlike, but it has the qualities of a dragon, too".
  "What, it flies and breathes fire?"
  "No. But it feeds on the life-energy of living things". He began to 
pantomime a fearsome monster. "It drains the life right out of you. It's 
preternaturally strong, and nothing can keep it from its goal".
  "Which is?"
  "To find the one who summoned it; to do his bidding. If I remember right, 
there's a ring involved, and it has to be fed by the person who summoned it. 
Then it's enslaved to him forever".
  "This's all too spooky fer I", Brannagh said, shaking his head. "Loadsa 
rubbish".
  "I don't know", Brenhya mused. She had stopped her wind-up, now. "It all 
fits. The ring, and Fool disappearing. That woman looked as though the life 
had been sucked out of her, right enough. You may be onto something there, 
Lon".
  Lon smiled and relaxed. "So you believe it?"
  "Not necessarily", Brenhya said. Lon's brow raised, but Brenhya continued 
before he could speak. "But it's likely", she said, "that someone thinks he's 
the Dragonkind, or wants us to believe he is, and is acting out a fantasy".
  "But what about the dried-up husk?"
  "Yer doesn't 'ave to be no daemons ter do's that", Brannagh put in. "Me 
ancestors used ter do's it all th' times. What?!", he exclaimed, in reaction to 
the shocked looks he was getting from Brenhya and Lon. "T'were a long 
times ago. When they done sacrifices, an' that".
  Brenhya began picking up her saddlebags and weaponry, loading them on 
her horse. "In any event", she said. "Daemon or not, it's too much of a 
coincidence not to have something to do with Fool. We'd better see if we can 
pick up the pace a bit, and hope we can get to him before it does".