Magistrate of the Dark Land

Part One

by G. Lawrence

Innocent women are kidnapped

This is a fantasy novel providing high adventure and romance, but there are no dragons or wizards. There is Owen Vander, once a respected magistrate and now a drunk encountering mercenaries, fierce warrior women, and corrupt government officials in a forlorn search for two kidnapped daughters in a war-torn medieval land. All characters in this story are over 18 years old.

Magistrate of the Dark Land is my longest novel at 152,400 words. To avoid too many long chapters, I am breaking the book into 13 parts. The opening chapter is the longest.

* * * * * *

Chapter One

A PATH TAKEN

We can look back on our early years with wistful memories of better days, times of innocent joys and unbridled passions. Then comes the winter along with the shattering of our naïve illusions, and we learn that the world is just as dark and cold and empty as in our worst nightmares.

My name is Owen Vander, once magistrate of Arthur County in the Kingdom of Northwaye. My father was William, a harvester of wheat in the township of Freehold. My mother, bless her soul, was Bertha, a practitioner of the healing arts. They were well-schooled in their letters, prosperous in their trades, and proud of their only son. Both were fortunate to die before the devastation that engulfed our land following the death of Good King Tarten.

I should have died long ago, and would have if I wasn't such a coward. When the walled city of Barlington was attacked by Duke Rykar's mercenaries in the thirty-fourth year of King Tarten's reign, Freehold responded to our oath of allegiance, mustering the local militia. I was but seventeen at the time, a common archer in the ranks wearing blue broadcloth and a leather jerkin. I was not yet tall but still growing, with sturdy shoulders, vivid green eyes, and curly auburn hair. My skin was clear with none of my father's ruddiness or my mother's freckles. Girls generally considered me handsome.

Many shires responded to the call for help, marching shoulder to shoulder for several days in righteous confidence. Yet when we arrived on the field of battle and saw the enemy flags fluttering above their sharpened lances and glistening chainmail, my insides quivered in god-awful fear. I had only practiced with a sword a few times and showed no particular talent, nor had I ever been one for brawling. What chance would I have against trained warriors? My friends did not share my fear, or seemed not to, confident that Earl Robert's elite guard would arrive at any moment. I clutched my longbow and prayed he would, for shooting at a man is far different than hunting deer.

Barlington lay on the northern border of Arthur County overlooking the River Moth astride King's Road. Three thousand people lived behind the tall red rock walls, the public buildings decorated with bleached stone archways. Four towers stood at the corners for defense and crenellated ramparts provided good protection for archers. Surely such a powerful town would not fall to a few hundred invaders.

So confident was Captain Powell of victory that the militia did not enter the gates, choosing to camp along a creek feeding the moat. Our small tents were pitched around a grand pavilion where the commanders gathered. Beer and venison were served, songs of past battles sung, and many promises made of reward for the defeat of Duke Rykar's foul minions. Indeed, we thought ourselves so formidable that only fools would dare oppose us. But when we were roused before dawn the next day, the enemy was still there.

For an entire morning the armies lay across the meadow from each other as the town fathers and a priest tried to arrange a peace, but Duke Rykar would not be denied, sending his forces forward early in the afternoon. We had eight-hundred men well arrayed: two-hundred archers and six-hundred men-at-arms. The Duke had but six-hundred men in all, most of them foot soldiers and a few heavy cavalry. The battle lines clashed in a savage fury of sword and spear. We of the archers stood back from the main line firing volleys of arrows into Duke Rykar's reserve, trying to ignore the missiles that struck around us. My childhood friend Justin fell, pierced through the eye, and Old Graybeard Martin dropped to the ground, moaning in his death throes from a thrown javelin. I kept my courage for the moment though my hands were shaking so badly I could barely nock my bow. But when our brave ranks broke and the militia fled the field, none ran faster through the knee-deep grass than I.

I knew from that time on I would never have a soldier's courage, and though shamed by my cowardice, it helped to know there were hundreds of others on that day who fared no better. After learning that twenty men from Arbor had stood their ground, thus giving the militia time to flee, I offered prayer for their souls, for few of those brave volunteers had survived the fearsome Duke's onslaught.

Wars lasted but a season in those golden days. Though Earl Robert was unaccountably delayed, Barlington withstood a weeklong siege despite the battering of Duke Rykar's catapults. When King Tarten arrived from Quarterstone with the royal army, the invaders were forced back upon their own lands in the north, not to trouble us again as long as the king lived.

In time the disgrace of those who fled the field at Barlington was forgotten, and through my skill with a longbow, I rose to the rank of sergeant. Much to my public pride and private embarrassment. My skill in letters stood me well, for after a term as town clerk, I gained the office of county advocate at twenty-two. My mother's father had once taught law at Crowley and thus I was well schooled in the kingdom's legal traditions. In watching my mother treat the sick and injured, I learned much of the oppressions suffered by ordinary people. She wanted me to become a physician, which I might have, if not for the sickness I felt at the sight of blood.

Life is hard for most. Crops fail, commerce grows weak. A fire can destroy all a family has ever owned, and a flood can devastate an entire community. These are acts of God and there is little to do but go on as best we can, but when thieves and murderers intrude upon already difficult lives, justice must take retribution. Arthur County is a rural land composed of eight humble shires and seldom were we plagued by the sordid crimes of city dwellers. But as the county advocate, I grew quick to set upon the few vicious parasites that came our way, directing the village sheriffs to show no more mercy in their apprehending than I did in their indictments. So great was my energy in the prosecution of criminals that the King's Bench appointed me Magistrate of Arthur County in my twenty-fifth year, a notable achievement for one so young.

My father died that winter, my mother the following spring, but not before they saw their son happily married and the father of a beautiful daughter. As magistrate I sought out justice for all within my authority. Most thought me fair and many times I was called upon to arbitrate between contending parties. Occasionally even among members of the minor nobility. Coward I may be on a battlefield, but in the court I knew my duty.

I met Martha while still an advocate prosecuting a case of petty theft in nearby Carlton where her father was the schoolmaster. She had soft brown hair, dazzling brown eyes, and the prettiest smile I'd ever seen. Her figure was one to pine for, for her breasts were round and the hips ripe for childbearing. Her family belonged to the Old Church of priests and chalices, though much of Carlton followed the New Faith that dispensed with such trappings. My own family was theist, believing all things have a place in the natural order. We were not pagans, though those of the more formal churches considered us such. Martha's father expressed disapproval of me, and not just over the religious difference. He wanted more for his daughter than a farmer's son. I assured him I would not spend my life tilling the soil, for my ambitions were high.

Martha and I ignored his objections and married within three months of our first meeting. Her father was so outraged that I spent an entire day hiding in a barn while he stomped about town waving a pitchfork, declaring his daughter had been wrongfully violated. He was soon to forgive us but a few weeks later. King Tarten appeared on progress with Earl Robert that summer, holding court at Lockney Castle where Martha and I were formally introduced. King Tarten spoke well of my zeal for justice, complimented my beautiful wife with gracious words, and invited us to the banquet hall where we were given seats at third table. Earl Robert later took me aside to say the royal administration was badly in need of qualified officers and that I should not expect to be an advocate much longer. When my posting as King's Magistrate was announced in the fall, my father-in-law strutted about the village bragging to all what a wonderful match he'd made for his daughter.

Martha and I enjoyed several blessed years. As I refused bribes or any gifts that would compromise my oath of office, Martha and I were not likely to grow wealthy, but we still earned enough to buy a cottage near Whistler's Creek. Though many prosperous citizens were building houses of brick with softwood shingle roofs and frosted glass windows, we loved our mud and plaster home with its old-fashioned straw thatched covering. Our first child was born nine months after our wedding, a beautiful daughter named Leila. Our son came along a year and a half later, named Samuel after Martha's father. Freehold Township was thriving in these years, a community of several thousand busily engaged in farming, cattle and crafts. The neighboring towns did just as well. What little trouble we had came from rowdy travelers straying too far from the Great River Road, forty miles to the west.

I was just past twenty-eight years old when my world collapsed. King Tarten died in the forty-fifth year of his reign. He had been king so long few could remember the day he had not watched over his people with a firm yet loving hand, but all seemed well as noble Prince Edwin rode north to Quarterstone to take the crown. There he was assassinated on the morning of his arrival. The identity of the assassins was not revealed, though many grew suspicious when Duke Rykar sought to become protector of the realm the next day, seeking to rule in the name of the king's grandson. Queen Eleanor, King Tarten's white-haired widow, denied the petition and fled into exile with young Prince Harry, only twelve years old, and her fourteen-year-old granddaughter, the charming Antonia. Duke Rykar's troops attacked Quarterstone and seized the castle, but not the royal authority. Not to be denied, Earl William of Angle and Baron Dudley of March also sought spoils through pillaging of neighboring counties. Roving bands of brigands followed these trails of destruction, taking what they could and sometimes burning the rest.

Arthur County was initially spared the worst of these atrocities, most confined to the northern shires or west of the Great River. Simple farmers with naught but wheat mills and a few iron mines attracted little interest. Of our twenty-four small towns and villages, none had ever required walls for protection. We had little of value other than our way of life.

Other lands were not so fortunate, and when refugees began flowing east seeking assistance, we did our best to help the poor wretches, smug in our security. But with war and sudden poverty also comes pestilence. The first plague broke out in a sacked town south of the River Moth, sending panicked villagers in every direction. It was not long before disease reached the humble township of Freehold. I learned of healing from my mother, but nothing could stop the march of death. Within days my wife, daughter, and baby son lay dead, their faces blackened in pain. That night, I cried tears of despair while burning our cottage to the ground with my family inside.

Baron Lackston's armies feared no plague. They marched on Barlington and sacked the town. Earl Robert tried to raise the militia but lacked the strength, retreating to his stronghold far back in the Blue Mountains. Society broke down in chaos and I, immersed in sorrow, had no heart to uphold a royal authority that no longer existed. Without order there is no law but the sword. Without law there is no justice. Without justice there is no need for a magistrate. One day I packed my handful of possessions and departed Freehold with no intention of ever returning.

* * * * * *

Three years passed. In my time of wandering, I worked on small farms in the south as far from marauders as possible. It was not an entirely peaceful land. The Mohana River Valley is settled by fierce horsemen called the Vatar who brook no trespassers on their grazing land. In the mountains to the west are the villages of the Farina, wild forest women said to abuse men foolish enough to risk capture. Legend says the Farina are descended from female slaves of a sadistic tyrant who kept hundreds of them in cruel subjugation. One day the slaves rose up to take blood vengeance on their male masters. They have protected their forests ever since, becoming experts with sword and bow.

I had first met the Vatar several years before while still serving as magistrate in Arthur County. Two strapping young brothers had gotten drunk and wrecked a tavern in Juniper, threatening the saloon keeper and terrorizing his eighteen-year-old niece. I arrived for the trial a few days later, boarding my half-blind horse in the stable. The brothers were chained together in a wooden shack at the edge of the village, there being no proper jail so far from a large town.

"Our father will not forget or forgive," the larger brother threatened, six and a half feet tall with arms like tree trunks. His hair was black and straight, except for curls at the ends, the cheeks ruddy, and eyes a light brown topped by heavy eyebrows. How the constable had corralled such a goliath was a marvel.

The younger brother was more subdued, aware they stood in deep trouble. He was close to me in size, which is unusual, as most Vatar are giants, above six feet with shoulders as wide as oxen. Though strongly built, he was not massive like his brother, with perceptive gray eyes and naturally pale skin bronzed by the prairie sun. They wore shaggy brown beards and supple leather vests that displayed their huge hairy chests. Typical Vatar broadswords were so heavy I would have trouble swinging one more than a few times. Now I had always been considered tall for my village, just two fingers under six feet with gracefully long arms, but I was no match for the average Vatar.

"You stand accused of assault, attempted rape, and destruction of private property. The penalties for these transgressions are severe," I warned, speaking to them through a heavy iron grill.

"Rape? We but teased the thing. Think we have no means to find proper women?" the older brother said, going by the name of Baltar.

"We did naught but have a good time. Had the old weasel not insulted us, there would have been no trouble," his brother said, an intelligent lad of eighteen named Grainger.

Sebastian Laird, the aggrieved tavern keeper, told a different story, one filled with anger and colorful metaphors. His tavern had indeed sustained damage, including broken chairs and a hole in the ceiling that was still unexplained. And Alana, the young niece, had been very frightened by the verbose giants pawing at her hand-sewn woolen dress. She did not find their rude remarks amusing.

The court met in formal session the next day in the village church, the brothers guarded by the shire constable and two blacksmiths. I wore my black robe of office, sitting on a high wooden stool behind the pulpit. Each side repeated their stories while I listened with grave attention. The church was big enough for forty people, every seat filled.

"Our father is Minar, chief of the Clan Cousins. He will rain fire and sword upon this miserable hamlet if you don't set us free," Baltar demanded. The villagers murmured at such a threat, looking to me for an answer.

"I am not greatly impressed," said I, leaning forward on my elbows. "Should your father require war, I'm sure Earl Robert will have something to say on the subject, for we reside here under Good King Tarten's protection. Is it war you ask?"

Baltar fell silent. His brother spoke.

"What is the penalty for our crime?" Grainger asked.

"The penalty is well known to all who live in this shire. Twenty strokes with the lash and a year in the mines at Rendell," I replied, frowning with appropriate grimness.

The brothers gulped at such a harsh price, but I had found that grievous errors are seldom repeated when met with stern punishment.

"We did not know. In the land of the Vatar, taverns are always at risk. And the bartenders charge the patrons accordingly," Grainger said, his voice softly respectful. The people watching from the pews laughed. All except Laird. I smiled. It was a good joke and a clever point.

"There is nothing funny about my damages. I demand justice," Laird shouted, jumping to his feet in a frock coat and his best silk cap.

The smile left my face as I glared at the pompous tavern keeper, so quick to complain about damage while saying nothing of his niece sitting quietly with her head down.

"Do not raise your voice in my court again," I calmly said.

"I'm sorry, magistrate," the chagrined Laird apologized.

"Girl, come forward," I summoned.

Alana rose and shuffled before the podium, raising her head briefly. There were no bruises that I could see.

"Were you injured?" I asked.

"No, magistrate," Alana said.

"She was nearly raped!" Laird protested.

Alana's face turned red with embarrassment, and she fled back to her seat, huddling in her mother's arms. I studied the accused, the accuser, and looked at the faces of the community for their reactions. Few seemed as concerned with the incident as Laird did.

"This is not the land of the Vatar," I said, standing up from my stool. "Should one of this shire commit such crimes, or one come from the cities showing this disrespect, I would not hesitate to inflict the full penalty of the law. However, sometimes circumstances require moderation. I see these lads are but rough youths ridden too far from their primitive homeland, ignorant of civilized ways. Though a good lashing and time in the mines would teach them much, perhaps it's not the best lesson this court may give. Mister Laird, the Vatar are famous for their magnificent horses. Would you accept compensation instead of the legal penalty?"

Laird's eyes lit up with a greedy glint. In that moment I liked Grainger far more than the grasping tavern keeper, though such feelings could not be allowed to affect my ruling.

"I'll take twenty horses. And one of the brothers must be kept as hostage for the bargain," Laird declared.

"Twenty?" Baltar shouted. "That entire pesthole you call an inn isn't worth twenty Vatar horses. I'll take the lashes first."

The youth wasn't lying. He truly would have taken the beating rather than be robbed. I had trouble suppressing a grin.

"Must it be twenty?" Grainger asked, just as angry but in control of his temper.

I let the room fall silent, well-practiced at leaving a moment of suspense before giving my decision. Such drama adds gravity to the proceedings and strength to my authority.

"We have agreed that compensation is appropriate. Now only the price needs be decided," I announced. There was a relieved sigh among the people. Though in the right, none preferred to risk the wrath of a Vatar chieftain. And I don't think anyone thought the brothers malicious, only headstrong and overly fond of drink.

"Fifteen horses," the tavern keeper said, suddenly feeling insecure. He looked to his neighbors for support. They shook their heads. I began to feel annoyed.

"I know well the value of a horse," I said, harsh of voice. "I know well the extent of your damages, the crimes committed, and I take poorly to extortion in place of just compensation. Thus hear the judgment of the king's magistrate. Baltar and Grainger, you are fined four horses. A stallion will go in trust to Constable Donner for the benefit of the shire. A mare will go to Alana that this wealth might make amends for the fear she suffered. One will go to the tavern keeper for his damages, and one will go to the tavern keeper's wife, that she might be compensated for the endless complaining this decision will inspire."

The people laughed and clapped their hands. Alana was delighted, for a Vatar horse was a gift that would help attract a suitable husband. And the brothers smiled, appreciating the joke and a fair judgment.

"This is an outrage," Laird protested.

"I agree. To take such advantage for personal gain and place your neighbors in jeopardy is a terrible crime. One worthy of more lashes than I would normally give," I responded.

"What of my security?" Laird asked, the threat of being lashed tempering his tone.

"Brothers of the Clan Cousins, if released upon your honor, will the horses be delivered before winter comes?" I asked.

"The horses will be delivered, magistrate. Three of our best, and perhaps one not so good," Grainger said before his brother could object.

I couldn't help laughing, and the brothers were good as their word.

* * * * * *

My first meeting with the Farina occurred some years later while negotiating a land dispute between the Vatar and a Farina tribe located near the Mohana headwaters. It would be hard to say who to be more afraid of. The Vatar of the southern plains proved to be large, arrogant, and often bullying barbarians, thinking little of the forest women who had claimed a rich stretch of summer grassland. The Farina held violently to their rights. Both lived by the sword, holding only a high code of honor in common.

One afternoon, about a year after I had abandoned Freehold in despair, the shaggy-bearded chief of the Vatar Clan Cousins tracked me to a farm near Falmouth Crossing. His name was Minar, and he was not merely large, but bulky, thick in the waist with big thighs to support his girth. His long brown hair was tied back under a broad weather-beaten hat that allowed his dark eyes to gaze out from under the shadowed brim. He wore a black sleeveless leather shirt, displaying tattoos of wild horses on his upper arms. A silver chain around his neck was decorated with a medallion of unknown significance. He had good teeth for a barbarian.

Minar found me helping with the wheat harvest and dispensing my mother's old herb remedies. The land here was generally flat, favorable for crops and livestock, with occasional trees for shade. I grew my hair long now, sometimes tying it back, and too much strong drink had dampened the youth of my complexion.

"I ask your service, Magistrate," the giant chieftain said.

"I am magistrate no longer," I replied, on my knees bundling grain stalks. "The King is dead, Earl Robert is abdicated, and my country ruined. Now I barter in bread and furs."

"This I have been told. I also know it's not true," Minar said.

To call a man a liar is no small thing. Among warriors, only blood would wipe away the insult, but I was no warrior. Which Minar clearly knew. He considered me a city dweller, though in fact most of my life had been spent in small towns.

"What is it you want, Chief of the Vatar?" I asked, declining to accept the challenge.

"My people dispute with the accursed Farina. They are only wenches, thin and shapely, but fast with their blades and deadly with their bows. If we raid their camps, they will seek revenge by setting fire to our grasslands, which has been their way."

"The farmers have predicted this. Many are afraid your feud will spread to their fields and make the roads unsafe."

"It's not a feud. We have the right. The pastures below the forest belong to the Vatar, as do the river islands, but those damn women say we encroach on their hunting grounds."

"Do you?" I asked.

"Only rarely," he admitted.

"You have still not said what you want of me."

"We need you to arbitrate our grievances. Come with us to the forest and sit in council with these accursed she-devils," Minar requested with far more respect than I expected. Especially after I had dishonorably ignored his insult.

"Why would the Farina give me safe passage through their forest, let alone stand judge of their complaints?"

"Why? You are the Magistrate! Have I forgotten the justice you gave my sons? Do you think word of such justice goes unheard? Even here, among these godforsaken dirt diggers, the people flock to you for resolution of their petty squabbles. Are the Farina so deaf they have no ears?"

"I don't know. I know little of the forest women, and to be honest, Minar, what I hear troubles me," I said.

"Have no fear of the wenches. They are cruel, vicious, and hate men with satanic passion, but they are faithful to their oath. None can deny them that."

Oath or not, the thought of being held prisoner by such creatures made my skin crawl, yet I was forced to accept Minar's invitation. Had the farms of the lower valley not desperately needed peace, I would never have gone anywhere near the rough barbarian Vatar, let alone journey with them into a forbidding forest.

* * * * * *

The ride to the headwaters of the Mohana was uneventful as I traveled with Minar and several of his band. I was seated upon a fine ginger-haired mare, a loan for the journey, my tent and blanket in a roll behind the thick leather saddle. The plains were beautiful in the late spring, the grasses thick and weather mild. I saw vast herds of high-spirited horses, cattle, and sheep. Prosperous farms surrounded a tiny town called Ransack where the general store sold hard-to-find city goods. One night we stopped at Minar's ranch, a large spread with a two-story log house and three chimneys. And not so barbarian as one would believe. The furniture was finely carved. Lush Eastern tapestries hung on the walls to keep out the winter chill. Minar's wife had passed away some years before, but he had three adult daughters to provide a feminine touch. The chieftain made the customary introductions before riding off to parts unknown, saying he would return by morning.

I was initially apprehensive about meeting Minar's sons again, but Baltar was on the high range gathering stock, leaving Grainger to visit with. The young man had grown taller over the years and was still a pleasant lad, an eager student of history with a library that made me envious. Rather than the thick beard he had once worn, he now trimmed it short with a thick mustache that curled down around the edges of the mouth. White teeth showed when he smiled, which was often.

"We have no magistrates on the plains. Our traditions are clear, but I like studying the law," Grainger explained, fondling a thoroughly pawed text I recognized from my student days, Sir Jasper Hillary's Statutes & Theories.

"Little remains of the law these days," I said as we sat before the fireplace sipping finely brewed ale.

"The Chronicles show there have been bad times before. They will not last," he said, showing he had studied some philosophy as well. Tacitus and Xenophanes were popular reads among Chronicle scholars, especially those preferring a gram of optimism, though I am often intrigued by the futility of Leucippus.

"Sometimes bad times last long enough," I said.

"You are too severe, Owen. I'm sorry about your family," he kindly offered.

"It's in the past. Even the Greeks could not tell us how to bring back that which is lost forever."

"Some philosophers say nothing is truly lost, only waiting to be rediscovered."

"Some philosophers are idiots," I assured him.

Grainger laughed and urged his sisters to refill my cup. Thick broiled steaks and gravy covered carrots warmed my insides. Minar's daughters were too proud to offer more intimate services, though I was assured women were available in the bunkhouses if the need arose. After the meal we played a few games of chess, but the youngster was no match for me. My grandfather had been a master player during his years at Crowley and taught me well. Grainger found his guitar and I took out my hand-carved flute, teaching each other a few traditional melodies. His sisters were musically inclined as well, the youngest having a fine singing voice.

"Are you coming with us to the council?" I asked toward the end of the evening.

"No," Grainger said with disappointment. "My father has faith in the forest queen's honor, but should something go amiss, he will not have his sons prisoners of the Farina. They say such a fate is worse than death."

I did not feel encouraged by this news.

As the night grew late, I decided to turn in, for a long day awaited me. It was a quiet room on the second floor toward the back of the house, well-arrayed with comforts. I rinsed off using water from a bowl on the dresser, folded my clothes neatly on a wicker chair, and crawled under the heavy quilt, ready for a good night's sleep. The door crept open. Someone entered, silently. And the door closed. It seemed not all of Minar's daughters were so proud as I thought.

Minar returned just after dawn and our embassy moved on, the chieftain saying extra farewells before we rode out. I tucked a thin book of Latin poetry into my saddlebag, a parting gift from Grainger.

A few days later we reached the pastures of the upper Mohana Valley, the source of dispute with the Farina. Beyond a string of tree-lined river islands was a vast forest that rose steeply into the Wolf Mountains.

"Is this where we are to meet?" I asked.

"No, we go to their lower camp among the pine trees," Minar said, pointing to a spot many miles in the distance. I hesitated, the area being far from the lands of the Vatar.

"Have no fear, Magistrate, they are not cannibals," Minar said, slapping me on the shoulder.

We forded the river, having to make several crossings over the grassy islands, and entered a dark forest thick with twisted underbrush. The trail was not wide but easily seen, the track of beaten earth marked with horse droppings. I kept a sharp eye for danger as it was said the Farina could move through the trees like phantoms.

"I don't see them," I nervously said, turning in every direction.

"You will," Minar explained, "when they want you to."

At last, we came to a clearing where a group of brown canvas tents camouflaged with green netting had been erected. A summer camp intended to last several weeks. Campfires glowed and wood racks held strips of drying game meat. There were no women. A rustle in the forest indicated the six of us were being watched. Minar pointed to a thick pole surrounded by a ring of white rocks. Placed in the center of the camp, it appeared ready for some sort of heathen ceremony.

"The stake is for burning their victims alive, after they have been stripped and flayed," Minar whispered. My knuckles went white as the blood drained from my face. Minar laughed and waved his hand at the trees. The forest women emerged.

The Farina were just as frightening as the Vatar, though in a far more disturbing manner. Agile and lithe of foot, they looked swift with a blade and supremely confident of their skill. Beyond a bow, my only skill is with a staff, hardly adequate against such warriors. This clan of Farina wore burnt tan leathers, though I heard each of the five clans had a color of their own. And there was no doubt of their beauty. Legend said only the most attractive of women had been kidnapped into the mountains as slaves, and these were their descendants, only a few generations removed. It would seem that sometimes legends are true. How the women warriors reproduced was only known by dark rumors and rude jests.

There were forty women present, all dressed in deerskin, well-armed and suspicious. Some wore moccasins, others had cowhide boots halfway up their calves. Wide leather belts held swords and knives. Several had bows slung over their shoulders with quivers stocked with arrows. Most of the women were blonde, the hair worn long and tied back. Tattooed symbols on their upper arms indicated their skills: hunter, tracker, warrior, and war captain. Only one woman bore all four tattoos. She was in her mid-thirties and tall, perhaps two fingers below six feet, with straight shoulders and wide hips. Her waist was nicely shaped, though not so thin as her younger warriors. Her golden hair ran in flowing locks, barely held in check by a black headband.

"Is this the male you spoke of?" their leader asked, head held high. Her blue eyes gleamed with defiance.

"This is the Magistrate, Amara," Minar said, his voice booming off the trees.

The women stirred with curiosity. Some eyed me with an interest I found uncomfortable. I had only been with a few women since Martha died and didn't want to expand my experience with the opposite sex while staked out on pine needles.

"What do you expect of us, Magistrate?" Queen Amara asked, a striking apparition with the bearing of a duchess. Her tailored outfit was mostly green with a brown vest, a short skirt showing her long, graceful legs.

"I expect you to express your needs, as I expect the Vatar to express theirs. I will listen, ask questions, and see where your thoughts can be brought together. If there can be agreement, I will suggest ways to find it."

"And if we can't?" Queen Amara asked, arms crossed before her.

"That will be for you to decide. If both sides agree I should draw the treaty, I will do so. If either side doubts my impartiality, I will go home."

The forest grew quiet. I could hear birds in the trees and a rustling of leaves. That the women could overwhelm our small party was undoubted, but Minar held such trust in their honor that he showed no concern. I was not so brave.

"Will you give the Farina justice, Magistrate?" Queen Amara asked, looking me straight in the eye. For this question I had no fear.

"Yes, great queen," I replied, returning her stare with confidence.

The first night there was a feast of greeting, which surprised me. The venison was tender, and they served a hearty beer made of rye and hazelnut. We sat on the ground cross-legged while Minar spoke of raising horses and Amara talked about hunting. Out of courtesy, no one broached the subject of their dispute. I listened carefully, not just to the issues they found important, but to the personalities of the leaders. Both were courageous and firmly resolved.

After the meal, a fire was built in the ring of rocks surrounding the tall pole. Drums and flutes were played while the forest women danced around in a circle. As each ballad reached its peak, one of the women would jump over the fire to touch the pole and leap back without getting burned. Mock fights were staged and I saw where the Farina had gotten their reputation, for the skills they displayed were impressive. Praise God I would never face such blades.

As the evening progressed, the beer disappeared, replaced by a heady whiskey. Minar's four companions gradually migrated into the Farina tents, not to be seen again until morning.

"What think you, Magistrate? Are the Farina beautiful enough for your tastes?" Minar whispered to me, refilling my cup.

A young woman no more than eighteen years old stopped before me, stripped off her leathers, and waved a slender double-edged sword above her head. She wiggled her hips, bent over to display her wares, and flung her hair back, shouting with savage joy before returning to the dance. I found myself excited and frightened at the same time.

"I don't how they go about capturing men, friend Minar," I whispered. "But they certainly have the right bait."

The negotiations were difficult. For a week the debate raged, sometimes one party storming off in disgust, sometimes the other. I slept alone in a hut of woven branches large enough for the leaders to meet in while the Vatar camped in tents closer to the tree line. Both sides remained well-armed.

On the morning of the seventh day, we finally managed to find some agreement, though there was still much to be decided. One subject was particularly contentious, and I could feel the tension building. Though in truth, much of the tension was mine. Seven days among angry barbarians was far too many, and I longed for the quiet of the wheat fields. And there were moments when the parties toyed with their weapons instead of shouting, making me wonder if I would ever leave the mountains alive.

When the afternoon session provided no progress, I followed a shallow creek down to the Mohana River for a bath. I'd had no relaxation from the stress since arriving and needed to clear my mind. The water was cold but not icy. The warm sun felt good on my bare skin. Soap root let me wash my hair and I used my hunting knife to scrap off the stubble of a week-old beard.

I had only been in the water a short time when Amara suddenly appeared on the muddy embankment. Her approach was so quiet that I didn't hear a sound until she was standing on my clothes.

"You are not a bad looking male. Not so hearty as the Vatar, but appealing," she observed. Dressed in tan leathers with a bow over her shoulder, she looked ready for a hunt. The slender sword dangling from her belt made me wonder what she was hunting.

I ducked down in the water, shielding my body with my hands. No woman other than my wife had seen me bathing since before my marriage. My face flushed red.

"How shy you are. Have you so much to hide?" Amara said with a grin.

"I would rather you didn't find out," I said, my breath short from being startled.

Amara came closer, her leather boots splashing water as she seated herself on a rock only a few feet from where I cowered.

"It's within my power to discover all I wish," she said.

"Is there something you need to speak of?" I asked.

Amara leaned back, pleased with the situation and in no hurry to explain. The water started giving me a chill.

"Please, great queen, explain what you want," I finally dared to insist.

"The question of Grass Island hangs heavily between the Farina and the Vatar. Minar has suggested we share the island. He offered you as a gift if we accept his terms."

I shuddered at the thought.

"What have you decided?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"It's a tempting offer. You are not so masculine as Vatar males, but you're intelligent. You have pretty eyes and good bones. You would breed fine girl children. And I must admit, to have you bound for service in my camp would be a rare delight. You are not brave like the Vatar. Your fear would be a powerful enhancement to the pleasure I would have in taking you."

"Aren't you afraid of having cowardly offspring?" I asked, slowly backing toward the middle of the river. But as the water grew deeper, I was buffeted by a strong current. We weren't far from the rapids between the islands, and though a good swimmer, I wasn't that good. I could retreat no further.

"It's difficult to say what courage a child will have. Until brought to battle, none can say where courage lies," Amara answered.

I made no reply. Her words rang true. Who was I to contradict a queen?

"Come here, male, and kneel before me," she said, drawing a dagger from her belt.

I looked around seeking a means of escape, but what escape would I find? If my only ally had betrayed me, surely no safety would be found by calling for help. I crawled forward until the water was only a foot deep and sank to my knees before her. Amara held the dagger against my windpipe.

"You do not look so large when shrunken in river water," she said.

"A knife to my throat does not help," I suggested.

Amara laughed. Farina are accustomed to having their way.

"Perhaps we can reach an agreement," Amara hinted. "I would have Grass Island for the Farina alone. Minar wishes the pasture for his horses, which will scare away the antelope. In exchange for your freedom, give the judgment to us. Minar need not know how the accommodation was reached."

She pressed the dagger closer. I dared to look up into her eyes and saw the determined expression. Amara was regal, for a savage, and not one to be denied.

"Answer me, male, and tell me what I wish to hear," she said.

"No," I answered.

"No? What do you mean?" she asked in surprise.

"I will not agree to your terms."

"You dare defy me?" she angrily growled.

I lowered myself back in the water, shoulders slumped. I should have whispered a final prayer, but I was too frightened to think of one.

"Obey me," Amara demanded, yanking my head back by the hair and pressing the knife closer.

"I will not bias the negotiations," I refused.

"Minar betrays you. You owe him nothing."

"That doesn't matter."

"How can it not matter? You are betrayed. If I don't slay you now, your life still lies at my mercy. A mercy that strains my patience."

She released my hair. The knife was withdrawn, but only by a few inches. I sensed her expectation.

"My father stood proud when I took my oath of office," I explained. "My mother treasured my honesty. My wife walked with joy knowing her husband could not be corrupted. Minar can betray me if he desires. I will not betray the faith of my family."

Again I lifted my chin, recalling a worthy prayer while wondering if I would have time to complete it. When I found no blood flowing, I opened my eyes. Amara's expression had changed.

"For a quarter moon I have doubted your honesty, Magistrate, as I would doubt the honesty of any male. I feared my women would not have a fair hearing. Feared our children would not have the lands we need to grow. I fear no longer. Make the treaty. The Burnt Leather will abide by your decision."

"And Minar?" I asked.

"His offer was made in a drunken stupor, not to be taken seriously. Though I might have accepted," Amara said with a sparkle in her blue eyes.

She put the knife back in the sheath, much to my relief, and I managed to find my shortened breath. But when I reached for my clothes, Amara suddenly dragged me from the river to a patch of soft spring grass, and there she pushed me down on my back with a clear warm sky overhead.

"What are you doing?" I asked as she stripped off her leathers.

"I am a warrior. Warriors take what they want," Amara replied.

Her assault was so determined that I was unable to resist. At least, that's what I told myself later.

* * * * * *

In the winter months after my experience with the Farina, I hunted in the Cat Mountains, traveling alone and occasionally doing some trapping. The moon was my candle, my sad flute speaking that which I could not. A small cabin in the lower range was my refuge for a time, though even there, I would receive embassies seeking settlement of some problem among the locals. They only knew me as the Magistrate, and though I was magistrate no longer, I could not turn them away. People involved in bitter quarrels and high in their pride will often ignore the most obvious compromises. My counsel in such times proved beneficial, though I found some of the more violent disagreements worrying.

When planting season began, I traveled down to the fertile plains for steady work and a dry roof over my head. My furs were sold at a good price, bringing a pocket of silver coins, and I traded the Vatar mare Minar had given me for a wagon and a draught horse. I decided not just to harvest the wheat, but transport it to market as well. I fancied that in time I could become a merchant. This plan did not work out so well as I hoped.

"Help us, Magistrate. For God's sake, you must help us," Sam Lolling pleaded.

Lolling was the mill owner at Falmouth Crossing where I had taken a room, a distinguished gentleman in his early fifties. He was not quite my height or weight, but fit for one of his age. He dressed well. With him was Sir John Limerick, one of the shire's largest landowners, a man whose wealth had declined during the time of troubles but was still highly respected. Sir John was also advancing in years, a former soldier now retired due to numerous battlefield injuries. The most notable was a scar across his face that had taken part of his nose. I had few dealings with either, but knew them by reputation as honest men, considerate of their workers.

"What can I do?" I asked. "I'm not a constable or sheriff. If you want your daughters back, you need a lawfully deputized officer. Or perhaps a bounty hunter."

We were meeting in the Wayward Tavern, which had become a headquarters of sorts for the shire. The innkeeper did not charge me for room or board as my court, such as it was, brought him much business. I no longer drank strong spirits during the daylight hours, though I often drank myself to sleep at night, lamenting my misfortunes. Occasionally, I would share a bed with one of the tavern girls, though not with the enthusiasm they deserved.

"Constable Brooks cannot leave the shire. Sheriff Hedley is dead these last three months. Bounty hunters demand high fees and cannot be trusted. Only you can help us," Sir John insisted.

"Sir John, I have no legal authority, even if law existed beyond the boundaries of this valley. I have no skill with a sword. What do you expect of me?" I asked.

"Please, Magistrate, my daughter is barely 18-years old. Lolling's daughter is not yet 19. Seized by these marauders to be sold in the godforsaken cities of the north. You know these lands. You speak a language city-dwellers understand. Who else may we turn to?" Mister Lolling begged.

In better days he might have turned to Barron Loews, but no such appeals were possible now. Most of the nobility was dead or flown to safer lands. None even pretended to rule in the king's name.

This realization came with a heavy burden. I felt deeply for their loss. Had it been my daughter who was stolen, nothing would stop me from finding her, sword or no sword. But I was a poor choice for their petition, lacking every skill such an endeavor required.

"Perhaps if you gather the young men, the marauders may be apprehended before crossing the Saber," I recommended.

"They crossed at Grimrock day before yesterday, killing the ferryman and his wife. An elderly couple who never harmed a soul," Sir John said, dropping three gold robbins on the table where we sat. Though a dozen townspeople stood watching our conversation, the hall was deathly quiet. No one was drinking their beer or chewing the salted breadsticks. Even the candles seemed to flicker in silence.

"I did not ask for money," I replied with insult.

"You will need gold to find them, and gold to buy them back. I will find all the gold you need, so help me," Sir John pledged.

Their plight caused me to grow weak in my resolve. I had no interest in leaving the valley, especially for the northern counties I had abandoned years before. Though slavery had been illegal since the times of Old King Alfred, Duke Rykar was thought to turn a blind eye to the despicable practice.

"What are you thinking, Magistrate? Your mind wanders to far places," Lolling said.

"No doubt the marauders are headed north over the Cat Mountains, then east along the Rohana to the Great River," I speculated.

"Why would they not follow the Saber?" Sir John asked.

"Sir Roger St. Clair keeps a guard post at Taylor Creek. His daughter was murdered by raiders last year. Cassie was a beautiful young woman soon to be married and the raiders expected to fetch a high price for her, but she resisted to her last breath. Now Sir Roger kills rovers on sight. No, the kidnappers will not dare his wrath. They'll cross the mountains and come down from the west," I concluded.

"Then you can reach the Great River first. Buy our daughters back before they reach the northern counties," Sir John said.

"That's what I was thinking. Arbor lies on their route. Maybe it can be done without too much trouble," I foolishly hoped.

"Tell us what you need," Sir John said.

"I'll need two horses, none so fine as Vatar steeds yet capable of getting me to Arbor in nine days' time. Ask Carl the Bowmaker to refit my arrows. I'll need a money belt for the coins. We'll also swear out a writ for the return of your daughters."

"Are there any who will honor such a document?" Lolling said in disbelief.

"Law was once a respected profession. Maybe there are some who remember those days with fondness."

I prepared to leave at dawn the next morning, surprised by the mass of people waiting to see me off. There must have been a hundred in the tavern courtyard. Merchants, tradesmen, and even farmers had gathered for the event. Carl the Bowmaker gave me a quiver of finely made arrows strengthened with steel tips.

"God bless you, Magistrate," Sir John's elegant wife said, giving me a hug.

"Return safe," Lolling's spouse urged, gently handing me the money belt with three gold robbins and twenty silver flats.

"These are for you," Ramer the Leatherworker said. He handed me a cowhide vest, the leather so thick it was almost like chainmail.

"And this is for you, with my thanks," Sir John announced, producing a fine double-edged sword in a rawhide sheath. He strapped the sword belt around my waist and stepped back, proud of the warrior he had created. I felt like tossing the sword in the dirt, knowing it could only get me in trouble.

"Thank you. Thanks to all of you," I said, climbing on the brown and white spotted mare called Parasol that Sir John had found for me. Attached on a lead was another mare, a brown two-year-old with white hooves named Skippet. Good horses but not of high quality, for I had no wish to be waylaid by bandits seeking superior mounts.

I pulled down the wide brim of my floppy black hat and settled securely in the comfortable old saddle. Suddenly the village priest emerged from the crowd, dressed in frayed golden vestments and holding a weather-beaten wooden cross before him.

Father Edgar and I generally avoided each other, for he was very opinionated about the nature of God's love, while my opinion had soured in recent years. He waited until all eyes were upon him, dramatically sprinkling holy water on Parasol, Skippet, my left boot, and Sir John's sword. Then he turned with his arms raised high.

"Dear Lord, have mercy on this humble servant who rides in your name," Father Edgar shouted. "Give him strength in times of need, faith in times of sorrow, solace in times of despair. And if he is to be hacked to death by bitter merciless enemies and left to rot on some cold barren battleground, grant him peace in your glorious kingdom. Amen."

"Amen," the people chanted with heartfelt enthusiasm.

It was a prayer I could have done without.

* * * * * *

Chapter Two

THE ROAD TO ARBOR

My first day on the trail was uneventful as we passed over rolling plains used by the cattle ranchers. Parasol was strong but set in her stubborn ways, walking faster only when she suspected food might be involved. Skippet was frisky, sometimes dancing impatiently to protest our plodding. I had supplies for eight days, enough to reach the far side of the Cat Mountains where I could buy food for the final stretch to Arbor.

Late on the second day, I arrived at the Saber River, a wide tributary running east along the foothills. Farms spread out to the south with occasional patches of woods. Had my quest not been pressing, I might have tried trapping a few quail for the journey.

The tiny village of Grimrock was still in mourning for the murdered ferryman and his wife. The people eyed me with suspicion, pitchforks held ready, until one of the locals recognized me. The area was too remote for a constable's post and the church was in shambles, the preacher long since departed. An old livery stable and run-down general store made up the rest of the town.

"Thank you for coming, Magistrate. The burials are at sunset. Will you say the words?" the ferryman's daughter asked, only twenty-five but looking ten years older.

"Yes, sister," I agreed, knowing it would give her comfort.

I did more than speak over the graves of the poor unfortunates. Though magistrate no longer, I was still a practitioner of the law. While waiting for dawn to cross the river, I wrote an account of the murders, took witness statements, and prepared indictments for the county advocate. Careful descriptions of the four criminals were made: their physical characteristics, manner of speech, and identifying scars or tattoos. If St. Clair's sheriff could track the villains down, the testimony would insure a swift and proper judgment.

The next morning, I took the flatboat across the wide river, struggling to keep Parasol calm and stop Skippet from jumping over the rope sides into the water. On the opposite shore, I turned east expecting to reach Taylor Creek in two days' time. The north side of the river had little to recommend it other than a good road with enough small bridges to keep the path reasonably flat, unlike the southern range that was cut with gullies and a large swampy morass. At midday, I stopped to take a meal of bread and jam, sipping from a jug of hard cider, though I was careful not to do more than sip. My pace was good and I reached the town by the following afternoon.

Taylor Creek had once boasted a small castle which now lay in ruins. Set below Rory Pass, it formed a crossroads between Ravenshire to the north and Wheat Harbor to the southeast. The town was not prospering, much of its population having gone south for more quiet lands. Barely a hundred residents remained. I delivered my writs to the constable's office, purchased a bag of apples to keep Parasol happy, and decided to move on. The town's only inn was a pesthole, too depressing for my troubled mood. Better to breathe the freedom of the road.

"You should wait for Sir Roger. He'll be pleased by the quality of your work," Constable Stuart told me, holding the articles of indictment. Stuart was a good-hearted professional about my age, though less experienced. He was not familiar with the sophisticated articles that an indictment in absentia required. Few are in these trying times.

"It's no more than I'm accustomed to doing," I replied.

"He may offer you a stipend," Stuart suggested.

We sat on a bench outside his office while the smithy made sure Parasol wouldn't lose a shoe on the rough mountain trail. The village was several hundred yards back from the river to avoid flooding, most of the buildings made of plank wood with slate shingles. The afternoon was quiet with only a few townspeople milling about.

"Here is reward enough," I said, holding the mug of beer Stuart had been kind enough to buy me. The brew was cold from the tavern cellar and perfectly aged. The smithy approached dragging Parasol behind him, shaking his head.

"Your cursed mule is ready. Pleased I am she won't be in my livery to spread her bad temper," he said, leaving just as quickly and not asking for payment. I gave Stuart a few coppers to compensate the smithy's effort.

"Duties await," I said, finishing my mug and standing.

"I can give you a voucher for Bachmann's Inn," Stuart offered.

"Wheat Harbor is too great a detour for my purpose. I'll take Rory Pass to the high pastures and go down the lower Cats to Teacher Valley. A few days along Walnut Creek will bring me to Arbor ahead of my quarry."

"A party passed through a few days ago. A band of mercenaries. You'll do better to stay by the river," Stuart strongly recommended.

"I have nothing worth stealing, seek no trouble, and make good company. All will be well," I said with a shrug, keeping the money belt secret.

"Perhaps a gift, then," he said, briefly disappearing into his office. He returned with a brown bottle nestled in a green leather bag. "Andian brandy. Something special for your journey."

"I am grateful, sir," I said, tucking the bottle into Skippet's pack. It was a singular gift, for Andian brandy is highly prized. Until then I hadn't realized how much my meager effort had meant to the young constable.

"May good fortune be with you, Magistrate," Stuart said.

I climbed aboard Parasol, tipped my weather-beaten hat, and rode northeast through a mile of green forest before reaching the mountains. Rory Pass lay ahead, and I was well up the steep trail before darkness set in.

It was a pleasant evening as I made camp, sitting alone at the fire playing my flute while listening to the owls and the rustling of small forest creatures. An hour was spent gazing at the lazy moon and the clouds rising from the west. In recent years I had spent many such nights reflecting on the past, but never looked forward except to the next day's hunt or another bottle of ale. Such had my life become. Little did I imagine what lay ahead.

The Cat Mountains are a low range separating the Saber River country from the valleys of Ravenshire. Steep and lightly wooded on the south, the hills flatten out before dropping in gradual stages toward the Rohana River. Rory Pass is wide enough for wagons but seldom used in troubled times. Merchants who dare the risk of banditry could expect a good profit if their luck held.

Stuart's warning was not to be taken lightly. When the Ocean Kingdoms finally settled their long-standing disputes, mercenaries and freebooters began making their way inland where new opportunities might be found. Though mercenaries are not criminals by the strictest of legal terms, the bands are often laws unto themselves.

I reached the summit late the following afternoon, glad to leave the rugged climb behind, and started down a dry dusty ravine toward a blue lake surrounded by oak trees. Parasol was tired from the climb and getting fussy. Skippet kept trying to run ahead, especially after she smelled water. When I saw a camp set in a clearing, I took out my longbow and made sure the quiver was in easy reach. I also got down from Parasol and walked between the horses using them to protect my flanks.

"Yo the camp," I shouted from a distance, counting twenty men spread among half a dozen tents. Thirty quality horses grazed in a green pasture. Some of the horses were Vatar, indicating the group had come up from the southern plains.

"Who calls?" a deep voice shouted back.

"Owen Vander, traveling alone."

"Come forward," the man permitted.

They were a band of well-armed and suspicious mercenaries. A flag waved above the camp, a red banner with a black ax embroidered in the middle. Most were dressed in green cotton shirts with black vests, gray pants and calf-length boots, though there were some variations in color and style. Nearly all had thick beards trimmed just below the chin, much like the one I often grew while on the road, though I had managed to stay clean shaven this last year. A few of the mercenaries wore floppy wide-brimmed trail hats, but most were bare-headed. Easier to don a steel helmet should a sudden need arise.

As I came closer, it became clear there was trouble in the camp, many of the men gathered just outside the largest tent looking at someone inside. One fearsome brute broke away to greet me while several others remained at a distance.

"I am Farlenger, Horse Master of the Black Axe," the tall, well-built man said, extending his hand. The grip was firm.

Horse Master was his rank within the company, as I well knew. The second-in-command. Where was their leader?

"My road leads to Arbor. I seek no trouble," I said, returning the handshake firmly.

"We have trouble aplenty," Farlenger said, pointing toward the tent.

There was a large man, close to fifty years old, lying on a pad of furs clutching his side and groaning. Those around him appeared at a loss for what to do. I looped my horses' reigns together to prevent Skippet from running off and approached for a closer look. The man had been wounded, possibly with a knife. By the location of the wound and amount of blood, it appeared serious.

"In what manner has this occurred?" I asked.

"That she-devil," Farlenger said, his head turning toward the rear of the camp.

I was shocked. Beyond the last of the smaller tents, just a few yards from the trees, a woman lay on the ground. She was stripped naked, her hands tied behind her back and ankles bound together. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth. A thick leather collar around her neck was chained to a stake. It might have been prudent to suppress the outrage I felt, though such is not always possible.

"She stabbed Thory. Would have gutted him had she gotten the chance," Farlenger explained.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why does a cursed she-devil do anything?" he replied.

"There is usually a reason," I said, perhaps not wisely.

I let the horses remain where they were and went to the woman, dampening a cloth from my canteen to clean the blood from her face. She was five and a half feet tall, black-haired, several winters over twenty years old, and extraordinarily beautiful. Had she been a tavern wench, I'd had given ten coppers for her service without a second thought. Tavern wenches, however, rarely stab their clients, particularly mercenaries with a band of brothers nearby. Nor were there any taverns so high in the mountains.

"Stay back, male," the woman warned, raising her bound feet to ward me off. There was something familiar about her accent. A savage clip to her angry words.

"I mean no harm, woman. Let me wash the blood and see to your injuries," I requested.

"Jalana needs no help from males. Untie my hands and see how much help I need."

The woman was Farina. Not of the Burnt Leather clan, but one of their western cousins. Dangerous creatures under any circumstances. My heart beat faster in the presence of such fierceness, though I grew determined not to let fear stop me from providing aid.

"Of what clan?" I asked softly, glancing over my shoulder to see the mercenaries watching. The expressions were not friendly.

"Give me a sword and I'll tell you on your dying breath," Jalana said, spitting blood at me. I crouched a few feet away, not daring to get closer, but saw no more than bruises on her arms and a purple swelling around one eye. Whatever the mercenaries were planning for her was still in the future.

"For what reason would I face Farina with a sword? Do I desire death?" I asked.

"What you desire is unimportant," she answered.

Indeed this was true. I stood up as if to go, then suddenly pounced on the forest creature, pinning her beneath me as she fought. I held her down with the weight of my body and washed her face with a cloth soaked in watered whiskey, scrubbing around her eye to clean out the dirt. Despite the distressing nature of the situation, her squirming felt good beneath me, the warmth of her flesh exciting. I needed to remind myself where honor lay.

After I washed the bruises, I jumped back before she could kick me. I was quick but she was quicker, catching me with a painful blow to my thigh. A few inches higher would have been worse.

"Pig of a male. Deep will be the revenge of Jalana," she shouted at me. Good it was that she was bound hand and foot.

"Are you a physician?" Farlenger asked as I limped back to the large tent, seeing the disinfecting materials in my hands.

"I've acquired some skills," I replied.

"We would ask your help. He who tends our wounds did not join us on the journey north," Farlenger said.

I fetched my mother's black leather medical bag from the pack on Skippet and followed him into Thory's tent. It was made of canvas with a few silk hangings on the inside, two tall poles supporting the center and six smaller poles stretching out the sides. Eight men could easily sleep inside, though I only saw one bedroll and a circle of woven carpet.

"Give me room," I ordered, kneeling next to Jalana's victim. The warriors backed away. My mother had taught me that healers usually receive and always expect deference to their commands. Though troubled by the tense circumstances, I knew nothing could be accomplished without projecting confidence. That I felt no confidence was inconsequential.

"I've been killed," the man on the ground moaned. He was not a coward. He was lamenting his fate, not whining about the pain. I pulled back the bloody bandage being used to stop the flow of blood, finding a slit two inches long on the left side below the lowest rib. A dangerous wound, to be sure.

I made an assessment, as my mother had so often counseled. Thory was older than most fighting men, somewhat stout, and slightly round in the middle. The blade may not have done the damage Jalana intended. I guessed that a mercenary of his age, having lived long enough to grow a gray beard, must have a strong constitution.

"In what manner were you struck? What force? What angle?" I asked, cleaning the opening and probing with the tip of my forefinger.

"She was on her back. I was on top when she stuck me with a cooking knife. Where the vixen stole the weapon none knows."

"You were raping her?" I asked.

"We purchased her from traders this morning. A camp slut, they said, seeking to break her indenture. The price was but two silver circles. Now I know why."

I was tempted to protest that a woman cannot be legally purchased for such uses but held my tongue. What was once the law was now only my opinion. An opinion that meant nothing without a sword to back it up. Outnumbered twenty to one, and having no special sword skill, I was hardly in a position to force ethics on those who disagreed.

"It's possible you will not die," I truthfully advised, casually putting my materials back in the bag.

"I'm gutted," Thory said.

"The wound may not fester if properly treated."

"Then treat it," he growled.

"I'm not a member of your company. They should look after you," I answered.

"They haven't the skill, healer. You'd best consider your situation."

I looked up at the men watching from the doorway, their worried expressions mixed with anger. Walking away and leaving their leader to die was not an option. I never thought for a moment it would be.

"I must be paid," I boldly announced.

Thory grunted. It was not the answer he expected.

"A silver round and all the drink you want. Get to work," he demanded.

"Is that all your life is worth? A piece of silver and flask of wine?" I scornfully asked, clasping my bag closed as if ready to leave.

"A gold robbin," he offered.

"It would only be gambled away or stolen," I refused.

"Then say what you will have of me, but be careful, physician. My patience grows short," Thory warned. I had him and he knew it. Coward I may be, but not a fool.

"I want the woman," I said.

"No. Never. Once I'm able to be a man again, I will ravage that viper until she begs for mercy," Thory said so harshly that blood spurted from his wound. He clutched his fists, one pounding the ground.

"Is vengeance against a mere woman worth your life?" I asked.

"Is possessing a woman worth yours?" Thory replied.

He made a good point. My only bargaining power was the aid I could offer, and the gods might not be kind if his condition worsened.

"A cup of wine," I requested, sitting cross-legged before him and reopening my bag. But I made no effort to begin treatment. One of the mercenaries came forward, a lanky youngster named Nilo about nineteen years old, who poured a cup of thick purple wine into a silver goblet and handed it to me. I took a sip. It was a foreign vintage, excellent in every way. The Black Axe were successful at their profession.

"Well, stranger, what will it be? Gold or death?" Farlenger asked from the doorway.

I ignored him, taking another swallow and studying the look on Thory's face. The man had no more desire to die than I, but his pride could doom us both.

"It will be many weeks before you can perform. I will take the woman until then," I said, offering a compromise.

"We will all take her!" Farlenger shouted with a laugh. The men behind him hooted their approval and anticipation.

I glowered at their juvenile antics and looked back to Thory.

"The woman can be shared," the Black Axe leader said, sensing my disapproval.

"I think not," I answered, seeking to hide the growing apprehension in my chest.

Thory may have detected my weakness, or perhaps not. He would not want a physician whose hands were shaking.

"Not all of my men prefer women," Thory threatened more effectively.

I put a hand on the hilt of my sword as if ready to fight, though doubting I'd have the courage to draw it. Farlenger stepped inside the tent, his sword half out of its scabbard. Thory weakly raised a hand.

"No, brother, I prefer to live. Maybe the stranger's arrival at this moment is a sign," Thory said. "You may have the woman until I'm ready to deal with her, but no longer. And if I die, you will share her fate. Agreed?"

"I agree only to save your life if I can. Nothing more," I responded, unwilling to accept additional terms. Such might reveal too much weakness, nor would an agreement with Thory determine my fate. I fully expected his men to seek revenge if their leader died.

"Take heed, physician, to treat the woman as I expect her to be treated. She is to be used, and beaten when she disobeys, and humiliated in all ways. Nothing less will I accept," Thory required.

"Nothing less," Farlenger said, glaring at me.

I took a deep breath and nodded, hoping that an improvement in Thory's condition would eventually soften his anger. In the meantime, there seemed little else to do.

"Strip your leader of these soiled clothes," I instructed. "Soak white linen in a pot of boiling water and find soap. Soap root from the lake will do, but crush it finely. And have someone take care of my horses."

"Yes, physician," young Nilo said, responding instantly. The older warriors moved slowly, but all obeyed.

"Farlenger, give Thory a measure of your strongest rum to quench the pain. I have kampa root but it might not be enough. We'll also need three strong men to hold him down," I advised.

"None will hold me down. I'm no war baby," Thory objected.

"We should be prepared," I said, removing a set of thin silver knives from the leather bag along with a sewing kit. Farlenger looked at me with sudden awe. Only skilled healers dared use surgical instruments, therefore I must be a skilled surgeon. I declined to explain that most of my surgical experience came from treating horses, cows, sheep, and dogs. My mother had used scalpels on rare occasions but was convinced they caused more harm than good. Thory's condition left me no choice, for I knew of no other way to stop the internal bleeding.

"Finish the preparations, I will return soon," I said, leaving the tent.

Farlenger stepped aside to let me pass but indicated to a tall warrior that I should be followed. Jalana remained where I had found her, seething with Farina anger. I did not blame her, but what could I do? If I cut her loose, she would reach for a weapon and be hacked to pieces in an instant. Even if she ran for the safety of the forest, it wouldn't take long for the mercenaries to track her down.

"What do you want, male?" she grunted, twisting to protect herself. I moved away from her legs to keep a safe distance.

"I would help, warrior, if you don't make it too difficult," I said.

"Jalana needs no help from cowards. Give me a sword and I will help myself."

"Do you know what they plan for you? Will there be glory in such a fate?"

Jalana shuddered. She was brave, but no one is that brave.

"I will fight to the end," she whispered.

"You have been loaned to me in exchange for Thory's life. I'll show you what kindness I can."

"I am no one's property to loan. I am free. I am free forever."

"You don't look very free at the moment."

"All is as the Dread Goddess decrees," she conceded, referring to her pagan deity. She curled into a ball but there was nothing she could do to hide her shapely features. If I was a man who bought women, two silver circles would indeed be a bargain.

"We will speak later. In the meantime, I beg your patience."

"You beg?" she said in surprise.

"Yes, warrior, I beg."

Jalana fell silent, which was a great relief to me. I knew it wouldn't last.

The surgery was long, difficult and bloody. I needed to open enough space to sew a gash in his lower intestine, then drain the wound and clean out scraps of fabric that might cause infection. Thory did not need anyone to hold him down, much to my amazement, and I did my best to minimize the pain. Two of the mercenaries, Kaska and young Nilo, assisted my work. Kaska had large hands better suited to daggers than sewing needles, but Nilo's slim fingers showed good dexterity. Better than my own. I suspected his talents were wasted swinging a sword. By the time the last stitch was in place, I was soaked in sweat. The sun prepared to set.

"Well?" Farlenger asked, sticking his head through the tent flap.

"Even Jaka could do no better," Kaska praised, though if Jaka was a professional healer, it probably wasn't true. But I had done my best without apologies.

"You look tired, healer. Will you take food with us?" Farlenger invited, his voice suddenly friendly.

"Gladly, but first I will go to the lake. I need to bathe and wash my instruments," I answered.

"You healers are all the same. Knitted to your soaps. The food will be ready when you return," Farlenger said, closing the flap.

"Thank you, Kaska. And you, Nilo. Without your help, Thory would be dead and my own health in jeopardy," I said. They laughed, knowing it was true.

"You will find that we of the Black Axe respect a man of his word, Owen. Stay true and you will have many friends here," Kaska said.

I nodded thanks, knowing how unwise it would be not to have friends in such a place, and Kaska seemed a particularly good one. A few years younger than I, he appeared strong and brave with a clear intelligence in his blue eyes. Though he spoke with an accent common to the Ocean Kingdoms, as did his comrades, his words were crisper, indicating a formal education. We would have a chance to talk in the days ahead for I was curious about their trek.

Though lacking Kaska's confidence, Nilo also showed signs of an inquisitive intelligence. Tall and thin, he was the youngest of the group, anxious to please, and often ordered about. Unlike Kaska, who preferred a dark blue vest as opposed to the more common black, Nilo wore no vest at all. Perhaps he had not yet earned the right. The thin band of red hair on his chin was the closest he could get to a beard.

The mountain air smelled fresh. I stretched my shoulders, bent my legs at different angles, and shook some of the blood from my cotton shirtsleeves. Parasol and Skippet were mixed with the other horses, bumping and enjoying the new company. I wasn't worried about them being stolen. Skippet was small compared with the preferred mounts of warriors while Parasol's ill-temper was enough to discourage anyone. The saddle had been removed from Parasol and the packs from Skippet. I dragged my tent to the rear of camp and dropped it near the trees, intending to set up later. Jalana lay unmoving. It didn't appear anyone had harmed her.

"How do you fare, Farina?" I asked, crouching next to her.

She rolled over and looked up at me in surprise, her big black eyes opening wide. She almost spoke before clamping her jaw shut.

"It's not my blood. Not yet," I said, taking off my crimson-stained shirt.

"More to the pity," Jalana said, noticing that my chest was larger than she expected and covered by curly red hair. The mild manner in which I walked around the camp belied the strength of my arms. Though not a warrior, I was a hunter and farmer with a body well-suited to those demands.

"We're going to the lake," I said, unclipping the chain from the stake and cutting the bindings from her ankles. I did not untie her hands or remove the collar, for sooner would I have freed a wild boar than an angry forest woman. Gathering a length of rope, I tied it to the end of the short chain, enough to drag her if I had to without getting within striking range of her feet.

"Am I so dangerous?" she asked in contempt.

"You are Farina," I replied, no additional explanation being necessary. Jalana stood up slowly with straightened shoulders, her head held high. Her body was breathtaking, round in the best areas, muscular without sacrificing an elegant grace.

"What do you know of Farina?" she asked.

"I was guest to the Burnt Leather."

"Were you treated well?" she asked with a smirk, her eyes dancing at the thought.

"I was treated as a male, though better than most."

"And now you seek revenge," she concluded.

"Now I seek a bath," was my response. I started walking, leaving the leash slack in hopes she would follow. She didn't.

"Please don't make me drag you," I softly requested.

"I don't wish to go," she defiantly answered, digging in her heels. Standing nude before me, I was momentarily stunned by her allure, but it was a distraction I could ill afford. A group of mercenaries were watching from their campfire with bent brows. I remembered the command Thory had given me, and Kaska's hint about those who don't keep faith with their word.

"We are going to the lake whether you choose to or not," I said.

"Or what? You'll beat me? Do you think me unaware of male brutality?"

"Damn it, woman, if brutality is the only thing you understand, so be it," I impatiently cursed, dragging her by the leash to the edge of the clearing. She tried to hold back but her efforts proved useless. I reeled her in, grabbed the collar as I sat down on a fallen log, and put her over my knees. Then I raised a hand to her backside.

"No, not with your hand!" Jalana screamed. "Use a lash. A whip. Beat me as befits a warrior."

She twisted and kicked but I held her firmly in place. My free hand came down with a sharp smack on her bottom.

"No, this is a child's punishment. Stop! Stop!" she cried out.

I whacked her again, hard enough to leave a red spot. She looked toward the camp to see the men laughing, their heads nodding in approval. The next two whacks were equally crisp, the sound echoing off the trees.

"I will go to the lake," Jalana said with tears in her eyes.

It was not the pain that changed her mind. Farina would sooner die than show physical weakness. The mercenaries chuckled and returned to their campfires.

I put Jalana on her feet and she followed me some thirty yards to the lake through scrub grass and patches of brown sand. I checked to make sure her bare feet wouldn't be forced over sharp rocks, Farina being accustomed to the thick moccasins of their forest.

The embankment was steep in some areas, shallow at others. At one point where leafy tree branches overhung the lake, the water was about three feet deep. Thick gnarled roots extended above the surface. It was here that I waded in, drawing Jalana after me, and I tied the leash to one of the upended roots. She sat down in the water without being ordered. I stripped off my clothes and used sand to scrub out the blood, throwing each garment up on the shore when done. Even the light leather boots I always wore were sufficiently stained to warrant cleaning.

"Soap root?" I offered, finding a thick growth among the reeds.

"Will you now bathe me like a child, too?" Jalana said, eyes turned down.

"It would be my pleasure to bathe you like a woman, but only with your permission," I answered. I ground the root up in my hands and soaped myself, sighing with satisfaction as the grime of the trail dripped away. Then I washed my hair and made sure no traces of Thory's blood remained. Normally I would have been too embarrassed to stand before a strange woman as I was, but within the context of bathing, I felt less self-conscious. Nevertheless, when Jalana seemed to take extra interest, I lowered myself into the water.

"For what purpose would you ask my permission? Do masters now seek permission from their slaves?" Jalana asked, suspecting a trick.

"Stay dirty if you want," I replied.

Having spent ten days among the Burnt Leather Farina, I knew they prided themselves on their hygiene. But it was her choice.

"Untie my hands and I'll wash myself," Jalana said.

"If I untie your hands, you'll drive a tree branch through my throat, push my head underwater until I stop breathing, and take prizes off my body that are best left where they are."

Jalana laughed, her cheeks flushing. There was a twinkle in her eyes.

"You are bigger than I. You're strong. You were quick enough to avoid the kick I hoped would bring great pain. Can you be so afraid of a woman?"

"You're a warrior, I'm not. You're prepared to hurt me. I'm not prepared to hurt you. You're safer left tied until I can find a way to get us down the mountain."

"And then what? You'll sell me to the first slavers we meet?"

"Believe that if it gives you comfort. Would you like soap root?"

"No, I will not be treated as a child."

While Jalana pouted, I climbed from the water and rung out my clothes, keeping my back to her but also maintaining careful watch. Farina are not to be underestimated.

"You're a strange male. Why do you not show that which all males show so proudly?" she asked, wading closer to the embankment.

"Perhaps I'm not so proud," I said, pulling on my shirt until it dropped to my thighs.

"You are not badly made, nor unpleasing to look at."

"Do you think flattery will cause me to lower my guard?"

Jalana laughed again. "You are cleverer than most males, but my words are true. Were you in the camp of the Red Leather, your use would be eagerly sought."

"We're a hundred miles from the forests of the Farina. How have you come so far from home?" I asked. Jalana paused as if reluctant to answer, but she sensed no threat in my question.

"Two of my sisters left the forest upon a quest, seeking womanhood in dangerous lands. Rotanna, First Sword of the Red Leather, went to fetch them without sisters to safeguard her journey. When word came that our sisters had fallen prey to slavers, I set out with a hunting party, intending to intercept their march and seek vengeance upon the beasts. A deep and terrible vengeance it would be. We, too, were taken, for the land is filthy with treachery. This was but two days ago. The slavers sold me to these males of the ax believing my sisters more easily controlled beyond my presence, for I am war captain of our clan. In the name of honor, I appealed to Thory to right this wrong and restore my freedom. Instead, he took me to his furs. He is handsome enough for one so long in the tooth. I would not have refused his use, but not as a she-slave. Now, by Will of the Dread Goddess, he lays dying."

"Let us hope it's not her will, for such may mean our deaths," I said, shaking off a cold shiver.

"In what manner would it mean your death?" Jalana asked in surprise.

"Farlenger has promised me an unfit end should Thory die. No worse than yours, but no better."

"Vile are the ways of males. Why not get on your horse and ride away?" she asked.

"That, war captain of the Red Leather, is the best question I've heard today."

We returned to the camp where I discovered Nilo had graciously set up my tent and laid out the sleeping furs. I dried the lake water from Jalana's skin with a cotton cloth and chained her collar to the tent's center pole, letting her lay on the fur. With a sigh, I also covered her body with a wool blanket. She was so enticing to look at that I was starting to feel an ancient ache, but I didn't want the Black Axe staring at her lying helpless, for they might forget their leader's oath. Jalana looked at me with curiosity, no doubt expecting to be abused. I tied the tent flap open so I could keep an eye on her and walked away.

"We eat well tonight, Owen Vander," Kaska said, passing me a roasted duck on the tip of his dagger. I drew my hunting knife and accepted the succulent bird, the juices dripping down the blade.

Pots of boiled roots and wild vegetables were passed along as eighteen of us sat in a circle around the fire pit. Thory remained in his tent recuperating while two junior warriors stood guard.

"You do not dress like a physician, nor do these mountains appear ripe with patients," Farlenger said.

"These days I'm a humble hunter and sometime farmer, though I've had other professions," I admitted.

"Was the wench satisfactory?" Kaska asked, assuming I had used her at the lake.

"I've had better," was my elusive response.

Farlenger eyed me with suspicion, causing me to wonder if he knew more than was said. Many who held no such suspicion nodded in sympathy. The stabbing of Thory and Jalana's proclivity to verbally dismember any man in her vicinity made her less than pleasant company. Yet I doubted there was one in the group that wouldn't take her if given the chance, something I constantly kept in mind.

"Excellent fare. You must have a fine cook in your company," I complimented, filling a tin plate with delicious growl roots and stalk rice.

"We are all excellent cooks. What is a brotherhood if one man does all the work?" Denart said, the band's burly blacksmith. Older and wiser than his youthful comrades, he was the only member other than Thory with graying hair. I guessed most of the Black Axe in their mid to late twenties, except young Nilo.

"The brotherhood," they chanted.

"I see you've come from the Ocean Kingdoms. Is there no work on the White Beaches for such sturdy warriors?" I asked.

"Times have grown quiet indeed," Denart said.

"The armies are at rest, the barons satisfied with their holdings," a large killer known as Golan said. He had hair redder than mine and a chest twice as big. The vivid green eyes looked angry. Though not quite a giant, he could almost pass for one.

"What do you hope from the north?" I inquired further. "There is little wealth to be had these days. Are you freebooting?"

Several instantly jumped to their feet, hands on swords. All else grumbled furious blood oaths. I stood up with hands held open.

"Let me apologize, brothers of the Black Axe," I sincerely said. "So much misery has come to Northwaye since the death of our king, none can tell where honor lies."

"Honor is the heart of our brotherhood," Kaska insisted.

"Our very soul," Charnon added, a tall blond warrior with a perceptive gaze.

"None may deny us our due," Farlenger said, gulping his ale.

"We fight for pay, but only within the strictest traditions of our guild," Golan said to my surprise, for he looked like a man unaccustomed to obeying any rules but his own.

"We hear Earl William of Angle needs fighting men to defend his lands from rebellious barons, and so we journey north. What fault would you find in this?" Charnon asked.

"Earl William is no worse than many others, but I doubt you'll find work that meets your expectations," I said, drinking deeply of their excellent wine.

"And what does a hunter know of earls and fighting men?" Farlenger asked, studying me closely. I chose not to lie.

"In the reign of King Tarten, I was Magistrate of Arthur County. A giver of laws. Sheriffs and constables obeyed my commands. Transgressors paid heavily upon my judgment, and justice was delivered to those deserving," I answered.

"And where would we stand in your noble world of laws and justice?" Thory said from the door of his tent, Nilo holding him up. I was not pleased to see the leader on his feet, the wound barely held together.

"My world is gone. Washed away in blindness and greed," I bitterly replied, draining the last of my wine and standing up.

Now a hand was poised on my sword, my gaze angry. The fear I should have felt was lost in a drunken haze. The brothers took notice, though the defiant stranger they saw in the firelight was not the man they would see in the morning.

"The deaths of kings can be hard," Thory said, letting Nilo bring him to the circle. "We hope for work in Earl William's employ, but we shall see."

"What of you, Magistrate? What brings you to this pasture?" Pinet asked, a brutish ruffian sitting on a log next to Golan.

"Two women were stolen from Falmouth Crossing. Their fathers asked me to bring them back."

"So you are embarked upon a quest?" Charnon said, nodding with approval.

"A forlorn one, I suspect," Farlenger said.

"I have little to lose," was my only response, and by the slump of my shoulders, they knew it to be true. I let Kaska refill my cup.

* * * * * *

I woke up in my tent moaning from a terrible headache, still dressed in my clothes from the night before. My sword hung on the pole outside. Jalana lay on the furs next to me fully awake, still tied and chained at the neck.

"You snore like the north wind and reek like an empty wine skin," she said, curling her button nose in disgust. I rolled over to sniff at my clothes, finding truth in her observation.

The morning was damp with spring dew. As Thory remained weak, the camp could not move for several days. I was not pleased about this but saw no remedy. Thory's wound needed tending, nor was I prepared to abandon Jalana. It could have been a nice day if not for what happened next.

"Magistrate, we will have words with you," Farlenger said, standing outside my tent with Golan and Kaska. I crawled out, my eyes blinded with pain from the bright sun.

"Yes, Horse Master," I said, finding my feet with difficulty.

"It's admirable that you made the woman cry out yesterday, and that you refused to feed her on the darkness, but you've not made use of her as Thory commanded," Farlenger said.

I looked back into the tent seeing Jalana in her chain. I had indeed forgotten to feed her, having gotten drunk instead. The mercenaries believed it a punishment.

"Is the woman not mine?" I asked.

"Only if you use her. Otherwise, she's ours," Golan said, his massive arms crossed over his chest. Had I been the bravest of the brave, he was still not someone I would willingly challenge. Jalana was watching with a fervent wish to kill us all.

"I prefer to use wenches in my own time, and without an audience," I truthfully protested.

"You will use her now, and we will be close enough to hear," Farlenger said.

"Unless you'd have her staked out in the middle of camp, which would provide more amusement," Golan added. Kaska said nothing. He did not appear pleased with the crude demand but remained true to his brotherhood.

It occurred to me to question the honor they had boasted of so proudly just the night before, but I quickly realized it would avail me nothing. Their leader had been gutted by Jalana and was still in danger of his life. They wanted revenge, not justice for a perceived wrong. I had not given them their revenge and now stood in their way. My heart beat faster as I realized the difficulty of the situation. My palms sweated. At no time did I consider reaching for my sword, though incredibly, I momentarily wondered if I could take Golan down with a tent pole. Abysmal as my sword skills were, I knew my way with a staff. Yet even this would ultimately be pointless. What would it accomplish against a camp of professional fighting men?

"I'm sorry, brothers of the Black Axe. Last night's festivities clouded my mind. I will teach the she-devil the evil of her ways," I promised.

Farlenger accepted my word, for he could do no less without dishonoring Thory's pledge. Golan's shoulders sagged in disappointment. Kaska looked worried. I found myself growing fond of the young swordsman who seemed to sense my aversion to the proceedings.

The mercenaries backed off to a fallen log some twenty feet away as I crawled back into the tent. Suddenly my face exploded in pain and I was on the ground. Jalana was propped up ready to kick me again if I tried to enter.

"Stay away, male," she seethed. "I'll not be used as a she-slave. I am a warrior. I will die a warrior."

My right cheek was puffy where she kicked me, my vision clouded, hands groping for a steady hold on the outside tent pole. The men behind me were laughing.

"Need help, Magistrate? There are three of us to hold her down for you," Golan shouted. His remark was meant to cut deep, for Jalana's hands were still tied behind her back and only eighteen inches of chain separated her collar from the center pole of the tent. Yet there I was sitting dazed in the scrub grass. I reached inside the tent flap for my water bag, staying just out of Jalana's reach, and soaked a cloth for my face. The cold felt good and helped clear my mind.

"I can manage one harmless wench, but thank you for the concern, friend," I said.

"Harmless? Come closer and I will show you harmless!" Jalana yelled. I wished she hadn't yelled so loud, the sound echoed like drumbeats in my head. Perhaps drinking so much of the foreign wine wasn't such a good idea.

After several minutes I finally managed to sit up and take a full breath. My eye was swelling and would probably remain half-shut for a day or two. I wondered if letting the Black Axe have the cursed she-devil might not be such a bad idea after all. She could have the beating she wanted, and I would not face danger protecting her. I looked in the tent seeing her lying on her left side, her feet ready to defend herself, her angry eyes defying me to enter. At that moment I was not very well disposed toward her.

"Try again. I'll kick your face through the back of your head," she spat.

I stood up and soaked my neck in cold water, breathing deeply. Thory would need to be examined and fresh bandages applied. He had been restless at the meal the night before but not stupid enough to reopen the wound. As Farlenger and Golan came forward, I dropped the water bag at the mouth of the tent and put on my sword belt. Golan bent over to look in the tent, grinning like Satan's chosen.

"You're mine now, songbird," he said.

Jalana backed away as far as she could, poised to strike. Bare feet would avail her naught against such strength, but she was ready to fight to the last breath. Golan laughed, in no hurry to exploit his victim, and gradually the enormity of the odds against her took hold, fear rising up in Jalana's black eyes. No warrior wishes humiliation by such a brute. I myself had nightmares of a similar fate, lying at the feet of a conquering foe, begging for a quick end. The premonition of horror caught in my throat. I turned back.

"I have not released my claim," I said, pushing Golan aside.

"You walked away," he angrily protested.

"I am not walking away now. I will keep my claim as long as your leader's pledged oath is honored. Or is the Black Axe boast of honor best left in a wine cup?"

"None here will break Thory's oath," Farlenger said.

"Then remove yourself from my tent," I insisted.

They backed off, Golan with the greatest reluctance. I had made a deep and vengeful enemy, but it wasn't the first time.

"I warn you, male, stay away," Jalana said, but not with her earlier vehemence.

"You could have warned me the first time," I said, rubbing my sore cheek.

"Let me have a sword. Let me die a warrior," she softly pleaded.

"You will not die on this mountain," I whispered.

I wished to tell her of better things. Of being free once again to search for her sisters. Of returning to their beloved forests with tales to tell. But I could say none of what was in my heart with the Black Axe nearby.

I dropped my sword belt and crawled in the tent along the far wall opposite where Jalana lay. She tried to shift around but her movement was restricted by the chain. I faked a move on her head, and when both of her legs came around to intercept me, I ducked under the kick and grabbed her by both feet.

"No. No. No." she moaned, unable to break my hold as I pressed her in the furs.

"Lay still," I whispered.

But Jalana did not lay still, she fought like a wildcat. Few understand how strong a woman can be even tied and chained, or how much resistance they can mount if you're not prepared to use blunt force against them. It's a lesson I never wanted to learn, but the more she fought, the more I found myself growing excited. Part of me was sickened, another thrilled by the sensation of power.

"No, not as a she-slave. By the Dread Goddess, Owen, don't," she begged.

I hadn't realized she knew my name, and if there had been some way to stop without endangering both our lives, I'd have taken the chance.

* * * * * *

Continued in part two, Mercenaries and warrior women