First she wrapped the sleeping child in a warm blanket, whispering to her to be quiet, then grabbed a cloak herself. She would have liked to take some food with her, but she dared not take the risk that it would weigh her down.
As Azhure bent down to lace her boots her nervous excitement grew.
Courage, Azhure, she berated herself. Another hour at the latest and you and the Avar man can be racing for the Forbidden Valley. And then you can spend the rest of your years wandering with GoldFeather. Free from Hagen.
Azhure swore silently as one of the bootlaces stubbornly refused to tie. She had the child tucked under one arm and, combined with her nervousness, it made her fumble-fingered. Quickly laying the sleeping child on the floor, she began to relace the offending boot.
“Bitch!” Hagen grunted behind her and grabbed the child.
“No!” Azhure cried hoarsely, too frightened to scream. She tried to turn around, but overbalanced and fell to the floor.
Hagen threw the now crying child on the bed. Stepping over to the table he dealt Azhure a vicious kick in the ribs on the way.
“No!” Azhure wheezed, doubling up on her side, trying to draw breath. Hagen had kicked her in the very ribs he broke two months previously; now it felt like fire flickered up and down her ribcage. Her face contorted in agony, Azhure squinted towards Hagen.
He stood at the table, ignoring the wails of the child, riffling through the plates and cutlery that Azhure had washed earlier and had yet to put away.
“No,” she whimpered. “No!” She had to move, she had to do something, but the pain in her ribs crippled her and she could hardly draw breath, let alone get to her feet.
Hagen grunted again, his hand clutching at a bone-handled knife.
“The Forbidden child dies now,” he said conversationally, lifting the knife to inspect its edge.
He spent hours each week honing that knife.
Azhure knew how sharp it was.
He lifted the knife…
Azhure groaned and closed her eyes.
The flames cracked and popped.
She rolled over so that she was lying on her belly and pressed her face into the stone floor, desperate to escape both the scene before her and the memories fighting to break free.
The smell was terrible.
Hagen stepped over Azhure’s still body and took another step towards the child on the bed.
The little girl. Frightened. Watching. Unable to escape.
He was not worried about Azhure. He had beaten her into submission enough over the years to know that she would not act now. He had trained her well.
“Why not kill me?” she screamed.
Hagen reached the bed and began to pull the little girl’s outer clothes apart.
“Because I like to see you suffer,” he replied.
Azhure finally managed to rise to her knees, but she was still bent double with pain and fear. Not now. Not again!
“Shall I check the bandages this morning? See what’s there?”
Hagen raised the knife.
Hagen raised the knife…
Azhure raised her hands to her head, rocking backwards and forwards, keening under her breath. Not again! Not again!
This time she could stop it. This time she could save the child, and in doing so, save herself.
…and dug.
Azhure launched herself forward, grabbing frantically for the hem of Hagen’s robe.
He heard her movement and half turned, the knife still raised, his face masked in rage.
Her grasping fingers caught at the hem of his robe, but the material slipped through.
Howling in anger now, Hagen raised his foot to stamp on Azhure’s fingers, the knife glinting wickedly in his hand.
With the last of her strength Azhure grabbed his foot and twisted, took a desperate breath, and twisted again.
Hagen teetered backwards and forwards, his face surprised rather than angry. Then, with a small “Oh!” of utter astonishment that Azhure would actually do this to him, he toppled to the floor.
Azhure rolled out of the way and scrambled to her feet, one hand clutching her ribs. But her breath was coming more easily now and she stood ready, sure that Hagen would leap to his feet with a savage roar, intent on her final murder.
But Hagen lay still, his right arm twisted under his body.
The Avar girl’s wails began to subside and Azhure quickly checked her. She was unharmed, but Hagen had come so close…so close…
Azhure took a quick, deep breath, fighting to forget the brief images that had flashed through her mind.
That never happened!
“No,” she whispered, her mind slipping dangerously close to the edge of madness. “That never happened. Forget it, Azhure. Forget it. It was your imagination.” In her battle to disremember the horror, Azhure unconsciously murmured the words that had been shouted at her for so many years. “Wicked child. That’s what you are. Wicked.”
She finally slammed the door on the memories, composing herself with great effort, and stared at Hagen. Had he knocked himself unconscious in the fall? Azhure hoped so. If he was unconscious then she and the child would still be able to scramble free.
Slowly, lest the man only be pretending, Azhure bent down and touched him quickly on the shoulder. He didn’t react. She shoved him and leapt back. But still Hagen didn’t move.
“Oh, no,” Azhure whispered as she watched his still body, her stomach starting to churn. “Oh no!”
On the bed Shra rolled over and sat up, her tear-streaked face curious.
Biting her tongue to stop herself from gagging, Azhure seized Hagen by the shoulder and rolled him over, grunting at the flare of pain in her ribs as she did so.
He was dead.
Everything told Azhure that: the spreading pool of blood beneath him; his staring eyes, comically surprised; his hand still grasped about the hilt of the knife, its blade stuck its entire length in his lower abdomen. As she watched, his dead hand slowly unclenched and slid to his side, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
Azhure turned away and retched. Shra stared, then slid down from the bed, toddling over to the body. Almost overbalancing on her plump legs, she squatted down and rested both hands in the pool of blood.
“Azhure,” she lisped and Azhure looked back, stunned to see the child with both her hands swimming in blood.
“No!” she cried and snatched the child from beside Hagen’s body. What did she think she was doing?
Then the child did something even more strange. She lifted one hand to Azhure’s forehead and ran her fat little fingers down the woman’s face, leaving three trails of blood.
“Accepted,” she said clearly. “Accepted.”
Azhure sat trembling at the table for a very long time, the child in her lap, staring at Hagen’s body.
She had killed him. She had killed him. The words ran through her mind over and over. Murder. There was no other way to dress it up.
And every time that thought ran through her head a wave of sickness enveloped her. Murder.
She had not wanted to kill him. She had simply wanted to protect the child and escape from him.
Eventually Azhure roused herself. She could not stay here now. The village people would undoubtedly lynch her the moment someone discovered the body. Then they would burn the Avar man and the little girl.
And Azhure would not have escaped Hagen at all.
Hurriedly she wiped her face and the child’s hands, leaving the blood-streaked towel lying on the table. “Come,” she whispered to the child. She rewrapped the girl, adjusted her own cloak and left the house she had called home for almost twenty-eight years behind her without a backward glance.
Outside Azhure recovered the cloak she had secreted for the Avar man and walked to the rear door of the Worship Hall.
Could she go through with the rest of the plan, when the initial stages had gone so disastrously wrong?
“I must,” she murmured determinedly, “if I am to
save this girl and the man. We are all dead if we stay.”
She forced herself to think of what she needed to do. How many guards had been left to watch over the Avar man? She stepped down the stairs to the cell, making no effort to move silently. She did not want to appear to be sneaking.
When she walked into the cellar, the Avar girl-child held tightly in her arms, Azhure fixed a bright smile on her face. She breathed a quick sigh of relief. Only one man sat in here on guard, but as that one man turned to look at her Azhure’s relief turned into dismay. It was Belial, the BattleAxe’s lieutenant. Azhure hid her dismay by widening her smile. She rather liked Belial, he had a good-humoured face yet acted decisively when needed. He might not be a hero, but he had kind hazel eyes that now crinkled at her in some puzzlement. She did not want to hurt Belial, but she would do what she had to do to save the Avar man.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” he asked, rising to his feet, puzzled but not anxious. Good.
Azhure made a face and smiled at the child. “She wanted to see her father, and fretted at me for so long that I had to bring her.” Azhure made her face fall, and she leaned a little closer to whisper to Belial. “And tomorrow morning…well, I couldn’t refuse her one last hour spent with him, could I?”
Belial relaxed a little. Of all the Smyrton villagers in the cellar this afternoon Azhure had shown the most courage and independence; besides, she was very attractive. Belial was normally a little shy around beautiful women, but Azhure did not flaunt her beauty nor seek to use it to intimidate. He patted the child a little awkwardly on her head. “Poor little girl.”
“Yes, I know.” Azhure simply wanted to get this over and done with. She could see the Avar man begin to stir behind the bars. He had been given water to wash and was warmly dressed against the night cold. Good. Azhure gritted her teeth a little, this was going to be hard. Courage, girl, she repeated to herself. You have already killed once tonight, and that a man you called father. Surely disabling this stranger should not be a problem.
But Hagen had beaten her and abused her. Belial had done nothing but treat her with kindness and respect and now displayed touching tenderness towards the child in her arms. Azhure stretched her smile until she thought she must look like a grinning idiot. “Do you think perhaps…?” she said, tilting her head towards the door of the cell.
“Oh, of course,” Belial smiled at her. “Let me get the keys.”
Azhure slipped the child down onto the floor and followed Belial across the cellar. As he bent down to pick the keys up from the stool where he had left them, Azhure pulled a fist-sized rock from the deep pocket in her black apron. She raised it high above her head, her hand trembling, and, just as Belial was starting to rise, she brought it down, dealing Belial a heavy blow to the back of his skull. He twisted as he fell, his eyes registering a moment’s surprise before they rolled up into his head and he collapsed unmoving on the stone floor. Azhure stared at him for a moment, unable to believe she had actually hit him. She dropped the stone beside Belial’s body and started to shake, raising her hands to her face. What had she done?
“Quick!” a voice hissed behind her. “The keys!”
She turned and saw the Avar man standing by the cell door, his eyes intense. “The keys!” he repeated. Azhure reached across the floor to where they had fallen and slid them over to the Avar man. He had the door open in an instant. He picked the child up and grabbed Azhure’s arm. “Come,” he said, his voice quieter now, “you must come with me. You know that your friends will kill you too, now.”
Azhure nodded and stood, her legs still weak with shock. She glanced one more time at Belial, hoping he wasn’t dead. “Sorry,” she whispered, then the Avar man was pulling her towards the stairs.
Axis could not sleep. He had tossed and turned in his bedroll, listening to the sounds of the night, until finally he decided that there was no use pretending he was going to sleep and rolled out of his blankets, slipped into his clothes, strapped on his weapon belt and headed into the night.
He nodded to the perimeter guards as he passed them. He still felt troubled by the events of the afternoon. The condition of the Avar man and child had appalled him. He had seen death and agony many times on the battlefield, but never before had he seen such wanton cruelty. And all in the name of the Seneschal, all in the name of Artor and the Way of the Plough. Axis had been repelled by the blood lust in the villagers’ eyes, and now, as he was walking through the crisp cold air, he was repelled by the thought of the sight he would witness this morning.
He cursed himself as he wandered down the pathway approaching the Worship Hall. He needed to talk with Belial to calm his nerves.
The moment he descended into the cellar he knew what had happened. The cell door yawned wide and Belial lay sprawled in an unmoving heap over by the far wall. Axis crossed the cellar in five strides and gently rolled Belial over. He was still breathing, but he had a huge lump on the back of his head. Whoever had hit him had done a good job.
And Axis thought he knew who might have done it.
Axis took the stairs out of the cellar three at a time and ran the distance between the Worship Hall and Hagen’s house in the space of six heartbeats. He burst through the door without bothering to knock. Hagen lay in a pool of blood beside the bed, a knife sticking out of his belly. A bloodied towel lay on the table; and Azhure and the Avar girl were nowhere to be seen. Axis cursed and checked the man’s body—it was cool—and Axis cursed again.
He ran outside again and quickly orientated himself under the early morning sky. Azhure and the Avar man would have run for the Forbidden Valley…and Arne had set up the Axe-Wielders’ camp on the opposite side of the village. There was no time to rouse their support, and Axis refused to consider rousing the Smyrton villagers. The Forbidden Valley was unpassable to horses, and the Avar and Azhure must be close to it by now. Axis cursed yet again, low and vicious, as he turned and sprinted out of the village, heading northeast. Although he had tried to save their lives, Axis thrust aside his previous sympathy for their plight and any thought of simply letting them escape. Hagen was dead and, even more damning in Axis’ eyes, Belial lay assaulted and helpless after both he and Axis had trusted Azhure. His bonds and loyalties to the Seneschal demanded that the BattleAxe take revenge for the death of the Plough-Keeper, the assault of one of the most senior Axe-Wielders, and the escape of the Forbidden.
Axis was a strong and fit man, and once beyond the village he quickly settled into an easy stride. The entrance to the Forbidden Valley lay less than half a league from Smyrton along flat and easy terrain; Axis was determined to give the Avar man and Azhure a run for their pains.
Yet as he ran a small troubling voice nagged inside his head.
Why not let them escape? Why not simply say that you tried your best, and stop here, and let them escape into the night?
Damn it! Axis thought as the disturbing question would not go away. I cannot betray my trust to the Seneschal—it has protected me and supported me all my life.
And yet how strange that you wanted to save them from Hagen. How does that serve the Seneschal?
Axis panted for breath as he drew closer to the Forbidden Valley. Could he admit to himself that his guilt at earlier trying to save the Avar man and child now drove him desperately to catch the runaways? Before they had not killed, he told himself angrily, now they have.
Was it the Avar who killed or was it the Nors woman?
She killed for them. She killed to help them. And in accepting her offer of help they became accomplices in the murder of a Brother of the Seneschal. His blood stains their hands equally. I am doing the right thing, Axis told himself fiercely.
And how can you blame the man for taking the child and running, Axis Rivkahson, when the Seneschal was preparing to burn him today? What threat does he pose to the Seneschal, to Achar, that he should be burned?
He is one of the Forbidden! They are both of the Forbidden! I cannot betray the Seneschal’s
trust in me. Now Axis’ lungs were beginning to burn with the effort of pulling in as much air as he could manage, and still it wasn’t enough.
Remember how you found them, Axis, torn and filthy and denuded of all their self-respect. Did you see threat in the man’s eyes when he looked into yours? He trusted you with the child. Let them go.
No! Axis kept forcing the sight of Belial’s assaulted form lying senseless on the floor into his mind.
Raum could move far and fast, but not with the child and Azhure to slow him down. They had moved well to begin with, but the child started to fret soon after they had left the village and Azhure’s ribs pained her so badly she could hardly run. Raum tried to remain calm, but he had visions of the Smyrton villagers hunting them down when they were within shouting distance of the Avarinheim. He carried the child and tried to hurry Azhure along as fast as she could go. Dawn was not far off, and he did not want to be caught out in the open after the sun had risen.
They entered the Forbidden Valley just as the sky was beginning to lighten towards dawn. Azhure gripped her side, her chest heaving as she fought for breath, forcing each leg forward despite the sharp spike of agony which shot up her side. She began to wonder if somehow Hagen’s spirit was revenging itself on her for his murder. Ahead of her the Avar man still moved smoothly, gripping the girl to his hip. Even with the injuries that the sharp iron spikes of the villagers had inflicted on him, he had hidden reserves of strength. Azhure knew that he could have been deep within the Avarinheim by now if it hadn’t been for her.
They were close to the Nordra now as it escaped the Shadowsward through the narrow valley. The River Nordra roared and leaped dangerously as it flowed through the narrow confines of the chasm of the Forbidden Valley, and Raum and Azhure had to slow down on the slippery and dangerous path that ran beside the river and the rocky chasm walls. There was barely enough room for their feet on the narrow and treacherous path, and Azhure’s heart rose into her mouth every time she saw the Avar man’s foot slip, or felt her own feet threaten to give way on the slippery, rocky surface. Only a pace below the path the waters of the Nordra roared, ready to consume them should they topple in.