Freyas Saga Ch. 12

"Your pardon, lady," he panted, "I did not mean to startle you, I just wished to speak with you. Please, be at your ease. I am unarmed."

She stared down at him and with her other hand, quickly searched him for weapons and found nothing. Carefully, she got off him and stood up.

He got up, clutching his winded belly, and stood doubled over, panting for breath, looking at the tall woman standing naked from the waist down and staring coldly down at him.

"I apologise," he said. "I wished to speak with you in private, and I did not realise you had gone to, ahm, relieve yourself." He held up his hands. He was a Marcan who Freya had been introduced to at the campfire earlier. She hadn't caught his name. He was about thirty, handsome, possibly dangerous. He was averting his eyes from her naked lower half.

Freya made a twirling gesture with her finger and he turned his back. Still watching him, she leaned over and grabbed a fistful of grass and wiped herself, then took her breeches and put them back on and quickly laced them up. Then she gave a quick, low whistle, and he turned again. He looked relieved to see her decent.

"That is much better," he said. "Lady, I was told at the fire that you recently slew a worm in the city of Torina."

Freya paused, and nodded.

"I know that this is more than rumour," said the man, "for a cousin of mine was passing through there, and he told me of a hooded, silent young woman, travelling with a youth, who after many men had been taken and foully slain by the creature, engaged it in single combat and slew it and refused all payment, but was wounded in the face. Behold, a few weeks pass, and I meet a silent young woman with a scarred face travelling with a youth, and she has the speed of a rattlesnake and the coolness of a falcon, and she will tell no tale regarding her doings. And I believe in coincidence, lady, but this is no coincidence, is it."

Now that they were talking, and he'd got his wind back, he'd lost his nervous, bumbling manner but was standing tall and confident.

Freya shook her head no.

"You are her?" he said.

She nodded. She put her knife back in her sleeve and rolled it up, to reveal her reddened, blistered arm, which was healing, but slowly. She displayed it to him, her face grim but calm, and then rolled down her sleeve again.

"You fought a worm and defeated it," he said, his eyes wide with respect. "Lady, that is some sorcery."

Freya shook her head.

"Then what?" said the man. "You have domain over the worms?"

Freya smiled. The man smiled back.

"The Serpent Queen, then," he said. "You are keeping your subjects in line."

Freya smiled.

It will serve for the moment as a title.

"Then, Serpent Queen," he said, turning on the charm, "will you drink some wine with me? I would give much to spend an hour in the company of one so fair and so valorous."

Freya raised her eyebrows.

"You got that scar in your combat with the worm?" he said.

She nodded.

"Then it is worn with honour," he said.

"Your name," Freya whispered.

The man paused.

"Then you do speak? When you have to?"

She nodded. He paused, and bowed.

"My name is Asad Mansur," he said.

Freya narrowed her eyes, pointed at the man's shirt and tugged at her own collar.

He bowed again, smiling, and opened the top two buttons of his shirt, and showed her the single tattoo he'd earned fighting as a mercenary in the ranks of the king.

***

Asad Mansur. The Lion of Victory. A boastful name if you had not earned it, but earned it you have.

Mercenaries were not initiated into the language of the sigils but were given a simple one, the badge of the house that had hired them, together with a motif indicating the capacity in which they had served. Beyond that, their name alone was expected to be enough to identify them to anyone who had heard of them.

So it is you. I would not have thought you resemble the legend, unless you are deceiving me, but of that, we shall see.

Yes, Asad Mansur, let us have wine together, and see what you have to tell me.

***

She eyed him, then took a step back and bowed in return to him, with respect.

"You will tell no-one your name?" he said.

She shook her head.

"Then you intrigue as well as entice. You will join me for a while?"

He held out his arm. She graciously took it, as if she had not just knocked him flat on his back and made his shirt wet with her urine. They went back to the fire.

At the fire, the conversation was humming as ever. Freya made herself at ease while he went off to change his shirt, and when he returned he poured wine from the big decanter into the bowl, and Freya watered it in the southern manner, and he smiled at her and lifted his goblet. She raised hers in return and they drank.

"I am not sure how to make conversation with one who will not speak," he said.

You will learn, I am sure, her smile said.

"Why do you not speak?" he said, and then immediately checked himself. "No, that won't work, will it? You are a tough one, Serpent Queen. You dress after the manner of a northerner, but you clearly have in you the blood of my people."

Freya sipped her wine.

"You would not be able to defeat a worm without experience of combat," he said, "but it is not the custom to have women fight. I have heard of few women warriors, most of them long dead, the others recently dead. Among them some of the finest."

Freya cocked an eyebrow curiously. He looked solemn.

"Alas, yes," he said. "So the news goes. One of the king's finest, she who was called Freya Aelfrethe, was killed some weeks ago by some cult in the east."

Freya nodded seriously.

"I do not know many details," he said. "It was a mission, one of the clean-ups to settle accounts and help make the peace, and the story is that she blundered into a trap without waiting for her men to support her, and was slaughtered."

Freya shook her head sadly.

"A sad and strange death," he said, "for one so famed for her wisdom and generalship."

"You knew her?" Freya whispered.

Let us test you.

"No," he said. "By name only. I never had the honour of meeting or fighting with her."

Freya had another sip of wine.

Honourable of you not to lie of your exploits to a strange woman you wish to impress, Asad Mansur.

"But even the wisest amongst us must blunder," he said. "Perfect wisdom belongs only to god."

He eyed her.

"You wanted to see my tattoo," he said. "You are familiar with these, then?"

She nodded.

"So you have fought in the king's army?"

There was no sense in lying. She nodded.

"Intriguing," he said. "As a kinsman, or as a mercenary?"

Freya smiled and laid a finger on her lips. He smiled.

"I ask too many questions," he said. "Anyway, my fighting days are over. I have laid down my sword for quieter work."

Freya raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I am a tattooist," he said. "I served some time as a herald, and I found I liked the work. It is good to feel that one is putting something back into the world after one has taken so much out of it."

So that is why you were noisy and slow in the bushes. Had you been in training, you would have tried to fight me off.

"Might I see your tattoos?" he said. "No, surely that is too much?"

She looked at him, thoughtful.

"I need a new one," she said.

"Ah," he said.

She pointed to the scar.

"A serpent," she said. He examined the scar, and grinned.

"That is well within my powers," he said. "But it will cost you."

She beckoned and he leaned forward.

"I have no coin," she breathed in his ear, "But I will show you myself, in private. And then we will know each other."

She sat back. He stared at her, wide-eyed with wonder and open lust.

"I will do it," he said.

She looked at him expectantly.

He quickly stood up. "Come," he said. "To my tent."

***

In the tent, which was very comfortable, Asad poured more wine and Freya sat in a high-backed chair, and he prepared his inks and needles.

"This is not the first time I have adorned a scar," he said. "It will not be painless."

Freya smiled. He prepared water and spirits and washed her face, then he cleaned the scar with spirits and inked his needles, and she sat and let herself become very still, and as he leaned in, Freya closed her eyes and submitted to it.

She knew, now, that physical pain in itself was not the most unendurable thing. She had invited this to happen and while the still-tender scar blazed and throbbed, so that she felt that her face must have expanded to the size of a globe, she knew that it would be over soon. Asad was quick with his needles and he kept dabbing at her face to soak up the blood. She felt the snake taking its form and soon the pain had concentrated itself to an undulating line from her forehead to her jaw. Her eyes watered and he dabbed that away too, so it wouldn't mix with the ink.

After a time he sat back, sweating in the heat of the night, and looked at her.

"That is the limit of my skill," he said."I hope you will not be disappointed."

He picked up a polished silver mirror and held it up in front of her.

Her face, too, had a sheen of sweat, and it was red from the blood that had flushed to it, but the red scar was hidden beneath subtle colouration; flesh colour to match her skin, but tinged with gold, so that it was something you had to look at twice before you realised it was there: a golden snake with underlying red spots, angrily whipping across her face, its eyes - grey, like hers, shot through with gold - glaring out, its small red tongue hissing.

It was perfect. Freya smiled, looked at him and bowed her head with respect. He grinned back, relieved, and put down the mirror.

"And now," he said, "I will not force you to keep your side of the bargain, if only you will tell anyone who asks, who did this work."

Freya frowned and shook her head no. She held up her hand, palm outwards, to signify that she needed a moment's privacy. He nodded, and left the tent.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then had a drink of wine and took from her breeches pocket a small ivory case. She opened it. Inside were a dozen or so small, shiny, red and blue pellets. Gifts from Sophy. Freya took a red one and put it in Asad's goblet and swirled it around until it dissolved into the wine. Then she poured more wine into both, and sat, and collected herself.

And now. What do folk do when they wish to be beautiful. Sophy spoke of this.

They. Yes. Less light.

She went to the couch, snuffing all but one candle on the way with a pinch of her spit-moistened finger and thumb.

Now. I suppose I must be naked. He will expect it. So.

She quickly disrobed, then lay on her back on the couch.

No. Sophy said that the sight of a woman's sex was for those that already knew her; for those that did not, when a woman wishes to pull a man in, it is best to be seen from behind.

She rolled onto her belly and propped herself up on her elbows and watched the entrance to the tent.

There was a discreet cough from outside. Freya eyed her clothes, an arm's length away, her knife in her sleeve. She cleared her throat in return.

Asad entered and halted in the doorway, looking at her.

"By god who is all-powerful," he said, "you are beautiful, Serpent Queen."

She smiled, and rolled onto one side, drawing up her right knee ('Tease them, Aelfrethe, tease them, make them think that they're almost there'), half-displaying herself to him. He came forward.

She raised her goblet in salute. He raised his, and they touched them together and drank, the clothed man looking down at the naked woman. She looked into his eyes as they swallowed the wine. He looked down at her, and his gaze went to the tattoo on the left side of her chest. He caught his breath.

"That is magnificent," he said. "Is that the work of a Memikan?"

She nodded.

He looked at it in awe, and reached out. Then he looked at her.

"May I touch?" he said. Freya nodded.

He touched her left nipple and traced the knotwork down to where it swirled into the rest of the picture, the female knight putting her hand in it to gain strength, the serpent rearing up before her in its evil majesty.

Freya lifted her cup to her lips and he did so too, and drank, still staring at the tattoo. She swallowed, but put her cup down again without having drunk anything. He did not notice.

"This has a tale to tell," he said, looking harder into the picture.

Yes, Lion of Victory. See if you can learn it.

"I cannot read sigils," he said, "but from these ... these are yours?"

She shook her head levelly.

"Then, what," he said, looking befuddled and a little dizzy, "they belonged to some other? I cannot tell this story, but I perceive that it would be long in the telling. If I am not mistaken, you have achieved much glory in the field. Then why do I not know you? Or do I know you?"

"I am no one," she whispered.

"But then," he said, "this picture ... it lies?"

She shook her head.

"You slew a worm," he said. "That is uncommon skill. I ..."

He paused, blinked, wiped the sweat from his face. Sophy's medicine worked as well as her salve. ('Drunk men forget, Aelfrethe. This will make them feel drunk, but they won't forget. Very useful for when you want to teach someone a lesson.')

"I do not know what you want from me," he confessed. "Who shall I say is going about the country slaying worms? If I do not know who you are, I can make no report."

"I am no one," she repeated.

He frowned.

"Serpent Queen," he said, "I tire of your riddles. Are you famed or are you not?"

She grabbed him by the throat and flung him on his back on the floor, and sat astride him. He stared up at her, his disbelieving eyes bulging, choking as she sat astride him and looked down at him.

"You will know me," she said. "Not tonight. Not here. But you will. All will."

He was thrashing beneath her. She squeezed his throat harder until the panic entered his face and he shook his terrified head no.

She got off him, and reached down to help him up. He lay there for a moment, getting his breath back. The anger showed in his face and he reached up to take her hand and he saw the muscles in his shoulder bunching as he prepared to pull her down. At the last minute she pulled her hand back and he jerked his arm but fumbled at nothing, and fell back on his arse.

He looked angry again for a moment - and then he looked up into her face.

She looked down at him, without anger, without fear, just calmly conscious of her own power. She smiled at him.

Abruptly, he felt like an idiot. It was ridiculous to be annoyed when you had been so outmastered. You just had to accept it. Only losers cannot bear to lose once in a while. He blushed and laughed.

"Very well," he said, grinning. "I concede. Fuck you, Serpent Queen. Whoever you are, or were, I am content to say that you have known me, rather than the other way around."

She bowed, and picked up her breeches and began to get dressed again. He watched. She did it without shame or any attempt to hide herself, just as if she were dressing after a bathe with a fellow soldier.

"A lesser man than myself would be offended by your style of combat," he said. "I don't even get a kiss?"

She gave him a regretful look. He shrugged.

"One thing I learned as a sword for hire," he said, "do not get too attached to anyone's cause but one's own. And not too deeply to that. I will give you any report you wish. You have but to say what you want me to say."

She paused from buttoning her shirt and mimed buttoning her lips.

"Ah," he said, after a pause. "I think I see. In that case, know that you will not hear slander from the mouth of Asad Mansur. I hope you'll give me credit for the tattoo, at least."

She looked at him seriously and placed a hand on her heart for a moment, in gratitude.

"Then, if we must part," he said, "think of me as a friend, and I trust you will not tell of what else passed between us. But then, you don't tell anyone anything, do you?"

She finished dressing, came up to him, looked him in the eye, and took his head in her hands. She felt him tense.

She lowered his head and kissed him on the forehead.

Her lips smarted from the fresh tattoo. When she let go and he straightened up, her blood was on his brow.

"If we meet again," he said, "I hope I can be of service to you once more."

She smiled, and slipped out of his tent. He paused, and then when he went out to see which direction she had gone, there was no sign of her.

***

Five lay in his bedroll and his heart was thumping. His body was yearning. He could feel it like a pain, a physical pain in his loins.

An offer. Marco had offered him. And to say no to something like that was something that you didn't do lightly. But the offer was still open, Marco had said.

What? A boy, a girl, did it really matter as long as you had a good time? Beggars can't be choosers and I'm one of life's beggars, all right. 'Interesting', he called me. That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. So what if he's a boy? He was bloody gorgeous.

What did you get up to, with a boy? (You know.) No. (Yes.) No. (You know very well what he wanted to do. Or wanted you to do.) Shut up

Fuck it, Five thought. No-one's gonna know except me and him.

Five breathed deeply, then slid out of the bedroll and crept off into the darkness.

The fires were still glowing, people were still talking and drinking and making merry. Not so much the real carwan folk, who knew how early they had to be up the next day, but the travellers like them.

Five walked lightly from campfire to campfire, his body tingling, looking for Marco, but there was no sign.

Their own campfire was down to a couple of blokes drinking and talking intently. Five went off towards the river and stood in the darkness, thinking of the chance that was lost.

Then he heard the noise, coming from within a little grove of trees. The mingled sounds of two people breathing heavily.

Five was good at moving quietly. Lifting his feet with care he crept towards the trees and slid on his belly into the bushes. There he saw them, the two naked bodies together, pale in the moonlight.

Marco was on all fours, and beneath him, flat on her back on the grass, with her legs where his head was, was the trader's daughter, pale and smooth as a peeled pear. Their clothes were scattered on the ground a few feet away. Marco had his face between her thighs and one hand under her rear end, and he was making snorting noises as he did something that looked like, what was he doing? Eating her? Sucking her juices?

There was no doubt about what she was doing, because Five could clearly see Marco's cock sliding in and out of her mouth; her eyes shut, her back arched, her face glistening with sweat, she was making muffled whimpers. Her left hand was placed on Marco's slender flank, but her right hand was over the cleft of Marco's bum, and it took Five a minute to realise that her middle finger on that hand was ...

Oh. So that was another reason why he was making those noises.

Marco lifted his face from the girl and gasped something, and she must not have heard him, in her rapture, because he repeated it louder, and she moaned and nodded. He pulled out of her mouth and got off her, she rolled onto her belly and swivelled so that she was prone beneath him, placing her hands flat on the grass, and she looked urgently over her shoulder at him, impatient. He spat on his cock and mounted her bare behind, and she swivelled her hips backwards, and he rubbed himself and carefully pushed his cock where he wanted it to go.