The Last Lagharis Pt. 03

The castle looked like a paper box, like something a child would invent. It was a low, flat brick with bowed-out walls and another, smaller box stacked on top of it. It looked weirdly insubstantial, and after squinting for long enough, Misha realized why: the walls were rippling in the breeze. It was not a castle at all, but instead a great tent of leather stretched over a wooden frame. A few dozen horses stood tied outside the castle-tent, and a few smaller tents scattered around it, but altogether they could not have housed more than twenty warriors.

"It's not what I expected," said Chaaru.

Before Misha could say anything, another woman in the group piped up, "What were you expecting?"

"I thought it'd be taller. And bigger. And where are the farms?"

It was a good question. Nothing surrounded the castle-tent except a gully and brown hills covered in scraggly grass.

Misha put it together. "The purpose of a castle is to shelter the peasants when invaders come. But these barbarian men could not protect peasants even if they wanted to. This is no castle at all. It's merely a lair."

They approached the castle, and a short man on the roof challenged them, nocking an arrow on his strangely curved bow.

"We're only visitors," Misha lied. "Come to pay our respects to the Golden Baron."

"You must not come in force," said the guard.

"But surely you aren't afraid," said Misha. "My gang of misfits could not possibly be a match for your warriors."

Misha had spoken it to see if it was true, and the guard's face betrayed what she had suspected. The guard was indeed afraid. If this turned into a battle, Misha would win.

But maybe it did not have to come to that. Misha sauntered up to the entrance to the castle-tent as if she were an invited guest, and her gang followed her example. At the door, the two surly-looking men with sabers eyed her, exchanged worried glances and finally pulled open the flaps for her.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. It was a smoke almost like incense, but with sick, burning aftertaste. Then she noticed the music, a deep, moaning flute she had never heard before.

The next thing she noticed was the Golden Baron. He did not introduce himself, but he did not have to. He lounged on a mound of pillows that bristled with tassels and sported stripes and spirals of dazzling red and gold. Two warriors crouched at his sides, both middle-aged and with fingers and ears studded with jewels that glittered and clashed. But their crass splendor paled in comparison to the baron himself, who lay in a crimson robe banded with shining gold. Where it parted, Misha could see his chest covered in glittering scales that were either silver or studded with silver. Even his moustache was cluttered with gold and silver rings.

His tight, thin cloth pants failed to conceal a bulge, and when Misha looked across the room, she saw why. The baron held in his right hand a leash, and the leash hooked to a collar strapped around the neck of a young man.

Misha blinked, but her eyes did not deceive her. Young men, none more than twenty-five years of age, danced a slow, graceful dance to the tune of the flute. Wearing nothing but flowing red and blue kilts, they showed off slim, muscled bodies and flat, sweating chests. Misha could even see their hips and the firm, rounded muscle of their rumps defined by the clinging fabric of the kilts. But their faces showed only defeat. Whenever they glanced at the baron, it was with pure fear.

The baron tugged on the leash in his hand, and the collared dancer stumbled, taking his eyes off the floor for the first time, and suddenly Misha recognized that short, smooth dark hair and those smooth dark eyes. It was the monk. It was the man who'd told them of the Golden Baron. 'They take the youngest and prettiest,' he'd said. Now Misha understood. Even in a man's world, it seemed, men were not safe.

The golden baron barked something in a breathy, guttural tongue, glaring at Misha.

Misha answered his glare. "We'll have to speak in the lowland common tongue, my lord."

"Then so be it," he growled. "Speak, and be quick, and explain this outrage of your uninvited entry." He pulled the monk off balance, sending him stumbling onto the mount of cushions. The baron trapped him there with one meaty arm, his hand playing with the younger man's ass. "I have... other things I wish to get on with."

It was hard for Misha not to gape. She had always thought that men had sex with each other only to please women, and never of their own volition. As a teenager, she had heard her friends whisper rumors about male couples, but she had assumed they were false, the wishful product of their lustful imaginations. But here it was, a man treating another man the way he might be expected to treat a slave girl.

"Do you enjoy the view?" said the Baron. "This one is new. We brought him in just today." He slapped the young man's ass, making him grunt. "I've yet to get a taste."

Seeing the pain in the monk's eyes brough Misha back to the present. She motioned for the rest of her gang to follow her into the tent, and warriors poured in, a few at a time, and filled the tent behind her. As they gathered, the baron's eyes grew wider, and his jaw fell open. His arms relaxed, and the monk took the opportunity to wriggle free. The man at his right hand pulled a saber, but then looked around and saw no one else doing so.

Misha put on her firmest voice. "My lord, you extort the local farmers and treat them as your own peasants. But you did not bring enough blades to protect your holdings. Now we will visit on you the same things you visited on them." She saw the slave men eye her with fear and tempered herself. "These young men, so cruelly stolen from their mothers and wives, are now free. Any other slaves you've taken are free." She eyed the shining jewelry that bedecked the baron and his minions. "And your finery and precious stones, those are free too. Free for our taking. And in return, we will let you live." She looked around the tent, found a scented candle with a hand-width of wax left. She picked it up and said, "You have until this candle burns down to strip yourselves of your wealth and leave this place."

At that, looked at the man who had his sword drawn. She half-expected him to charge at them and die; she had heard stories of the insane violence patriarchal men were capable of. But instead, he sheathed it and surrendered with the rest. These men, it seemed, were like other men after all.

That left the captives. Most of them were scared into silence, but the monk spoke up. "You came to rescue us! But why?"

Misha gestured to her warriors. "We found the womanpower to do it." She gazed into the mixed fear and gratitude in his wide, pretty eyes. "You could have told us that the Golden Baron took the youngest and prettiest men, not women."

The monk hugged himself. "It was too shameful to tell."

"That's foolish, son, it is not a man's fault when he's taken against his will." Mentally, she checked herself again for calling him 'son.' She also checked the urge to hold his hands. Vulnerable as he was, she knew he might find the touch less than comforting.

"She's right!" Said Chaaru, stepping up to him and grabbing his hands. "If you hadn't submitted to that man, he probably would have killed your family! It's not your fault. Do you hear me? It's not your fault."

The monk drew in breath as if to argue, then abandoned it. He closed his eyes and allowed Chaaru massage his hands.

The Golden Baron's men put up no fight as they shucked away their gold and silver, bundled themselves in their furs, mounted up and fled. Suddenly, Misha found that the tent-castle was hers. But she wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, she faced the captive men and said, "Find some clothes for a journey, boys. We're taking you home."

There wasn't much in the way of spare clothes lying around, so the freed boys did their best with the blankets and rugs the barbarians had left behind, and with bright eyes and hopeful smiles told Misha they were ready to go home.

When Misha announced they would take the path through the swamp, the boys were shocked, then looked at Misha's warriors and seemed to notice for the first time that they were not uniformed fighting men. They reacted with a mix of curiosity and fear, and Misha did not fault them. She could guess whom the bandits had preyed on before she had taken control and aimed them at the Golden Baron.

As they trekked back to the village, Misha could hear Chaaru chattering happily with the monk boy. When she looked, Misha saw her clinging to his arm, devouring him with her eyes. 'Like a lovestruck teenager,' thought Misha, until she remembered that Chaaru was barely more than teenager, having turned twenty just months ago. As they approached the village, Chaaru had the sad duty of laying a hand on Chaaru's shoulder and saying, "It's time to return him home."

Chaaru looked defensive. "His name's Jalil."

Misha turned to him. "Jalil, where is your monastery?"

Jalil tilted his head. "Monastery?"

"Are you not a monk?"

"No...?" He looked vaguely offended.

At that moment, the people of the village saw that they had visitors, and before they could think they were under attack, the rescued boys stood out in front and called out to mothers and fathers. Jalil went with them.

Misha watched, and as much as she wanted to share their ecstasy, some of her joy was dampened. She could only look at the mothers and compare herself to them. The whole reason she was here in the dreadful heat of these lowlands was because she, a descendant of the legendary Lagharis, a woman from a woman's land, could not find a husband back home. And yet, these muddy peasant women had them, and had children to show for it. Some of them looked so young, and their sons looked so old, Misha guessed they must have married the day they'd turned eighteen. And it had been a long time since Misha had been eighteen. She soured. But then she looked back at her crew of warriors, all loyal to her, and her spirits came back a little. Though she had no children, she had gifts of her own.

Misha noticed that Chaaru was not at her side, which probably meant she was doing something reckless. She found Chaaru with the monk boy--with Jalil, who wasn't a monk--and she talked excitedly with a tall, mustached man who wore a tall turban and a necklace of richly decorated wooden beads. He was the only man in sight who could be described as well-dressed. His wife, beside him, wore the only proper dress in the village.

"Misha," said Chaaru, "This is the mayor! Jalil is his son!"

"The mayor's son," said Misha. "Of course. When I saw that you were well-spoken, boy, I assumed you must have been a monk. I see I was wrong."

"As I was saying to your daughter," said the mayor, "We are in your debt for returning our sons to us."

Misha threw a look at Chaaru. They had never been mistaken for mother and daughter before, because they looked nothing alike. Then she saw a familiar glint in Chaaru's eye and put it together. Chaaru had lied. This was another ruse, and this time, Misha decided to play along. She nodded at Chaaru to take the lead.

Chaaru looked nervous for a moment, then faced the mayor and drew herself up to her full, impressive height. "Sir, I wish to ask permission to marry your son." For a heartbeat, she left it at that, then she added, "And take him away with us."

The mayor and mayoress were taken aback. They shared a look, and the mayor chewed his moustache. Misha could see the refusal brewing behind his lips.

"Father," said Jalil, "You have other sons. Now that my brothers are rescued, we can spare me."

"You are the firstborn," his father replied. "To give you up would be problematic."

"These women who have saved us hail from a people who are matricentric. If I marry her, then Nasr will become your new firstborn son."

The father chewed his moustache a little longer. Misha's mouth fell open. She had not expected that Jalil wanted this.

Jalil added, "Nasr is better suited to the life of mayor."

The mayor did not disagree. The mayoress looked aggrieved, but no one else was looking at her. All eyes were on her husband.

"I allow this," he said at last.

Chaaru jumped for joy. Misha laughed at her, and, remembering her role, she turned to the mayor and said, "You honor us with your agreement. I will take good care of my new son-in-law."

They traded words for a little longer, but Misha's mind was absent. Watching Chaaru and Jalil, she felt a bewildering mix of surprise, pride and jealousy. When they finally separated, Misha found a comfortable-looking rock in the shade of a tree and sat to rest her legs. Jalil approached her, folded his arms and said, "Mother-in-law," with a heavy tone and a wry smile that made it clear he knew she wasn't.

Misha looked at Chaaru, who stood with him. "Why am I now your mother?"

"I thought it would make it easier to convince them." Chaaru said it cheerfully, but then her face darkened.

"What troubles you?"

"When I first joined you... we said that the point of all this was to get you a man." She looked sadly at Jalil. "You are the leader, so... if you want him... it's only fair."

Jalil looked between the women, eyes wide.

Misha laughed, uncomfortable. "Chaaru, this is not the sort of thing you should say in front of your new husband."

"It absolutely is," cut in Jalil. "I'm not to be traded like a head of cattle."

That, Misha supposed, was fair. "I would never take your husband from you. Besides, his parents gave him to you, not to me."

Relief washed over Chaaru. She sat down next to Misha. "We'll find you your own man, right?"

"I suppose so."

"You suppose?" Chaaru turned to look her in the eye. "It's the whole reason you came down here from the mountains, remember?"

"I do remember, but look at this." She swept her hand over the crowd that still milled about the village, fully half of whom were warriors. Her warriors. "We have a little clan. Not related by blood, but we've gone and won a victory together. That's the achievement of a true Laghari. I don't want to let that go."

"Um... okay, but only against the evil and protecting the weak, right? Because we're civilized, right?"

"Oh, of course." She said the words, but they were only words. Misha could see that showing sharp steel was good business, and she didn't want to stop. And if they bent the rules a little, what harm could come of it?

* * *

Chaarumathi wrapped her arms around Jalil, pressing herself to his back. He leaned forward a little, maybe without thought, maybe on purpose, and suddenly her feet lifted off the ground, and she was riding on his back.

They walked through the woods, staying uphill so they would not go into the swamp.

"Here," said Chaaru. "I want to do it right here."

Jalil turned around, and Chaaru whooped as she swung around on his back. He looked back at the village. "Here, we may not have privacy."

"Who cares about privacy? I don't care!" She dismounted and gripped his ass in her hands. His muscle filled her palms, resisted her fingers deliciously. "I want everyone to know what I handsome man I have."

"Chaarumathi, I must know something..."

"No, I'm Chaaru. Please, just call me Chaaru. Or 'Princess.' Either one works."

"Chaaru, I must know. Why did you choose me? I don't believe I'm the first handsome man you've ever met."

Chaaru did not let go of his ass. But she did start thinking. She knew she wanted him, but he was right. The swarthy man from the brothel had had an even better body, and he hadn't inspired any thoughts of marriage.

"I don't know," she said finally. Her hands played over his chest, looking for the place where his robe parted. She found it and pressed her finger pads into bare skin. She felt the hairs on his chest.

"You don't know?"

"I really don't, but that's fine, because I still want you." She also hadn't known why she had wanted to go with Misha, back when they'd met in the mountains. But she had grabbed hold and held tight and been brought on the ride of her life. Now she held Jalil tight, ready for a different kind of ride.

Jalil turned in her hands. His robe caught on her fingers and partially fell open, exposing a shoulder, his nipple and the flat mound of muscle on his chest. Chaaru's hands greedily explored it, but when her eyes found his again, she saw they were urgent. "What?" she asked.

"Now I must tell you why I chose you."

She gazed into his eyes, ready to listen, but then changed her mind. Reaching up with her right hand, she put two fingers over his lips. "Shh," she whispered. "It's okay."

He looked puzzled.

"Don't tell me," she said. "I want to find out for myself."

Her patience ran out, and she kissed him. He opened his lips and welcomed her, offering his tongue for her. They pressed together and stayed pressed as they sank to their knees.