NIGHTSEED By "Heck" Comments to heck@heckster.co.uk CHAPTER TWO A moaning, desiccating wind blew across the bleak landscape. The flat earth, baked by the incessant angry yellow sun, was parched and cracked like an impossible jigsaw puzzle. Occasional dust devils and wind-blown tumbleweeds hurried over the plain as if on urgent errands, watched by the constantly circling vultures on the lookout for any unfortunate mortal caught out in the blistering heat, or frozen to death as the temperature plummeted to subzero after dark. Almost in the geometric centre of this barren wasteland, a solitary feature stood out. A high and lonely kopje, rocky and steep, its sides clad in scree and rubble, braved the continuous sirocco. A few stunted shrubs clung for life in the crevasses and niches, and a few hyraxes eked a meagre living among their woody roots and shoots. Although the rubble appeared to be strewn haphazardly about the flanks of the outcrop, at one point the observant eye could make out an order to the randomness, almost as if they had been arranged to form steps. Uneven and hazardous, but definitely placed by an intelligent hand, they wound their way to the small plateau that lay at the top. Like a squat, ugly toad, the brooding edifice sat atop the kopje. Built on the lines of a city jail with aspirations to be a baronial hall, it was a gloomy, threatening presence that dominated the landscape. Night black ravens roosted among its crooked chimneys, while a colony of bats hung in the roof like a collection of discarded umbrellas. Behind the high, arched double doors, the sound of distant chanting filled a long corridor, wide and dark, leading to another pair of gothic doors. In the vast echoing atrium beyond, a host of cowled figures in midnight blue cloaks performed a low chant, while the only face visible belonged to a tall, slender woman standing behind a low altar. Her lean, oddly beautiful features made it virtually impossible to determine her age, but her dark eyes spoke of ancient wisdom. Arms outstretched and upraised, she led the chanting mass, brows knitted in concentration. Another figure, slightly taller and more heavily built, approached her as the chant came to an end. He pushed back his cowl to reveal a shaven head and a cruelly handsome face with a neatly sculpted beard, laid a patronising hand on her shoulder and showed strong white teeth in a vulpine smile. "Thank you, Amillie". His voice was mellifluous and deep. "This was very well done". Amillie bobbed her head, delighted with the praise. "Thank you, Master V'Daa". V'Daa turned, beaming, to the congregation, projecting his voice so that all might hear. "Nightseed", he addressed them. "Now that we have The Ring and have invoked the name of The Dragonkind, our destiny is all but upon us. The Dragonkind itself will soon be here, and when I have tamed it and that", he pointed upward, "has been his first feed, we will all be richly rewarded". The eyes of Amillie and the entire horde followed his finger, up into the high domed ceiling, up to where candles glittered on suspended wheel chandeliers, to where a body-shaped cage hung from a heavy chain attached to a pulley screwed to a rafter. The strong rope used to raise and lower the cage disappeared into the dark in a corner. Inside the cage a slim, ginger haired man, dressed in a multicoloured jacket and pants bedecked with scores of tiny tinkling bells, glared down at his captors. "Hey!", yelled the Fool for the hundredth time. "Let me down!" A week later, night was falling as Brenhya, Lon, and Brannagh approached the Show. At Brenhya's insistence, and to great the impatience of Brannagh, they had travelled at a reasonable pace to avoid exhausting their horses, but at last they had reached their objective. The Midway was in full swing with brashly illuminated booths showcasing fortune tellers and sideshows of al descriptions, and vendors selling all kinds of sweetmeats and savouries. A long queue wound from the entrance to the Great Tent, happy faces aglow with anticipation for the second house, which was about to start. The three travellers hitched their horses to a convenient wagon, stowing the warrior's armour and weaponry beneath, and walked toward the Great Tent. Brannagh wanted to take them straight to his mentors immediately, but Brenhya shook her head. "Later", she said. "The Show is about to start, and we can't disappoint all these people. Besides, I haven't seen it for a long time. I'm looking forward to it". Brannagh led them directly to the head of the queue, where a girl Brenhya had never seen was taking money. The dwarf grunted a greeting. "These peoples is my guests", he told her. She waved them through. Inside the Tent, as they took their seats on the end of the third or fourth row, Brenhya had a sense of homecoming. In this huge space, and with these kindly people, was where she had spent one of the happiest years of her young life, and where she had developed the discipline and responsibility to control her massive strength and employ it to best advantage. The sights, sounds, and smells brought back many happy memories, and it was with a wistful smile that she took her seat on the very end of the row. Soon, the house lights dimmed and an ingenious arrangement of oil lamps and mirrors flooded the ring with white light. In the peripheral dark, a hush fell on the audience as they settled to witness the spectacle. A long drum roll followed by a crashing chord from the small orchestra announced the arrival of the Master of Ceremonies. A tall woman with a serenely beautiful face and pale blonde hair stepped into the ring, arms wide in a gesture of welcome. She wore a long red coat that swept the floor and covered her entire body, and carried a tall black hat that she used to emphasise her gestures. When she spoke, her bell-clear voice carried to every corner of the tent. "Squires and Goodwives, Children of All Ages", she announced. "Welcome to Zendos' Magnificent Travelling Show and Carnival!" "I see you kept the name", Brenhya whispered to Brannagh. When she was young, Zendos had been the proprietor of the Show and, although he had later died of lung fever, Brenhya was pleased to see that his name lived on. "Deavon seems to have stepped into his boots". Brannagh shook his curly head. "Onlies for th' times bein'", he explained. "Fool gen'rally do's it". Brenhya nodded her understanding. In the ring, Deavon waved her hat in the direction of the artistes' entrance. A troupe of perfectly trained stallions pranced into the ring, went into their synchronised routine, and the show was on. The horses were followed by a hand-balancing adagio act where the understander was a woman, and was new to Brenhya, and the Magician Xantis amazed the audience by producing live doves and playing cards from apparently thin air. Lon commented, with derision, that it was "not real magic", but the crowd did not seem to know the difference, or to care. Jugglers, acrobats, and aerialists completed the show, but Brenhya noticed that there was no clowning between the acts; not surprising, with Fool missing and Brannagh sitting at her side. The climax of the Show was Deavon herself, the strongwoman who had encouraged and trained the young Brenhya. The warrior felt a thrill of anticipation as the familiar signature music struck up and the woman strode into the ring. Clad from throat to ankles in a blue cloak trimmed with gold frogging, the audience gasped in appreciative amazement as the garment was cast aside to reveal the performer in all her beauty. Underneath, she was dressed in a silver two piece costume, cut high on the thigh, and Brenhya applauded enthusiastically as she realised that Deavon's body, although now well over fifty, had lost none of its tone or shape. Unmistakeably strong and splendidly muscular, the woman went into her posing routine. The crowd, most of whom had never seen a woman like this in their lives, went wild as she displayed her superb body, and many rose to their feet as she began her act proper. Deavon tore packs of playing cards in halves and quarters. She bent iron bars and hoisted unbelievable amounts of weight. She spun four men around, balanced on a pole across her wide shoulders, and pressed them high above her head to finish. To conclude, she restrained the pulling power of two horses harnessed to ropes which she held in each hand. The audience roared approval as she took her final bow and her exit music played. Applauding as much as any, Brenhya rose from her seat and made her way down to ringside, clapping all the way. As she came near, Deavon caught sight of the tall woman approaching, dressed in warrior's garb. She cocked her head quizzically for a second, before recognition dawned and a big grin spread across her features. Professional dignity forgotten for a moment, she ran to the barrier with arms spread wide, and enfolded Brenhya in a huge hug. The warrior responded in kind, and lifted Deavon off her feet to spin her around. Both women laughed with delight at seeing one another again after so many years, and each clasped the other tightly to her bosom in an embrace that might have broken the ribs of any other two people. The two tremendously strong and muscled women, one a blonde professional strongwoman and the other, half a head taller, a chestnut haired warrior, were an imposing sight and the crowd, assuming it was part of the act, were deafening in their response. Eventually, Deavon broke the embrace and, with a mischievous look in her eye, led Brenhya by the hand into the centre of the ring. Standing to face her old pupil, she struck a pose with both arms raised and large, hard, round biceps displayed. Brenhya caught on immediately, and mirrored the pose, showing biceps that were marginally larger, harder, and rounder. The older woman nodded approvingly and, to great cheers, extended a leg and contracted a marvellous thigh. Brenhya responded in kind, and then flexed her belly so that the segmented musculature stood out in ridges. Deavon flexed hers right back, and caused it to ripple in waves of power. Brenhya matched her, flex for flex and pose for pose, each time showing muscle that was slightly harder and a touch more defined, until Deavon shook her head with a huge grin and held out a hand, inviting the audience's applause for the student that had, in this instance, surpassed the master. Sharp, pointed teeth in a snarling mouth and fierce eyes of yellow amber formed the face of the exquisitely carved tiger's head on one arm of V'Daa's big, throne-like chair. The matching head was covered by the man's robed leg, thrown casually over it as he lounged, tapping a reed pen against his teeth. On a small table within arm's reach, a fragile china cup contained a specially brewed herbal tisane, a beverage never far from his hand. The steaming liquid contained a mildly hallucinogenic substance which made the world seem less threatening and helped maintain his facade of calm benevolence. Standing to one side and slightly behind the chair, Amillie waited patiently for her lord to complete his musings. Totally devoted to the man, and consequently to his goals, she was a failed witch who never grasped fully the intricacies of the arcane arts. Bitter about her failure and blaming her tutor, an aged crone who was an accomplished wiccan and had done her best to impart knowledge to her pupil, she had killed the woman by stabbing her through the heart with her own black handled knife. Fleeing prosecution, Amillie had spent the next few decades travelling the world shiftlessly, earning a living from scrying the past, present, and future, one of the few paranormal skills she had managed to master. She was also adept at psychic barriers and some illusions, but that was about the extent of her proficiency. She had set up a booth at a country fair and was doing a brisk business fortune telling for the local revellers, when a tall, shaven-headed man clad in black leather pushed aside the flyes on her tent and sat down. Amillie immediately felt a spark of electricity between them that caused her to give a little gasp as the man pressed a groat into her hand, his aquiline features twisted into an intrigued smile. The swirling patterns in the waters of her scrying bowl showed her that this was a dangerous man, but one with a destiny that was perilous but filled with limitless potential. Her voice conveying the awe she felt, Amillie told him his fortune. For his part, V'Daa had simply smiled knowingly, as if the seer had merely confirmed what he had always known. He had lived his entire life with the deep-rooted conviction that he was intended for great things, and by his early twenties felt the pressing need to uncover his destiny. So driven, he had set out into the world. He found he had a talent for clandestine enterprises, intrigue, and murder. For years, he had sold his services in the fields of espionage and assassination, for a time working for the Tyrant Boulic before breaking away to work freelance. He was good at his chosen profession, and found a penchant for cruelty that, as a child, had manifested itself in the torture of small animals but now found an outlet in the greater scope afforded by torturing his human victims to death. One of these hapless individuals had been the great-great-great-grandson of one of the last of the Great Wizards, who had died out in the Mage Wars centuries ago. On the man's finger, V'Daa had found a plain gold ring set with, at first glance, an uninteresting red stone. But as he peered into the depths of the jewel, he felt something unearthly and primeval calling to him. Later, in rifling through the man's belongings, he found an ancient book bound in what looked suspiciously like human hide. Leafing through the yellowed parchment pages, he came upon the legend of the Dragonkind, and the association with the ring became clear to him. From that day on, he had been driven by his quest to release the demon and bend it to his own needs. And now, it seemed, his hour was at hand. Without question V'Daa was, of course, completely insane, despite what the voices inside his head had told him to the contrary. But it was a cold, calculating kind of insanity that allowed him to know exactly what he was doing and take pleasure from it, while at the same time filling him with notions of invincibility and impending godhood. No-one, with the exception of Amillie, was permitted to approach closer than six feet, and each of the Nightseed knew that their life expectancy varied from day to day, depending upon his fluctuating levels of paranoia. Today, his paranoid delusions were at a low ebb, and he felt relaxed and secure. His faith in the witch had been vindicated, and the fruition of his ambitions was drawing closer with each passing day. He had required a practitioner in the black arts, to perform the complex rituals necessary to invoke the demon, and Amillie had apparently succeeded in that aim. The fact that her career as a true witch had been cut short by her own ineptitude had mattered not at all, as the book contained detailed instructions that spelled out the process in easy stages. "How soon, now?" V'Daa's query broke the prolonged silence in the room. Taking his question as an invitation to place herself in his line of sight, Amillie moved to stand in front. Taking care not to meet his gaze, something anyone in his presence tried to avoid unless he initiated it, she replied. "As you know, Lord, the Dragonkind may only travel in darkness. I would expect it to make good time while it is travelling, however. I anticipate six to eight weeks". Apart from a slight narrowing of the eyes, V'Daa's face revealed nothing. But the reed pen snapped under the pressure of his thumb. Amillie swallowed as his eyes moved to meet hers. "Patience, Master", she said soothingly. "It's not so long". Amillie stepped back involuntarily as V'Daa sprang from his chair to stalk across the room. "Twelve years!", he growled. "Twelve years since I found the Book and the Ring! How much longer?" "Not much longer". Amillie tried to placate the madman, to return him to a calmer state. "Twelve years, and I have been at your side for seven of them. We have waited so long, you have been patient for so long. Can a few more weeks matter so much? Can you be patient for just a little while longer?" V'Daa stopped in his tracks. Amillie prepared herself for yet another tirade. But when he turned to her, he was smiling. He walked up to her and placed a hand on her cheek. "Sweet Amillie", he said. "You are right, of course. What would I do without you? What is a few weeks, when the power of the Dragonkind will be mine and the world will be at my feet?" "Lord, you know I am yours to command". Like a kitten, Amillie moved her face against his hand. "But you have never told me. What is the power of the Dragonkind?" "Who knows?", V'Daa laughed, crossing to where the sinister Book lay on an ornate lectern. Reverently, he opened it and carefully turned the brittle pages. "All I know is what I have read". His finger followed the lines of script as he read aloud in an almost sepulchral voice. "It is written: 'Who Rules the Power of the Dragonkind, Rules the World'. I do not know what that power is but, if it lets me rule the world, it's all right with me!" His voice became softer as he returned to the woman. "And you, dear Amillie, will be at my side". As on countless previous occasions, Amillie could not resist the charisma, the sheer presence of the man. She licked her lips as she felt a growing moistness inside. V'Daa noticed her arousal, and in his turn felt the familiar stirring in his loins. The two moved together, and he clamped his mouth on hers in a brutal, crushing kiss. Amillie, knowing that he expected her to be passionate at first and submissive later, returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm, tongue probing and wrestling with his. She broke the kiss to step back, and shed her cloak. Underneath, as was her habit, she was totally naked, and V'Daa drank in the vision of her lean, athletic body. Narrow waisted and clean limbed, there was very little sign of age in her clear skin, and her full, conical breasts showed just the minutest trace of beginning to sag. Also naked by now, V'Daa was a fit, well muscled man. He pulled her toward him and began to suck at her neck, raising a livid bruise where several others were fading. Amillie raked her nails up his back, causing him to hiss with pleasure. Her hand found his penis, and began stroking the hard member. His hands found her narrow shoulders, and pushed her down to her knees. Amillie always found this part slightly distasteful. She was not averse to oral sex, but there was something about V'Daa's phallus. It was long, thin, just a little rubbery, and slightly pointed at the end, in a way that always reminded her of a dog. She closed her eyes as her warm mouth closed about it, wincing as V'Daa's fingers tightened in her black hair. Eyes shut and head back, V'Daa savoured the exquisite sensation of warmth. Using her hair as handles, he began moving her head back and forth, faster and faster, slamming her face against his pelvis. This was the routine every time, and Amillie tolerated it for the perverse pleasure of just being with this cruel man. His penis was very long and thin, and penetrated deep into her throat with each stroke, and when he finally ejaculated his hot semen caused her to gag. The resulting sensation added to his pleasure, and he cried out in delight. Coughing slightly, Amillie knew what was expected of her next. From a hook on one wall she took a broad leather strap. V'Daa crouched on the floor in a foetal position, and she smacked the strap across his back with controlled force, sufficient to sting. The blow made him jump a little, and she brought it down again and again, careful not to strike too hard lest she turn his pleasure into anger. That had happened once before, and she was anxious not to repeat the experience. For all she was wielding the strap and he was crouched naked at her feet, Amillie was under no illusions as to who was in control, here. She had only as much power in the relationship as he allowed her to have. The beating she was handing out would last only as long as it took for V'Daa to achieve a second erection, then the game would be back in his hands. V'Daa made no effort to satisfy the needs of his sexual partner. His sole interest lay in his own gratification. Paradoxically, it was from his self- centredness that Amillie derived her pleasure, and the very act of submitting to his will gave her satisfaction. Resurrecting his erection did not take long, and he rose from his crouch with phallus fully tumescent. Such was the unchanging routine of their conjugal activities, that Amillie automatically positioned herself for the next stage. She knelt before him on hands and knees, and he positioned himself at the rear. With no preliminaries, her inserted his hard manhood directly into her vagina which was, fortunately, already wet with her fluids. He leant his hands on her back as he began to piston in and out of her in a regular, staccato rhythm. After about ten strokes, he began to grunt on each thrust and slammed himself into her harder and faster, harder and faster. His strong fingers dug mercilessly into her back, and she actually cried out with the pain of it. Unheeding, he carried on selfishly until he strained against her and his hot ejaculate spurted inside her as he climaxed spasmodically. Unable to bear the weight combined with the pain of his fingers clutching her back, Amillie's arms gave way and she collapsed face down on the rug. V'Daa fell on top of her, but his penis slipped out of her vagina and the last few squirts of his orgasm spat onto her thighs. He gave a great sigh, and rolled off her without a word, to lie spent at her side. Lying on her belly, rug burns on her knees and elbows, ten darkening bruises on her back, Amillie smiled to herself. She always came out of their sexual encounters with a mixed feeling of frustration and satisfaction, overlaid by a sense of awestruck love for this arrogant man. Just because she was a warrior and there was little time in her life for such fripperies, did not mean that Brenhya did not appreciate the female touch that had decorated the inside [and outside] of Deavon's wagon. Despite, or possibly because of, her great strength and muscularity, she was nonetheless feminine in every way, and the flowered prints and brocade throws were just to her taste. She sat at the small table that folded out from one wall. Lon sat on the low banquette against the header, while Deavon busied herself preparing bread and cheese and pouring glasses of sweet wine. She handed round the food and drink, and sat opposite the warrior. Brenhya took a sip of her wine. "Goddess, Deavon, it's good to see you!" "You, too, Brenhya. I just wish it was under better circumstances". Brenhya's face became solemn. "I'm as worried as you", she said ."You'd better tell me about it". "There's not much to tell, I'm afraid", Deavon said. "A couple of weeks ago, we were in a town north of here, called Kin'ell. We were all in town, handing out flyers, drumming things up a bit. You know how it goes". She took a taste of her wine. "Anyway, we were in the main street when a bunch of riders, all in scarlet cloaks and hoods, just galloped down the road. Everybody dived out of their way, but somehow, in the confusion, Fool got swept up and carried off. "I'm not sure what happened after that. We all chased after them, but we were all on foot and had no real chance. I took a shortcut through an alley, and managed to drag one of them off his horse, but as soon as he realised he wasn't going to get away from me, he put something into his mouth. He was dead in seconds. I don't know what it was". "Suicide pill", Brenhya explained. "I've heard of them before. Often, spies or soldiers with sensitive information will take one so that they can't let anything slip. Or they'll take one to avoid being tortured". "I wasn't going to torture him!" Deavon seemed disgusted by the very idea. "I know that", Brenhya said. "But he didn't". "Anyhow", Deavon went on. "They rode out of town, and all split up. We don't know which of them had the Fool, or which way he went. The local Watch made some enquiries, but you know what they're like. As far as they were concerned, we just passing through, and it was none of their business to look after our interests. They didn't try very hard". A knock sounded at the door. It opened to reveal the ruddy face of Brannagh. "Wagon's ready", he announced. "You go, Lon", Brenhya said. "I want to talk to Deavon some more". Lon heaved himself from the comfortable banquette. "I could do with some sleep", he yawned. "Don't be too late". Brenhya nodded and waved a hand as he left. "Sleep well" "He seems like a nice young man", Deavon remarked as she watched him leave. She looked at her guest with a serious expression. "He's in love with you, you know". "I know", Brenhya agreed. "He's said as much. And I love him, too, as a friend. But....." ".....but you're not in love with him", Deavon finished for her. "Exactly. But he seems to be content with that. I promised his master I would look after him, before the old man died, and to tell the truth, I'm glad of his company. Oh, he fusses like a mother hen, but that's OK, really. Don't tell him but, secretly, I quite like it. Having somebody to care, I mean". "We cared", Deavon said. "You could have stayed with us". Brenhya laid a hand over Deavon's. "You know I couldn't", she said. "Not then" Deavon enfolded Brenhya's hand in both of hers. "I know", she sighed. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Fool or these riders?" "I don't think so". "Brannagh mentioned a ring. Do you know anything about it?" "Yes". The strongwoman looked at the warrior intently. "Do you think it's important?" "Could be". "Well, it was only a cheap-looking bauble, very plain, with a red stone, probably glass. Fool found it beside a well in Brandwick, I think it was. Can't remember, off hand. He brought it to me, to see if I wanted it. When I said thanks, but no thanks, he was going to throw it away. I thought he had, but a couple of days later I saw it on his finger. As far as I know, he never took it off, after that". "Brannagh said he had changed..." Brenhya prompted. "That's right. And, when I come to think about it, it started just about the time he found the ring. He became surly, snappish, almost. Started keeping himself to himself. You know how he was always larking about?" "Yes", Brenhya recalled. "He could hardly open his mouth without making a joke". "Right. Well, it got so the only time he was funny was in the ring, when he was 'on'. At other times, it was all we could do to get him to string a sentence together. Do you think the ring caused that?" "I don't know. But it seems too much of a coincidence not to have some bearing". Brenhya popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. "I'm curious. Why did you send for me? Why not deal with it yourself?" "The showfolk took it bad", Deavon sighed. "Someone had to keep them together. That's what I'm best at. You're a trained warrior. You'll be better able to find him than me. And besides", she grinned. "It was a good reason to get you to visit". Brenhya smiled back, and the two women locked eyes. Brenhya saw an emotion she had never seen in the other's face before. "You're afraid for him, aren't you?" Deavon's face creased and a tear welled in her eye. She tightened her grip on Brenhya's hand. "You'll find him and bring him home safe, won't you?" The warrior woman squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'll do my best. I'll bring him home if I can. But now, I think I should get some sleep". She made as if to rise, but Deavon laid a restraining hand on her arm. "You could spend the night here".