The Cult of Sutek (5 page)

With hands tied behind her back, the girl flailed her legs as the two men lifted her out of the wagon and carried her to the center of the campsite. She wore a double-strapped, light green dress that extended just below her knees. A burlap sack covered her head.

The two sons set their prize down and tugged the sack off. The girl looked to be sixteen with hair so blonde it appeared white. A large rag covered her mouth.

What do we do?

Rondel had never considered himself a hero and doubted he ever would. Yet, he felt the urge to act, to rush in valiantly and save the girl. Perhaps it was the epic tales he used to recite nudging him to act. But those heroes were big, strong, fast, confident, and incomparable fighters. He was none of those things.

Bold words and bolder action. I don’t even have two complete hands to my name.

He could never help the girl by himself. He looked at his partner.
I’ll need to be delicate in how I approach this. Otherwise she’s likely to say no.

“Now what?” he grunted, doing his best to appear indifferent.

A vein pulsed on the left side of Andrasta’s forehead, just beneath the scar that started near her hairline. “We free her.”

His mouth dropped. “Really?”

In their brief time together, Andrasta had not shown herself as someone charitable in her time or efforts unless the good deed somehow benefited her.

“Yes.” Her tone was harsh.

“Oh. Well, good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Andrasta worked her way down the rise.

* * *

Rondel worked hard to keep up with Andrasta as she traversed the forest’s carpet of dry leaves and broken branches. It amazed him how quickly and soundlessly the woman moved in armor. He did his best to mimic her actions while ducking under branches and maneuvering through clumps of deep-green bushes.

Rondel had been no slouch in the skills of slinking at night, having tiptoed his way through many dark hallways, often past a king’s own door in an effort to leave a castle before morning. It had been safer that way lest a father discover his princess had not been the maiden everyone thought she was. However, walking down a dark, stone corridor while barefoot was not half as challenging as keeping silent in a wooded area.

Thankfully, the idiots at the campfire made more than enough noise to drown out any of his missteps, arguing like a bunch of gutter rats fighting for the last crumb.

Andrasta stopped several strides from the campsite and drew steel. Rondel slid his short sword out and posed a silent question with a cock of his head.

“We kill them,” whispered Andrasta.

“You don’t want to talk first?”

“They won’t listen.”

“How do you know?”

Andrasta glared at Rondel in a way that made him feel small. It was a look the woman used often and not just with him.

He hated that look.

He pushed the issue. “It won’t hurt anything to try.”

“We would give up the element of surprise.”

“But why kill if we don’t have to?”

Andrasta’s callous disregard for life had begun to weigh on him, especially when he considered the numerous bodies the woman had piled up during their short stint together. True, he had killed twice more since his prison escape, but in both cases, he felt sickened afterward and didn’t want to experience the feeling again.

Andrasta furrowed her brow. “Fine. You talk. Just keep your blade ready for when the conversation turns.”

Rondel nodded, easing out into the clearing. Andrasta followed, footsteps pounding the earth as she no longer cared about silence.

None of it mattered as the four family members stood in a circle, oblivious to their presence, still quarrelling

“Aw c’mon, Ma. Why can’t we have a go with her? She’s old enough, and we’re going to sell her off anyway,” said one of the boys.

“Because I said so. She ain’t worth half as much without her maidenhood in place,” said the woman.

“We don’t even know if it’s in place,” said the other son. “Maybe one of us should check to make sure we ain’t wasting a good opportunity.”

“They got a point, Mother.”

“You too?” she asked, scowling.

“Well, it’s not like you’re interested in that anymore.”

“Maybe if someone took a bath and cleaned themselves up I would be,” she grumbled. “Fine. I’ll check her after supper. If she ain’t a virgin, then y’all can do what you like. But just for tonight! And you better not leave any marks.”

The boys hooted with glee, contented with their mother’s response.

Gods, what kind of family is this? Father and sons wanting to share the same girl and the mother facilitating it?

Having heard enough, Rondel cleared his throat and whistled loudly. The old woman looked his way. Up close, he saw that beneath the gray hair falling over her face she was every bit as ugly as he thought she’d be. Warts decorated skin that resembled old leather. A hook nose with wide nostrils flared so broadly Rondel thought some creature might crawl out of them. She ran her tongue along empty gums and then cuffed her husband and two sons to grab their attention.

Rondel raised his free hand as a sign of peace while tucking the other hand that held his sword behind his back. The hand only stayed up for a moment as he became aware of his missing finger tips. He drew it down and smiled. “Hello. I hope I’m not interrupting. We saw your fire. My friend and I thought we might join you for a moment.” He glanced over to Andrasta who stared daggers at the group while holding her sword ready. He whispered. “How about you look a little less intimidating? You aren’t making this easier.”

She blew out a hard breath and lowered her sword, but not completely. Andrasta seemed angrier than before.

“We don’t want any company,” said the old woman. “And we ain’t got much in the way of food neither.”

Rondel eyed the skinny rabbit burning over the fire. “We already had our dinner. Actually, we were hoping you’d be interested in parting with your guest.”

The eyes of the two sons widened. They stepped over to the girl and flanked her. Hands moved to the swords at their waists.

Rondel didn’t miss the panicked look of the girl.

“Just as I said. You’re making this more difficult,” muttered Andrasta.

The old woman spat. “If you got the coin, you can pay for her.”

“Ma? You promised—”

“Shh,” she snapped. “I’m doing business.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have much.”

She grunted. “Then you best be on your way.”

Rondel noticed the old man had turned to the side to conceal something in his far hand.

This isn’t working. Better if I take the more dramatic approach.

“Look, I’m just going to lay it out for you. I heard what your intentions are with this young lady. My partner and I can’t let that happen.”

“Who do you think you are? You can’t stop us,” said one of the sons.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Rondel. “We are the famed Andrasta and Rondel.”

Blank stares responded.

“Who?” asked the old man.

“Only Rondel I know is the prissy minstrel we seen years ago. Last I heard, he was dead,” said the old woman.

“Actually, I’m quite well,” said Rondel, ignoring the comment about being prissy.

The boys elbowed each other. “So, a minstrel and a woman think they can lick us, Pa?”

The father snorted. “It would seem so.”

Rondel’s hopefulness turned to anger at their laughter. It reminded him of the prison guards who had ridiculed him for years.

“You will find that I am a far different man than the one you saw long ago. One far more deadly. And although I could easily take the lot of you myself, I am not the one you should be concerned about. Andrasta is no mere woman. She is a trained pit fighter, her skills honed in the bowels of Juntark’s underbelly. She’s worked as a mercenary for years, clawing her way to the role of commander where she led thousands of men into battle at the front of their ranks. Why, she’s even been the champion of kings far to the west. Her skills are legendary.”

Andrasta blew out a slow, exaggerated breath at his tale.

“She don’t look old enough for that,” said the woman.

Rondel continued undeterred. “. . . she’s killed more men than the plague and dines only on raw meat. She developed a taste for blood as a babe when her mother weaned her on it after her breasts went dry. The only thing holding her back now is my command, and I tell you that if you do not release the young lady into our custody, I will not be held responsible for the destruction rained down upon all of you.”

The four looked at each other while considering Rondel’s claim. For a moment he thought he had them.

Then the old woman chuckled. “I do believe that is Rondel the Minstrel after all. Just as long winded and over dramatic as the last time I seen him.”

The sons drew their swords. “Can we kill ‘em, Pa?”

“You can kill the minstrel. Not the woman. I think I like her better than the girl.”

“Rondel?” Andrasta asked, much more calmly than he would have thought.

He sighed. “All right.”

“I’ll take the sons. Try to hold off the old man until I’m done.”

The two sons were still chuckling when Andrasta sprang forward. She covered the space between them in barely a breath. She leaped over the fire, sword flashing downward as she descended on the one to the right. He managed to raise his weapon in time to meet Andrasta’s, but the sheer force of the blow broke the sword off at the hilt. Andrasta’s blade continued its downward path, cleaving into shoulder and upper neck. Blood spurted. His guttural scream of agony ended in a gurgle.

The girl’s shriek replaced it as a spray of crimson struck her face.

The old woman picked up a cast iron pan and ran toward Andrasta shouting and crying as the other son went on the attack.

The old man howled and charged Rondel, raising the long-handled axe previously hidden at his side.

Crap
.

The father swung the axe like a farmer scything wheat for harvest. He screamed obscenities, spraying spittle. Rondel backed away as quickly as he could from the chaotic attack, eyes never leaving the streaking axe head
swooshing
for his face.

He parried with his sword. It collided with the axe handle over and over, sending chips of wood into the air. Still, the old man pressed.

What’s taking Andrasta so long with the other son?

Rondel’s foot hit a root. He fell. The old man checked his swing in mid-air, turned the blade, and brought the weapon down with a maniacal smile.

A rushing blur slammed into the old man, knocking him several feet. He thrashed wildly in a bush trying to right himself. Andrasta wasted no time hovering over the father. Her sword sunk deep into his chest.

Rondel swallowed, biting back the dinner that wanted to come up.

Gods that was close.

“I had him right where I wanted him,” he joked.

She grunted, stepping past without offering a hand.

Rondel rolled to his knees, grimacing. With the excitement over, he was once again reminded of his earlier soreness.

Standing, he blanched at the bloody scene. The father’s death had been the least gruesome.

The first son’s upper torso looked distorted as shoulder and neck were separated by an unnatural distance. The second son had no head.

Rondel walked to Andrasta. She kneeled by the unconscious young girl and undid her binds. The body of the old woman lay next to her, arm missing at the elbow. It lay detached a few feet away, still gripping the cast iron pan. The old woman had bled out quickly from the wound.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The old woman tried to kill the girl. I guess out of spite. I killed her first. It was close though. It wouldn’t have happened like this if we had done it my way.”

“Point taken. Is the girl all right?”

She shrugged while undoing the ties at her feet. “She passed out when the old woman lost her arm.”

“Not surprising.”

“Yeah. I guess some just can’t handle the pressure.”

“No, I guess not,” he muttered.

Rondel recalled the panic that had gripped him when the old man had stormed toward him.

I wonder if that comment was meant for me or the girl.
He shook his head.
Gods Rondel, you keep digging yourself a larger hole to rise from, don’t you?

The girl started to come around by the time Andrasta freed the ties behind her back. When the last of the ropes came loose, she bolted. She didn’t get very far, tripping over the old woman’s corpse and landing next to the headless body of one son.

She screamed, shuffling backward with hands and feet, leaves rustling beneath her.

“What do you want from me? Gods, please don’t hurt me,” she begged.

“Hurt you?” Andrasta took a step forward, voice rising. “Fool girl. We just saved you from being sold.”

Rondel touched Andrasta’s arm. “Ease up. Look at her clothes.” Upon closer consideration, it was obvious the girl had not been a peasant, but instead came from a life of privilege. “She’s someone important. Probably grew up sheltered. I doubt she’s ever seen someone die before, let alone butchered.”

His comment startled the girl. “What are you talking about? I’m nothing more than a peasant.”

Rondel laughed. “A peasant would not refer to themselves as such. Instead they would curse you for suggesting they were a rotten noble. Did you run away from home?” The girl said nothing. “That’s it. And you thought this was a suitable disguise? The color and style is simple enough to pass for a commoner. However, you made the mistake of selecting something with too many designs woven into the fabric. No peasant could afford stitching as well as what you’re wearing.”

Andrasta spat. “We risked ourselves for a noble dumb enough to run away from what she had.” She turned and walked toward the woods.

Rondel followed after his partner, not to leave the girl, but for answers.
One moment she’s bent on doing anything to save the girl, and now she wants to leave her behind?

“Wait! Where are you going?”