Storm from the West. Chapter 5 It was once said that Westhaven girls were the homely lasses of the Middle Dominions. They lacked the sultry beauty and passion of the Southrons, the exotic looks and charm of the girls on the Eastern fringes, the slender, striking looks of the fair haired girls of the North and the plump and hearty aspects of the feisty girls of the Baneshi. But like every sweeping generalisation it is always all the more satisfying when a shining exception can be made an example of. Stullys had spotted Lia watching the contingent arrive from Varos, from her window. It was early evening and the setting sun played off her face. Wistful and beautiful without meaning to be, she was regarded by Stullys as he rode through Westhaven several days ago. He had then made it his paramount business to find out who she was. That she was the cheiftans daughter made little difference to his passions. A striking, passionate woman, as hearty and feisty as any Baneshi; with the aspirations of a warrior. She wore her hair short which embarrassed her father the cheiftan, but which was the tradition of any initiate fighter. Her several secret rendezvous with Stullys had brought adventure of its own. ‘Come my pretty. Just a quickie. Throw up your skirts and lets have at you.’ Stullys chirped as he began to undo his breeches. ‘Stully! If someone were to overhear, they would think you only want me for one thing.’ Said Lia with a mock chide, batting her eyelids. ‘Why? Do you do something else?’ Said Stullys as he casually swished his ponytail over his shoulder. ‘STULLYS!’ Cried Lia with pretend offense. ‘My maidens think I am at my sword lesson. I would get in such trouble...’ ‘This is a sword lesson... of sorts’ Said Stullys rubbing his crotch. Lia came close and slid her arms around Stullys. ‘I am quite good you know?’ whispered Lia. ‘Oh.. I know.’ Stullys whispered back. ‘With a sword I mean...’ Whispered Lia. ‘Oh.. I know.’ Stullys whispered back. With a lightning move Lia drew Stullys blade from its sheath and levelled it at his neck. ‘You see?’ She said triumphantly. ‘I do.’ He said with resignation. He lowered himself onto one knee in a gesture of surrender and then suddenly leapt forwards with blinding speed and deftness, drawing his dagger, parrying the blade that was levelled at him and bringing the dagger up terrifyingly close to Lia’s neck. ‘You see?’ He whispered in her ear. ‘I do.’ She said, breathless and panting. ‘I have never been in battle.’ She said. ‘Why must the men take all the glory?’ ‘Hehehe... You Westhaven girls make me laugh. Let me explain something little warrior girl. There is a reason man has always been the warrior. A thousand men go to war and one returns. He then impregnates a thousand women. A thousand women go to war and one returns. She then becomes impregnated once every nine months. After a hundred years who would have the biggest army?’ ‘You are quite the philosopher Stullys’ ‘You don’t have to close your mouth Lia, but you need to stop talking...’ Stullys pulled Lia down onto the floor and began ripping off her clothes. Rool and Darwen were led to the holding pits by the gaoler, a fat, crooked man with the bearing and sneer of a bully and sadist. Laments and moans echoed across the stinking, open topped cells. Wooden gantries led around the tops, and a ladder was the only access in or out of the each of the filthy prisons. Manacles and chains held the prisoners in place and gave them enough purchase to scramble for the slops that were thrown on them once a day from above. Darwen tried to make light of the squalor saying he had stayed in worse taverns on his travels through Ghastheim, but both were visibly disconcerted by the appalling conditions of these pits. They held no discrimination for captives, both men, women and children alike anguished here, and some cells still housed the dried corpses of inmates long forgotten. ‘Are common criminals held here as well?’ Asked Rool of the Gaoler. ‘They are all the enemies of Westhaven.’ Answered the Gaoler with a spit and a sneer. ‘That is not what I asked.’ ‘It’s the only answer you’ll get Southerner.’ The Gaoler spat again. ‘Here. Here is the Westerling prisoner.’ The Gaoler pointed to an emaciated savage in manacles, below them with the long pointed pole he carried. ‘Use the ladder, if you wish to interrogate him at any close quarters. But be wary, and keep the distance of his chains. He is still a savage. And savages are disposed to being savage.’ The Gaoler grinned. A terrible and hideous sight. Both Darwen and Rool descended the ladder into the pit and stood before the savage, who eyed them suspiciously from his position on the floor, soiled in his own filth. His skin was a greyish pallor and his slender eyes were tinged with an inhuman yellow. His ears were tiny and malformed and his hair, bedraggled and thin seemed to almost float in whisps about his face. The Gaoler stood above regarding the scene with morbid anticipation of violence still wearing his hideous grin and beginning to drool. ‘You may leave us Gaoler.’ Said Rool with authority. ‘Pfah!’ The Gaoler spat with indignity and waddled back along the gantry. ‘Ab’n pfiwaddi, teb teh awaddi…’ Said Rool to the Westerling. The Westerlings eyes widened in panic and surprise at the hearing of his own language and he flattened himself against the wall and hissed. ‘Beb teh ta’habesh Rool beh Darwen.’ Continued Rool. ‘Hah! That’s a language? It sounds like when I fart in the bath.’ Laughed Darwen. ‘Please friend. I need composure. I will let you know if I need comedy… or violence.’ Rool continued his interrogation. Darwen shrugged and took a deep swing of spirit from his skin.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Oct 2013 18:13:18 +0000
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