by Andrew Knighton
in Issue 86, March 2019
The sun had been blazing down for an hour when I reached the Well of Providence. The sand spilling over my sandals scorched my feet and the brightness seared my eyes. The wind brought no mercy, snatching away my hood and leaving my face exposed.
Parched and exhausted as I was, I was also determined to continue.
I trudged up one last rise, too parched to sweat, and saw the oasis below. My thirsty soul all but sang out in relief.
Beneath the palm trees, a caravan sheltered, camels lowing to each other as they rested while a Bedouin family fetched water. They looked up as I approached and the scowling father set his hand to his sword, but then my hood fell away again and he relaxed.
‘What is a girl like you doing out here alone?’ The mother held out a jug as she approached.
I grabbed it with both hands and eagerly gulped down the water. Grey eyes peered out from beneath the shelter of a headscarf, steady and compassionate, determined to have an answer.
‘It was the next well on my route,’ I told her, passing back the empty jug.
‘I am too old to take that as an answer,’ she said, a leathery hand leading me into the shade. ‘Where are your family? Your mother must be sick with worry about you, barely a woman and wandering the desert by yourself.’
I sank to the ground, resting against the rough hair of a camel’s flank. It reeked like old sweat and rancid fat, but the rise and fall of its chest, the rhythm of breath and life, was comforting.
The woman’s question, though, was like a knife in my heart. I remembered fire and blood, men in uniforms speaking in a cruel foreign tongue.
‘My family are dead,’ I said.
‘I am so sorry.’ The woman’s hand went to her mouth. ‘I didn’t think…’
I felt brief satisfaction at cutting through her condescending air, then guilt. My people’s memory was not a weapon to turn on kindly strangers.
‘Why would you know?’ I said.
She bustled off among the camels and returned with a small girl clutching at her skirts.
‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked, peeking out through hair as black as my own.
‘Esther,’ I replied. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Zuni.’ She thrust a flatbread at me. ‘Eat.’
I shook my head.
The camel stirred, dust rising from the blanket across his back. It caught in my throat and chest, trapping my breath. I gasped, muscles shaking, desperately trying to draw air. Zuni ran screaming as I staggered to my feet then fell, landing on all fours in the scalding sand.
My heart was pounding. Dark spots filled my vision. Panic took hold as my body gave way to its own weakness.
I forced my mind to calm and slowed my breath. Shallow at first, then deeper, I drew air back into my body, even as numbness stole over me.
Zuni’s mother clutched me to her chest. But in the dark of my mind I saw the night across the desert and the beast that dogged my footsteps. I heard the rattle of its claws and the hiss of its tail scything through the air. It was coming. The terror of death and the hope of justice, wrapped in a shell as hard as an emperor’s heart. And I, barely a woman, leading it onwards.
Dread clutched my heart. Dread and determination.
I opened my eyes. I was back in the silence of the day.
‘Poor child.’ The mother stroked my hair and brought water to my lips. ‘You bear a heavy curse.’
‘It follows me across the desert,’ I croaked. ‘Never more than a night behind.’
She looked confused. Then I realised that we were not thinking about the same curse. My mind had sunk into a world of blood and magic, while she was concerned for my inadequate lungs and rasping throat.
‘Oh Esther, you can’t run from a part of yourself. How will this help?’
‘The well called Vengeance,’ I said. ‘I can find relief there.’
It was true, if not in any way she would understand.
Her brow crumpled. ‘Vengeance? That place is cursed.’
‘And that’s where I can leave my curse. My mother told me so, before…’
We sat in silence for a while, her gaze following Zuni as the child helped tend the camels.
‘You could come with us,’ she said at last. ‘We can find a healer to help you in one of the villages.’
I shook my head. I knew well enough where my curse could be lifted, with me, and the creature, and the spilling of blood.
‘Vengeance.’
‘So pig-headed.’ She sighed and began to sketch lines in the sand. ‘But we have many years’ knowledge of this desert, my husband and I. We can tell you the way.’
I stifled a bitter laugh. I needed no directions to the well. I could find it all too readily on my own. But there was comfort in receiving help, whether I needed it or not.
I settled back and listened to her talk.
I slept in the shade of the palms and awoke to the chittering sound of dusk. As the air cooled, insects and rodents emerged from their burrows in search of food. Released from the stifling heat of the day, life began its brutal cycle again. By my feet, a mouse scurried across the sand, only to be snatched by a waiting snake.
A long, rattling screech echoed off the desert to the north. A familiar shiver jolted up my spine. My pursuer had burst from the shelter of the sand and was on its way again.
The Bedouins paused in packing their camels, glancing nervously at each other. I crept away from them, out of sight behind the palms. I pulled a battered knife from the sleeve of my robes and set it to my arm. The Chant of Blood’s Longing trembled from my lips, drawing all my pain and sorrow through one swift stroke of the blade. I barely felt the pain power welled up through the cut, sating my hunger, nourishing my body, forging my will once more to a fine edge. Blood hissed as it dripped onto the sand and my arm burned with a heat like the midday sun.
Then it was done. One more night, one more scar. Blood’s riches traded with the desert for power. Blood’s water guiding my feet to the next well. Blood’s scent drawing the beast on.
Blood and sand and the promise of vengeance. All that I had left.
I sheathed the blade and set off across the desert. The jingle of camel-bells told me the Bedouins were also on their way. The sound left a hollow space inside me, a sense of loss for something that had never been mine.
I bowed my head and prayed that these kind people would not meet the monster that was my fate.
Again, the night fled before I could reach my goal. The sun sprang from ambush, catching me in the open, exposed. Like the pain of memory, it illuminated as it burned.
The desert stretched out before me, league upon league of shifting sand. Whichever way I turned there was nothing but the yellow curve of dunes and the clear blue sky. Nothing moved in the desert during the day. Nothing that valued its life.
The beast’s cries had grown louder during the night. It was no faster than I was, but it did not tire. It could stalk through the desert all night, while I needed to rest. Only the sunlight made it stop, scrabbling for shelter beneath the sands.
The silence that followed would have been a blessed relief, if not for the danger that was the day itself.
The heat was a killer and its victims littered the sand around me. A spider, exposed on the peak of a dune, twitching away the last of its life. Husks of mice and lizards, their skin taught and pale. Bones of larger animals protruding underfoot. These creatures were not friends, but they shared a common enemy and it had been their undoing. If I was not careful, it would be mine.
I sucked the last drops of moisture from my waterskin. Exhaustion was taking its toll. Perception twisted and the desert’s golden glow ceased to be the grinning face of a foe, becoming instead the warm colour of ripening corn. I smiled and relaxed, feet trailing behind me.
Why rush in this bright, beautiful land? Where was I going in such a hurry?
A well maybe. But what sort of well could I possibly need…
The Well of Thirst.
The name jolted me back to my senses. No wonder I felt dried out and listless. No wonder so many desiccated bodies littered my route. The well must be near.
I felt foolish for having come so close to giving in to the well’s power. A few more minutes of thoughtlessness and I would have lain down there, ready to be dried out by the desert. Such was the power of the wells. I should have known better.
I forced my legs to move faster, striding up dunes and running down to the desert floor. At last I crested a ridge and saw a huddle of rocks ahead of me, cacti nestling around their base. A rush of relief carried me down the slope, through the rocks, and to the well at their centre, oblivious to everything but my thirst.
I was lowering a jar into the cool, damp darkness before I even realised that I had company.
‘What have we here?’ The voice was rough, his accent foreign but familiar.
I spun around. Calloused hands grasped my arms and I found myself staring into the face of a soldier. His breath reeked of rotten meat and the bands of his armour dug into my flesh as he pressed me against the wall of the well.
Somebody shouted, a series of jagged sounds I couldn’t understand. A younger soldier, his face less battered by the years, was approaching. His uniform was more elaborate than the rest but it still marked him out as a Roman, with his armoured skirts and the helmet beneath his arm. The sight of that uniform made me shudder with revulsion.
The older soldier’s eyes narrowed as he listened to his officer. Then he turned his attention back to me.
‘I’m not to harm you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You weren’t expecting that, were you?’
He released my arms and walked around me to the well.
Hauling on a rope, he pulled up a jar and passed it to me with a bow.
‘My lady, introductions are surely due. My name is Graccus Vox, this polished gentleman is Commander Tulius, and these are the boys of the Fabulous Fifth, sometimes called Orion’s Arm.’
A dozen soldiers emerged from the shadows, all but the young officer grinning at Graccus’s mock formality. Their laughter only made me hate them more.
I gulped down the water. As I did so, my energy returned, my mind regaining its sharpness.
Tulius said something, gesturing towards me.
‘You do understand me, don’t you?’ Graccus asked, no doubt in his voice.
I weighed up my options, then nodded. What was there to gain by lying now, even to Romans? They would do their worst regardless. At least talk might delay them.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I assume you don’t understand him, because none of us do.’
The nod he gave towards Tulius was dressed in a veneer of respect.
‘That’s right.’ I lowered my head, playing the meek, scared girl. It wasn’t hard, stranded with a dozen vicious killers.
‘He wants to know which well this is.’ Even when listening to his commander, Graccus’s eyes were running up and down my body. That, more than the swords, made me afraid.
‘Please sir, this is the Well of Thirst.’ I paused to let Graccus translate. ‘Also called Halima’s Well.’
More Latin passed between them and then Graccus spoke.
‘He wants to know, gods help us, why it has that name. If you don’t know, I suggest you make up something tragic. He likes tragic.’
‘It is named for Halima, daughter of Jarif,’ I said. ‘It is said that she came here looking for her lover. Her longing for him was so great that, when she could not find him, she was overcome with loss and could not take the final step to the well. She died of thirst and her spirit haunts these stones, taking their water in the hope that she might continue the search for her dead love.’
‘That’ll do.’
‘Please sir, it is the truth.’
‘One more thing, and if you value those pretty eyes you’d better tell the truth on this one. Have you heard anything about a monster roaming this part of the desert? A scorpion the size of a house, dripping venom and slicing peasants to pieces? Maybe it’s scared off your camels or made ribbons of one of your mates?’
I hesitated.
He gently tapped a finger beneath his eye.
And so I talked about how I could help them find the scorpion.
The day drew on. The Romans took turns to eat and sleep, those on guard entertaining themselves by throwing knives at snakes side-winding across the sand. They seldom missed, and the shady ground around the well was soon spattered with blood.
One of the soldiers, a wiry man with an unpronounceable name, crept past his sleeping comrades to the corner in which I had been slung.
‘I know story,’ he said, halting over the words as he pulled me upright and towards a darkened crevice. ‘Story say monster like virgin. Not good you. I help.’
He fumbled with his belt, his leer revealing a row of crooked teeth, rough fingers clawing at me. I fought the urge to scream. I remembered other Romans burning, looting, butchering men and making women theirs. I knew that all those here would be just as bad. Even as dread gripped me, I thought that at least if they were asleep they could not join in.
There was a shout.
Unpronounceable froze, one hand clutching my skirts. Tulius strode towards him, snapping off angry words, and struck the man across the face.
Suddenly everyone was awake. Graccus bounded forwards. He stepped in before Tulius could see the other man reach for his sword. Graccus gave the tiniest shake of his head and my assailant subsided, skulking off between the rocks.
I sank, trembling, to the floor.
As Tulius went to enact discipline, Graccus glared down at me.
‘It’s lucky for you that our commander is a sanctimonious prick,’ he said. ‘Luckier still that we need your help finding the beast.’
‘Why do you want it?’ I asked, curious despite who they were.
‘It’s for General Caesar,’ he said. ‘He sets high value by providing sport for the arena. There’s an estate in Gaul at stake here, and a retirement fitting the rest of my distinguished career.’
He crouched low, fixing me with cold grey eyes.
‘Neither you, nor Tulius, nor some horny legionary is going to keep me from that. Understood?’
I nodded, playing the part of the cooperative captive. If I had my way, he would be dead soon enough. It not, nothing could save me.
‘Good.’ He rose, adjusting his tunic. ‘Behave yourself, do what we need, and maybe I’ll let you get away when this is done.’
An hour before dusk, the Romans ate and began preparations to leave. The watered and saddled their horses. Some were loaded with bundles of rope and nets, bags of flatbread and waterskins freshly filled at the well.
While the Romans were occupied, I slipped out of sight among the surrounding stones. I drew the knife concealed in the depths of my robes and once more began the Chant of Blood’s Longing. Strength welled up within me, driving back fear as I scored my skin, casting my power upon the desert.
‘Alright, girly, it’s time.’ Graccus towered over me, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He frowned as he saw the blood on the sand, then spotted the knife and snorted with laughter. ‘You’ll need more than that to get away from us. Now come with me. You say you know where the beast is headed. It’s time to prove it.’
I slipped the knife back into its place and, head held high, followed him towards the horses.
Darkness was falling, the desert coming to life. The horses twitched nervously as spiders and snakes emerged amidst their hooves, chasing insects and rodents across the sand.
A long, rattling screech rose from the north. Horses reared and whinnied at the noise, eyes staring wildly around. But I felt strangely calm, knowing that, even in my captive state, the beast was coming for me.
‘That’s it,’ I said as I clambered onto a horse’s jerking back. I took the reins, my palm sticky with blood.
‘Then we go that way.’ Graccus grinned and turned his mount’s head towards the noise.
‘No.’ I faced east. ‘It lives on the desert, hunts on the desert. If you go towards it, it will catch you in the open and scatter you all into the dust.’
‘You forget, we are soldiers of Rome.’
‘And you forget, this is no lion or hyena. It is a beast of scalding heat and poisonous fury, armoured with skin that can weather the fiercest sandstorm. You may be veterans of forest fights and village burnings, but this thing is the merciless desert. It will swallow you up and spit out the bones.’
‘Very poetic, but we can’t catch the beast if we don’t see it.’
‘And you will, but not out in the open.’
I twitched the reins. My horse, skittish at the sound of the distant beast, leaped into motion, kicking up sand as he dashed into the desert gloom.
‘Come with me,’ I called back to the legionaries of the Fabulous Fifth. ‘Come and meet your glorious fate.’
Night clung to the desert like a shroud, its darkness only pierced by the gleam of stars. The Romans rode as if they were the only beasts in the world, eyes fixed on the next horizon, minds fixed on their goal.
The desert moved around us, tiny lives continuing beneath our horses’ hooves, each creature shifting a few grains with its passage, changing the world for those that followed.
By the starlight, I saw the outline of a fennec fox prowling for food, its wide ears pointing into the cold air. It pounced, pinning something that squeaked in pain beneath its paw. The fox bent to eat, but there was a rustle and the desert around it writhed. A mass of miniature legs and tails surrounded the fox and then swept over it, swamping it in the chittering, hissing shadows of the creatures on which it had preyed.
I felt a moment of sadness for the fox and then a wave of excitement for myself. Vengeance was at hand.
The atmosphere among the soldiers of the Fabulous Fifth grew tense. They glanced into the passing darkness, muttering to each other over the thud and hiss of hooves on sand. Men cried out at shadows, then subsided into embarrassed silence.
Graccus brought his horse abreast of mine. His confidence as a rider made me acutely aware of my struggle to stay in the saddle.
‘This is the place?’ he asked.
‘Nearly.’ I pointed to a darkness ahead, a silhouette against the scatter of stars. ‘There.’
Tulius snapped his reigns and shouted, challenging the others to match his pace. His men rose to the bait, goading their horses with heels to flanks, focusing on outpacing each other, ignoring the shapes menacing the corners of their vision.
Laughter and curses echoed across the sands, soldiers egging each other on to greater displays of manhood. I closed my eyes and let the sound carry me back to a time that reeked of blood and ashes. That same crude laughter, those same jagged Latin words, but beneath them my mother’s screams and my brothers’ final sobs. The sight of my father stood proud but hopeless before the sword. And the weight pressing down on me, the blood congealing on my skin, as I lay quivering beneath the bodies of our neighbours, praying not to be seen.
I had never felt so lost and helpless as in that moment. I had never seen such cruelty.
A shriek snatched me back to the present. The beast was coming. The end was nigh.
The Romans were arguing when I reached the well, Graccus and another man yelling at each other in the middle of a ring of agitated men and horses. Half the audience were turned outwards, swords drawn against the shadows that shifted across the dunes.
Tulius, arriving just before me, vaulted from his horse and strode into the circle. Without a word, he swung his helmet into Graccus’s stomach, then back into the other soldier’s face. The rest froze, staring at their crumpled comrades.
Tulius beckoned me forwards as he spoke. I was surprised to realise that I almost liked him. I felt a sense of kindred with his righteousness and with the distaste he showed for the others’ behaviour. He was the only one who looked at me with anything like real kindness and respect.
He was looking at me now, but it was clear from the way his men straightened that he was addressing them. I felt the pressure of their eyes on me, and my breath caught in my throat. I fought to keep control, to keep breathing clear and slow.
Graccus and the other soldier rose, responding sullenly to their commander’s questions. Then Graccus turned to me.
‘This one thinks you’ve led us into a trap.’ He nodded past Tulius to the other soldier. ‘He thinks that I’m in league with you.’
Tulius spoke next and Graccus translated.
‘He wants to know why there are faces in the shadows, why we can hear voices whispering our names.’
‘This is the Well of Vengeance,’ I said, summoning all the earnest drama of an elder passing down religious parables. ‘It earned the name in blood many generations ago, when a terrible crime was avenged her.
‘Those faces you see are the people you have killed. They know you are here, and they are hungry for your souls. But they cannot touch you, so long as your own blood is not shed here.’
Tulius nodded at the translation. His men seemed to relax, a few even peering into the shadows, looking for old foes. I didn’t look, for fear of a familiar face. My life had not without bloodshed.
‘The beast will be here in an hour.’ I pointed again, this time at low hills flanking the well. ‘You should be ready.’
Tulius snapped orders and the men began unloading nets and ropes. They worked in silence, listening to the screech of the creature as it grew closer. They laid their traps, hid their horses, climbed the ridge and drew their swords.
Not one looked at the shadows now swirling hungrily around their feet.
An hour before dawn, the swollen, lazy moon peered over the edge of the horizon. It framed a shape of pointed menace, writhing legs and arched tail thrashing through the air.
The creature reared, the long pincers of its fore-legs knocking against each other with hollow cracks. It skittered down the side of a dune, showers of sand rising in its wake, and headed towards the well.
A horde of shadows writhing out of the night, coalescing around the vast scorpion. They swirled across its carapace, flinging themselves against the chitinous flanks. Their target didn’t falter, a dumb beast of hunger and violence, oblivious to others’ pain and loss.
Stood between Tulius and Graccus, watching the beast approach, I felt a pressure rising in my chest. So much rested on this moment. Years of learning. Months of planning. Weeks of trudging through the desert heat.
The creature came closer, then swerved, changing course away from the well and towards one of the high dunes. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. I needed to control it, to channel it. If I lost this chance then it was all for nothing.
Anger at my own misjudgement raked my mind. I should have known that the Romans would drag it off course. It could probably smell the years of blood on their hands.
I took a step back, out of the eyeline of the Romans. I drew my knife, but my breath caught in my throat and my whole body shuddered. The blade tumbled to the ground as pain seized my chest.
I sank to my knees, fighting for breath even as I fumbled through darkness and blurred vision, desperately seeking the knife. Thoughts became broken, fleeting, the here and now scattered amid memory and desire, flashes of brutality in which I was both victim and violator. Bodies above me and blood on my hands.
A pain in my palm brought me back to the present. I focussed, channelling my will through the blade, through the cut, up my arm and into my chest, drawing one breath, then another, deep enough to restore my mind but not so deep as to draw attention.
I picked up the knife and, soft as death, made the ritual cuts. The Chant of Blood’s Longing was a faint whisper across my lips.
Over the ridge of the dune, I heard the beast respond, crying out in a voice like the rattle of skulls. It turned to the scent of my soul. It knew its prey was near, and the ground shook as it charged.
Another cry joined that of the beast. A yell of command, followed by the patter of running feet and the hiss of nets flung through the air. The beast had turned into the Roman ambush.
Shadows shifted across the dune, black tendrils reaching out of the night. Some twitched towards me and I caught them on the tip of my blade, letting the power of the place run through my blood. Others approached Graccus, mingling with his own shadow, stretching up to caress his arms, his back, his head. Vengeance, as bitter and unshakable as any drive, took hold of him.
He turned, sneering, wrenched the helmet from his head and swung it into Tulius’s stomach. The officer cried out in shock and staggered backwards as a second blow hit him in the face. He slipped on the shifting sand and fell.
Graccus snarled angry, guttural words as he laid into his commander, swinging the helmet again and again. I willed Tulius to his feet, not because I cared whether he lived, but because I did not want to see Graccus satisfied.
I had no time to wait and see what happened. Instead, I ran past them, cresting the dune. Below me, the beast was screeching and flailing, trying to throw off ropes and nets. The soldiers encircled it, straining at the ropes, holding the beast down while it tired itself out with the struggle. I dashed on, chanting Bloods’ Longing one last time as I wove a cord of blood and vengeful shadow. As I reached the beast and leapt, landing on its back, the cord a dark loop around its neck. It settled, bound by the blood that had lured it here.
The spirits of the well washed through me like cleansing waters, sweeping aside any vestige of mercy. The power passed through my arms, down the shadow line and into the beast. It shrieked and flung its claws up. Some of the Romans lost their grip on the rope. Others went flying or were dragged into range of its snapping jaws. Armour crumpled and bodies fell, their blood feeding the vengeful spirits that were now mine to command.
My heart raced at the sight.
Tingling with power, I rode the beast past the well and up the dune, crushing the Romans in our path. Graccus turned to face me, his face frozen in shock. Tulius lay battered at his feet. I pulled at shadow reigns and the beast reached out, lifting each of them in one of its claws.
‘Translate,’ I said to Graccus.
He nodded, eyes wide with fear.
‘They came to my village,’ I said, pausing long enough for Graccus’s translation. ‘Roman soldiers. Perhaps the men here tonight, perhaps others like them. They killed my family, my friends, my whole village. Other villages too, just to prove how strong your empire is.
‘But this is the Well of Vengeance, the place of blood and reversal. The power is mine now. The appetite of the spirits has been wetted. They have a taste for Roman blood.’
Darkness swirled around me, formed fleeting faces and bodies, reaching out with expressions caught between rage and lust.
‘I will ride the spirits across your empire,’ I said, swelling with power. ‘I will find your villages, your families, your friends. I will reach the very gates of Rome and shatter them with the rage of your victims. Do you understand?’
Both nodded.
‘Then go. Let them know to be afraid.’
Tulius fell to the ground. He staggered to his feet, curled over in pain from his beating as Graccus’s hands. Bent like an old woman, he hobbled to a horse and rode away into the first hint of dawn.
The spirits chastised me for my mercy, but what good was darkness without the light to see it by?
‘And me?’ Graccus’s voice was pleading. ‘Should I tell them too?’
I looked at his face, still filled with cruel calculation, and I laughed. Then I twitched at my reigns. The beast squeezed, and blood poured across the sands of the Well of Vengeance.
©March 2019, Andrew Knighton
Andre Knighton has had over fifty stories published in magazines and anthologies including Daily Science Fiction, Wily Writers, andSteampunk Reloaded. He has not been previously published in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.The sun had been blazing down for an hour when I reached the Well of Providence. The sand spilling over my sandals scorched my feet and the brightness seared my eyes. The wind brought no mercy, snatching away my hood and leaving my face exposed.
Parched and exhausted as I was, I was also determined to continue.
I trudged up one last rise, too parched to sweat, and saw the oasis below. My thirsty soul all but sang out in relief.
Beneath the palm trees, a caravan sheltered, camels lowing to each other as they rested while a Bedouin family fetched water. They looked up as I approached and the scowling father set his hand to his sword, but then my hood fell away again and he relaxed.
‘What is a girl like you doing out here alone?’ The mother held out a jug as she approached.
I grabbed it with both hands and eagerly gulped down the water. Grey eyes peered out from beneath the shelter of a headscarf, steady and compassionate, determined to have an answer.
‘It was the next well on my route,’ I told her, passing back the empty jug.
‘I am too old to take that as an answer,’ she said, a leathery hand leading me into the shade. ‘Where are your family? Your mother must be sick with worry about you, barely a woman and wandering the desert by yourself.’
I sank to the ground, resting against the rough hair of a camel’s flank. It reeked like old sweat and rancid fat, but the rise and fall of its chest, the rhythm of breath and life, was comforting.
The woman’s question, though, was like a knife in my heart. I remembered fire and blood, men in uniforms speaking in a cruel foreign tongue.
‘My family are dead,’ I said.
‘I am so sorry.’ The woman’s hand went to her mouth. ‘I didn’t think…’
I felt brief satisfaction at cutting through her condescending air, then guilt. My people’s memory was not a weapon to turn on kindly strangers.
‘Why would you know?’ I said.
She bustled off among the camels and returned with a small girl clutching at her skirts.
‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked, peeking out through hair as black as my own.
‘Esther,’ I replied. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Zuni.’ She thrust a flatbread at me. ‘Eat.’
I shook my head.
The camel stirred, dust rising from the blanket across his back. It caught in my throat and chest, trapping my breath. I gasped, muscles shaking, desperately trying to draw air. Zuni ran screaming as I staggered to my feet then fell, landing on all fours in the scalding sand.
My heart was pounding. Dark spots filled my vision. Panic took hold as my body gave way to its own weakness.
I forced my mind to calm and slowed my breath. Shallow at first, then deeper, I drew air back into my body, even as numbness stole over me.
Zuni’s mother clutched me to her chest. But in the dark of my mind I saw the night across the desert and the beast that dogged my footsteps. I heard the rattle of its claws and the hiss of its tail scything through the air. It was coming. The terror of death and the hope of justice, wrapped in a shell as hard as an emperor’s heart. And I, barely a woman, leading it onwards.
Dread clutched my heart. Dread and determination.
I opened my eyes. I was back in the silence of the day.
‘Poor child.’ The mother stroked my hair and brought water to my lips. ‘You bear a heavy curse.’
‘It follows me across the desert,’ I croaked. ‘Never more than a night behind.’
She looked confused. Then I realised that we were not thinking about the same curse. My mind had sunk into a world of blood and magic, while she was concerned for my inadequate lungs and rasping throat.
‘Oh Esther, you can’t run from a part of yourself. How will this help?’
‘The well called Vengeance,’ I said. ‘I can find relief there.’
It was true, if not in any way she would understand.
Her brow crumpled. ‘Vengeance? That place is cursed.’
‘And that’s where I can leave my curse. My mother told me so, before…’
We sat in silence for a while, her gaze following Zuni as the child helped tend the camels.
‘You could come with us,’ she said at last. ‘We can find a healer to help you in one of the villages.’
I shook my head. I knew well enough where my curse could be lifted, with me, and the creature, and the spilling of blood.
‘Vengeance.’
‘So pig-headed.’ She sighed and began to sketch lines in the sand. ‘But we have many years’ knowledge of this desert, my husband and I. We can tell you the way.’
I stifled a bitter laugh. I needed no directions to the well. I could find it all too readily on my own. But there was comfort in receiving help, whether I needed it or not.
I settled back and listened to her talk.
I slept in the shade of the palms and awoke to the chittering sound of dusk. As the air cooled, insects and rodents emerged from their burrows in search of food. Released from the stifling heat of the day, life began its brutal cycle again. By my feet, a mouse scurried across the sand, only to be snatched by a waiting snake.
A long, rattling screech echoed off the desert to the north. A familiar shiver jolted up my spine. My pursuer had burst from the shelter of the sand and was on its way again.
The Bedouins paused in packing their camels, glancing nervously at each other. I crept away from them, out of sight behind the palms. I pulled a battered knife from the sleeve of my robes and set it to my arm. The Chant of Blood’s Longing trembled from my lips, drawing all my pain and sorrow through one swift stroke of the blade. I barely felt the pain power welled up through the cut, sating my hunger, nourishing my body, forging my will once more to a fine edge. Blood hissed as it dripped onto the sand and my arm burned with a heat like the midday sun.
Then it was done. One more night, one more scar. Blood’s riches traded with the desert for power. Blood’s water guiding my feet to the next well. Blood’s scent drawing the beast on.
Blood and sand and the promise of vengeance. All that I had left.
I sheathed the blade and set off across the desert. The jingle of camel-bells told me the Bedouins were also on their way. The sound left a hollow space inside me, a sense of loss for something that had never been mine.
I bowed my head and prayed that these kind people would not meet the monster that was my fate.
Again, the night fled before I could reach my goal. The sun sprang from ambush, catching me in the open, exposed. Like the pain of memory, it illuminated as it burned.
The desert stretched out before me, league upon league of shifting sand. Whichever way I turned there was nothing but the yellow curve of dunes and the clear blue sky. Nothing moved in the desert during the day. Nothing that valued its life.
The beast’s cries had grown louder during the night. It was no faster than I was, but it did not tire. It could stalk through the desert all night, while I needed to rest. Only the sunlight made it stop, scrabbling for shelter beneath the sands.
The silence that followed would have been a blessed relief, if not for the danger that was the day itself.
The heat was a killer and its victims littered the sand around me. A spider, exposed on the peak of a dune, twitching away the last of its life. Husks of mice and lizards, their skin taught and pale. Bones of larger animals protruding underfoot. These creatures were not friends, but they shared a common enemy and it had been their undoing. If I was not careful, it would be mine.
I sucked the last drops of moisture from my waterskin. Exhaustion was taking its toll. Perception twisted and the desert’s golden glow ceased to be the grinning face of a foe, becoming instead the warm colour of ripening corn. I smiled and relaxed, feet trailing behind me.
Why rush in this bright, beautiful land? Where was I going in such a hurry?
A well maybe. But what sort of well could I possibly need…
The Well of Thirst.
The name jolted me back to my senses. No wonder I felt dried out and listless. No wonder so many desiccated bodies littered my route. The well must be near.
I felt foolish for having come so close to giving in to the well’s power. A few more minutes of thoughtlessness and I would have lain down there, ready to be dried out by the desert. Such was the power of the wells. I should have known better.
I forced my legs to move faster, striding up dunes and running down to the desert floor. At last I crested a ridge and saw a huddle of rocks ahead of me, cacti nestling around their base. A rush of relief carried me down the slope, through the rocks, and to the well at their centre, oblivious to everything but my thirst.
I was lowering a jar into the cool, damp darkness before I even realised that I had company.
‘What have we here?’ The voice was rough, his accent foreign but familiar.
I spun around. Calloused hands grasped my arms and I found myself staring into the face of a soldier. His breath reeked of rotten meat and the bands of his armour dug into my flesh as he pressed me against the wall of the well.
Somebody shouted, a series of jagged sounds I couldn’t understand. A younger soldier, his face less battered by the years, was approaching. His uniform was more elaborate than the rest but it still marked him out as a Roman, with his armoured skirts and the helmet beneath his arm. The sight of that uniform made me shudder with revulsion.
The older soldier’s eyes narrowed as he listened to his officer. Then he turned his attention back to me.
‘I’m not to harm you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You weren’t expecting that, were you?’
He released my arms and walked around me to the well.
Hauling on a rope, he pulled up a jar and passed it to me with a bow.
‘My lady, introductions are surely due. My name is Graccus Vox, this polished gentleman is Commander Tulius, and these are the boys of the Fabulous Fifth, sometimes called Orion’s Arm.’
A dozen soldiers emerged from the shadows, all but the young officer grinning at Graccus’s mock formality. Their laughter only made me hate them more.
I gulped down the water. As I did so, my energy returned, my mind regaining its sharpness.
Tulius said something, gesturing towards me.
‘You do understand me, don’t you?’ Graccus asked, no doubt in his voice.
I weighed up my options, then nodded. What was there to gain by lying now, even to Romans? They would do their worst regardless. At least talk might delay them.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I assume you don’t understand him, because none of us do.’
The nod he gave towards Tulius was dressed in a veneer of respect.
‘That’s right.’ I lowered my head, playing the meek, scared girl. It wasn’t hard, stranded with a dozen vicious killers.
‘He wants to know which well this is.’ Even when listening to his commander, Graccus’s eyes were running up and down my body. That, more than the swords, made me afraid.
‘Please sir, this is the Well of Thirst.’ I paused to let Graccus translate. ‘Also called Halima’s Well.’
More Latin passed between them and then Graccus spoke.
‘He wants to know, gods help us, why it has that name. If you don’t know, I suggest you make up something tragic. He likes tragic.’
‘It is named for Halima, daughter of Jarif,’ I said. ‘It is said that she came here looking for her lover. Her longing for him was so great that, when she could not find him, she was overcome with loss and could not take the final step to the well. She died of thirst and her spirit haunts these stones, taking their water in the hope that she might continue the search for her dead love.’
‘That’ll do.’
‘Please sir, it is the truth.’
‘One more thing, and if you value those pretty eyes you’d better tell the truth on this one. Have you heard anything about a monster roaming this part of the desert? A scorpion the size of a house, dripping venom and slicing peasants to pieces? Maybe it’s scared off your camels or made ribbons of one of your mates?’
I hesitated.
He gently tapped a finger beneath his eye.
And so I talked about how I could help them find the scorpion.
The day drew on. The Romans took turns to eat and sleep, those on guard entertaining themselves by throwing knives at snakes side-winding across the sand. They seldom missed, and the shady ground around the well was soon spattered with blood.
One of the soldiers, a wiry man with an unpronounceable name, crept past his sleeping comrades to the corner in which I had been slung.
‘I know story,’ he said, halting over the words as he pulled me upright and towards a darkened crevice. ‘Story say monster like virgin. Not good you. I help.’
He fumbled with his belt, his leer revealing a row of crooked teeth, rough fingers clawing at me. I fought the urge to scream. I remembered other Romans burning, looting, butchering men and making women theirs. I knew that all those here would be just as bad. Even as dread gripped me, I thought that at least if they were asleep they could not join in.
There was a shout.
Unpronounceable froze, one hand clutching my skirts. Tulius strode towards him, snapping off angry words, and struck the man across the face.
Suddenly everyone was awake. Graccus bounded forwards. He stepped in before Tulius could see the other man reach for his sword. Graccus gave the tiniest shake of his head and my assailant subsided, skulking off between the rocks.
I sank, trembling, to the floor.
As Tulius went to enact discipline, Graccus glared down at me.
‘It’s lucky for you that our commander is a sanctimonious prick,’ he said. ‘Luckier still that we need your help finding the beast.’
‘Why do you want it?’ I asked, curious despite who they were.
‘It’s for General Caesar,’ he said. ‘He sets high value by providing sport for the arena. There’s an estate in Gaul at stake here, and a retirement fitting the rest of my distinguished career.’
He crouched low, fixing me with cold grey eyes.
‘Neither you, nor Tulius, nor some horny legionary is going to keep me from that. Understood?’
I nodded, playing the part of the cooperative captive. If I had my way, he would be dead soon enough. It not, nothing could save me.
‘Good.’ He rose, adjusting his tunic. ‘Behave yourself, do what we need, and maybe I’ll let you get away when this is done.’
An hour before dusk, the Romans ate and began preparations to leave. The watered and saddled their horses. Some were loaded with bundles of rope and nets, bags of flatbread and waterskins freshly filled at the well.
While the Romans were occupied, I slipped out of sight among the surrounding stones. I drew the knife concealed in the depths of my robes and once more began the Chant of Blood’s Longing. Strength welled up within me, driving back fear as I scored my skin, casting my power upon the desert.
‘Alright, girly, it’s time.’ Graccus towered over me, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He frowned as he saw the blood on the sand, then spotted the knife and snorted with laughter. ‘You’ll need more than that to get away from us. Now come with me. You say you know where the beast is headed. It’s time to prove it.’
I slipped the knife back into its place and, head held high, followed him towards the horses.
Darkness was falling, the desert coming to life. The horses twitched nervously as spiders and snakes emerged amidst their hooves, chasing insects and rodents across the sand.
A long, rattling screech rose from the north. Horses reared and whinnied at the noise, eyes staring wildly around. But I felt strangely calm, knowing that, even in my captive state, the beast was coming for me.
‘That’s it,’ I said as I clambered onto a horse’s jerking back. I took the reins, my palm sticky with blood.
‘Then we go that way.’ Graccus grinned and turned his mount’s head towards the noise.
‘No.’ I faced east. ‘It lives on the desert, hunts on the desert. If you go towards it, it will catch you in the open and scatter you all into the dust.’
‘You forget, we are soldiers of Rome.’
‘And you forget, this is no lion or hyena. It is a beast of scalding heat and poisonous fury, armoured with skin that can weather the fiercest sandstorm. You may be veterans of forest fights and village burnings, but this thing is the merciless desert. It will swallow you up and spit out the bones.’
‘Very poetic, but we can’t catch the beast if we don’t see it.’
‘And you will, but not out in the open.’
I twitched the reins. My horse, skittish at the sound of the distant beast, leaped into motion, kicking up sand as he dashed into the desert gloom.
‘Come with me,’ I called back to the legionaries of the Fabulous Fifth. ‘Come and meet your glorious fate.’
Night clung to the desert like a shroud, its darkness only pierced by the gleam of stars. The Romans rode as if they were the only beasts in the world, eyes fixed on the next horizon, minds fixed on their goal.
The desert moved around us, tiny lives continuing beneath our horses’ hooves, each creature shifting a few grains with its passage, changing the world for those that followed.
By the starlight, I saw the outline of a fennec fox prowling for food, its wide ears pointing into the cold air. It pounced, pinning something that squeaked in pain beneath its paw. The fox bent to eat, but there was a rustle and the desert around it writhed. A mass of miniature legs and tails surrounded the fox and then swept over it, swamping it in the chittering, hissing shadows of the creatures on which it had preyed.
I felt a moment of sadness for the fox and then a wave of excitement for myself. Vengeance was at hand.
The atmosphere among the soldiers of the Fabulous Fifth grew tense. They glanced into the passing darkness, muttering to each other over the thud and hiss of hooves on sand. Men cried out at shadows, then subsided into embarrassed silence.
Graccus brought his horse abreast of mine. His confidence as a rider made me acutely aware of my struggle to stay in the saddle.
‘This is the place?’ he asked.
‘Nearly.’ I pointed to a darkness ahead, a silhouette against the scatter of stars. ‘There.’
Tulius snapped his reigns and shouted, challenging the others to match his pace. His men rose to the bait, goading their horses with heels to flanks, focusing on outpacing each other, ignoring the shapes menacing the corners of their vision.
Laughter and curses echoed across the sands, soldiers egging each other on to greater displays of manhood. I closed my eyes and let the sound carry me back to a time that reeked of blood and ashes. That same crude laughter, those same jagged Latin words, but beneath them my mother’s screams and my brothers’ final sobs. The sight of my father stood proud but hopeless before the sword. And the weight pressing down on me, the blood congealing on my skin, as I lay quivering beneath the bodies of our neighbours, praying not to be seen.
I had never felt so lost and helpless as in that moment. I had never seen such cruelty.
A shriek snatched me back to the present. The beast was coming. The end was nigh.
The Romans were arguing when I reached the well, Graccus and another man yelling at each other in the middle of a ring of agitated men and horses. Half the audience were turned outwards, swords drawn against the shadows that shifted across the dunes.
Tulius, arriving just before me, vaulted from his horse and strode into the circle. Without a word, he swung his helmet into Graccus’s stomach, then back into the other soldier’s face. The rest froze, staring at their crumpled comrades.
Tulius beckoned me forwards as he spoke. I was surprised to realise that I almost liked him. I felt a sense of kindred with his righteousness and with the distaste he showed for the others’ behaviour. He was the only one who looked at me with anything like real kindness and respect.
He was looking at me now, but it was clear from the way his men straightened that he was addressing them. I felt the pressure of their eyes on me, and my breath caught in my throat. I fought to keep control, to keep breathing clear and slow.
Graccus and the other soldier rose, responding sullenly to their commander’s questions. Then Graccus turned to me.
‘This one thinks you’ve led us into a trap.’ He nodded past Tulius to the other soldier. ‘He thinks that I’m in league with you.’
Tulius spoke next and Graccus translated.
‘He wants to know why there are faces in the shadows, why we can hear voices whispering our names.’
‘This is the Well of Vengeance,’ I said, summoning all the earnest drama of an elder passing down religious parables. ‘It earned the name in blood many generations ago, when a terrible crime was avenged her.
‘Those faces you see are the people you have killed. They know you are here, and they are hungry for your souls. But they cannot touch you, so long as your own blood is not shed here.’
Tulius nodded at the translation. His men seemed to relax, a few even peering into the shadows, looking for old foes. I didn’t look, for fear of a familiar face. My life had not without bloodshed.
‘The beast will be here in an hour.’ I pointed again, this time at low hills flanking the well. ‘You should be ready.’
Tulius snapped orders and the men began unloading nets and ropes. They worked in silence, listening to the screech of the creature as it grew closer. They laid their traps, hid their horses, climbed the ridge and drew their swords.
Not one looked at the shadows now swirling hungrily around their feet.
An hour before dawn, the swollen, lazy moon peered over the edge of the horizon. It framed a shape of pointed menace, writhing legs and arched tail thrashing through the air.
The creature reared, the long pincers of its fore-legs knocking against each other with hollow cracks. It skittered down the side of a dune, showers of sand rising in its wake, and headed towards the well.
A horde of shadows writhing out of the night, coalescing around the vast scorpion. They swirled across its carapace, flinging themselves against the chitinous flanks. Their target didn’t falter, a dumb beast of hunger and violence, oblivious to others’ pain and loss.
Stood between Tulius and Graccus, watching the beast approach, I felt a pressure rising in my chest. So much rested on this moment. Years of learning. Months of planning. Weeks of trudging through the desert heat.
The creature came closer, then swerved, changing course away from the well and towards one of the high dunes. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. I needed to control it, to channel it. If I lost this chance then it was all for nothing.
Anger at my own misjudgement raked my mind. I should have known that the Romans would drag it off course. It could probably smell the years of blood on their hands.
I took a step back, out of the eyeline of the Romans. I drew my knife, but my breath caught in my throat and my whole body shuddered. The blade tumbled to the ground as pain seized my chest.
I sank to my knees, fighting for breath even as I fumbled through darkness and blurred vision, desperately seeking the knife. Thoughts became broken, fleeting, the here and now scattered amid memory and desire, flashes of brutality in which I was both victim and violator. Bodies above me and blood on my hands.
A pain in my palm brought me back to the present. I focussed, channelling my will through the blade, through the cut, up my arm and into my chest, drawing one breath, then another, deep enough to restore my mind but not so deep as to draw attention.
I picked up the knife and, soft as death, made the ritual cuts. The Chant of Blood’s Longing was a faint whisper across my lips.
Over the ridge of the dune, I heard the beast respond, crying out in a voice like the rattle of skulls. It turned to the scent of my soul. It knew its prey was near, and the ground shook as it charged.
Another cry joined that of the beast. A yell of command, followed by the patter of running feet and the hiss of nets flung through the air. The beast had turned into the Roman ambush.
Shadows shifted across the dune, black tendrils reaching out of the night. Some twitched towards me and I caught them on the tip of my blade, letting the power of the place run through my blood. Others approached Graccus, mingling with his own shadow, stretching up to caress his arms, his back, his head. Vengeance, as bitter and unshakable as any drive, took hold of him.
He turned, sneering, wrenched the helmet from his head and swung it into Tulius’s stomach. The officer cried out in shock and staggered backwards as a second blow hit him in the face. He slipped on the shifting sand and fell.
Graccus snarled angry, guttural words as he laid into his commander, swinging the helmet again and again. I willed Tulius to his feet, not because I cared whether he lived, but because I did not want to see Graccus satisfied.
I had no time to wait and see what happened. Instead, I ran past them, cresting the dune. Below me, the beast was screeching and flailing, trying to throw off ropes and nets. The soldiers encircled it, straining at the ropes, holding the beast down while it tired itself out with the struggle. I dashed on, chanting Bloods’ Longing one last time as I wove a cord of blood and vengeful shadow. As I reached the beast and leapt, landing on its back, the cord a dark loop around its neck. It settled, bound by the blood that had lured it here.
The spirits of the well washed through me like cleansing waters, sweeping aside any vestige of mercy. The power passed through my arms, down the shadow line and into the beast. It shrieked and flung its claws up. Some of the Romans lost their grip on the rope. Others went flying or were dragged into range of its snapping jaws. Armour crumpled and bodies fell, their blood feeding the vengeful spirits that were now mine to command.
My heart raced at the sight.
Tingling with power, I rode the beast past the well and up the dune, crushing the Romans in our path. Graccus turned to face me, his face frozen in shock. Tulius lay battered at his feet. I pulled at shadow reigns and the beast reached out, lifting each of them in one of its claws.
‘Translate,’ I said to Graccus.
He nodded, eyes wide with fear.
‘They came to my village,’ I said, pausing long enough for Graccus’s translation. ‘Roman soldiers. Perhaps the men here tonight, perhaps others like them. They killed my family, my friends, my whole village. Other villages too, just to prove how strong your empire is.
‘But this is the Well of Vengeance, the place of blood and reversal. The power is mine now. The appetite of the spirits has been wetted. They have a taste for Roman blood.’
Darkness swirled around me, formed fleeting faces and bodies, reaching out with expressions caught between rage and lust.
‘I will ride the spirits across your empire,’ I said, swelling with power. ‘I will find your villages, your families, your friends. I will reach the very gates of Rome and shatter them with the rage of your victims. Do you understand?’
Both nodded.
‘Then go. Let them know to be afraid.’
Tulius fell to the ground. He staggered to his feet, curled over in pain from his beating as Graccus’s hands. Bent like an old woman, he hobbled to a horse and rode away into the first hint of dawn.
The spirits chastised me for my mercy, but what good was darkness without the light to see it by?
‘And me?’ Graccus’s voice was pleading. ‘Should I tell them too?’
I looked at his face, still filled with cruel calculation, and I laughed. Then I twitched at my reigns. The beast squeezed, and blood poured across the sands of the Well of Vengeance.
©March 2019, Andrew Knighton
Andrew Knighton has had over fifty stories published in magazines and anthologies including Daily Science Fiction, Wily Writers, and Steampunk Reloaded. He has not been previously published in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.