by Lawrence Buentello
in Issue 109, February 2021
Northward Mercer fled, spurred on by the memory of gory conflict, and his loss of honor during that late engagement. A thousand of his countrymen lay dead in fields to the south, on the borders of his sovereign’s realm, having lost their lives in defense of their homeland, now to be overrun and occupied by an invading army unworthy of its treasures.
Horseless, his boots carried him through wilderness and territories unfamiliar to him; he’d lost his blade in combat before retreating with his fellow soldiers to reform their lines, but whereas they stayed their positions even unto death, he’d slipped away from their numbers, having been overcome by a failing of his character, and escaped his enemies. From a distance he attained a view of rising fires from the domiciles of his kinsmen, fires that would rage all the way to the fortification of his king.
Now he carried only a baselard to defend himself from wolves or bandits, though neither seemed inclined to follow in his steps along that path. After many days and untold miles, still trying to gain sufficient distance between himself and his conquered realm, he found himself walking into highlands as the skies darkened and mists enveloped the trees. Before he’d moved a hundred paces into the shadows rain began to fall and he found himself striding through a miserable gloom.
Struggling to see his way in an afternoon dark as eventide, he spied a figure walking ahead through the rain, and being cold and hungry hurried toward this person to inquire after shelter.
He discovered the figure to be that of a young girl, her dress heavy with the rain. In her arms she carried a wicker basket full of berries; her shoes were sodden with rain.
She seemed surprised to see him beside her and turned as if startled–
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, loudly enough to be heard through the rainfall. “I only wish to ask you where I might find relief from this weather. If only for the night.”
“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I am Mercer. What is your name, lass?”
“Caroline. From where do you come, Mercer?”
Not wishing to recount the ignominy of his desertion, he merely said, “I am a pilgrim passing through these lands on my way northward. I wasn’t expecting such foul airs. Can you assist me?”
She held her basket before her like a shield, unable to speak.
“I mean you no harm,” he said. “I’m no bandit or thief.”
“You should not be here,” she said at last. “If you do not leave now you may never be able to leave.”
“I don’t understand, lass. Is there a sheriff to appease?”
“No sheriff. Would that there were. It is something else.”
“What then?”
The girl turned and began walking again. “You should leave this place and return from where you came. It will be night soon and you mustn’t be walking in the night!”
Bewildered, he met her pace again, wiping the rain from his face. The girl seemed not to notice the water washing over her, as if she always walked in rain.
“I’ve slept out of doors these past days,” he said, “and have met no predations. I have a dagger–“
“No dagger will keep you safe tonight,” she said. Her pace increased, and now she appeared to be hurrying down the path.
“Then I must have shelter. Please, I have not seen another on this road.”
She stopped again and stared at him through the downpour. “I have pity for you, sir, and so will do for you as I can. You may come to my family’s house if you choose, and stay the night. We will share our evening meal with you, but know that you may never leave this land come morning.”
“You speak as if grave matters await me.”
“In this land, they do. The rain has continued falling for many months.”
Mercer followed the girl through the murk, glad she knew her way, for she seemed to follow across several paths that he couldn’t distinguish in the rain. Presently they fell upon a small house in a clearing, its windows opened to the humid air and smoke wafting from a burning hearth. Pools of mud surrounded its foundation, threatening to wash the structure down the hill.
She knocked carefully on the door, and the door opened. He followed her into a small room occupied by two other villagers, an older man and woman who he understood to be her mother and father. The elder man closed the door and dropped a bolt, leaving only the hearth fire to light the house.
Once she introduced Mercer to these elders, who were indeed her parents, they stared upon him curiously for a moment before returning to their chores, saying nothing of his presence. He found their behavior as baffling as the girl’s, but since he found himself beneficiary of their hospitality he left this lack of courtesy unchallenged.
Before long the elder woman, her face lined with cares far more affecting than her age demanded, removed a cooking pot from above the fire and set it on the table. The girl, having placed her berries on the table as well, gestured for Mercer to take a chair as the elder woman began spooning a vegetable stew into wooden bowls.
No grace was said, and all ate solemnly. Mercer ate his portion quickly, as many days had passed since he’d eaten an actual meal, having subsisted on roots and mushrooms during his flight.
When the meal was finished, he said, “I thank you for your generosity. Your Caroline has invited me to spend the night under your roof. With your permission, I will accept her invitation.”
“You must spend the night,” the elder man said, a fearful cast in his eyes. “You must, or you will die.”
Mercer, fearing no harm from his gentle hosts, couldn’t understand why they should feel he was in peril outside their walls. “Why should I fear dying in these lands?”
Caroline and the elder woman exchanged glances, though the mother only let her gaze fall to her bowl.
The girl said, “Because these lands have been enchanted. And all who live in this realm are damned.”
“It is not wise to speak of such things,” the elder man said, shaking his head.
“You believe yourselves to be enchanted?” Mercer had heard of such things before, but had never met their examples in life. The physical combat of warring armies was onerous enough of a hazard without encountering sorceries. “How so?”
“A witch came to these lands many months ago,” Caroline said. “At first, she offered her services to our queen, who was a fair sovereign in her rule. But this enchantress proved her motives to be malevolent, ensorcelled our queen and placed a spell over every man, woman, and child in the realm. We must do as she commands, we must serve her needs, and we may never escape these borders on pain of death.”
She smiled sadly at Mercer, then continued. “Now you have come unto these lands. Most know to stay away, and do. But some venture unwittingly, and find themselves entrapped. I fear you, too, will end your days with the rest of us.”
“You fear a witch?” He turned his head to each person at the table. “How can you abide such a thing? Accost her and bury her spells with her in the grave.”
“She is powerful,” the girl said, lowering her head. “And we are not. Are you strong enough to defeat a witch?”
Mercer felt there was no need to ponder the girl’s question, for he did not believe any enchantress could be potent enough to enchain an entire realm. How could so many people be fooled by magician’s tricks and idle threats? In his experience, common folk were often foolish.
“What has become of your queen?” he asked.
“We don’t know,” the girl said. “If she is not already dead, she is imprisoned in her own donjon.”
“Why haven’t your noble men taken this necromancer to task?”
“They are all dead, having believed they could remove this witch from her acquired throne. They could not.”
“It grows late,” the elder man said as he rose from the table. “Caroline, place more wood upon the fire.”
The girl performed the task requested by her father, while the elder man moved from window to window, throwing closed their shutters and barring their latches. In the rank humidity of the night, sleeping in the little house would surely become unbearable. But again, Mercer said nothing to insult the hospitality of the family.
“Dry your clothes by the fire,” the elder man said to Mercer. “That you may sleep warmly.”
Later that night, as he dozed by the fire, having dismissed the superstitious warnings of Caroline and her family, he came awake to a rising din from outside the house. Since all the windows and the door were bolted, he could only speculate upon the source of the cacophony, but it seemed as if huge animals were clawing ravenously at the walls of the dwelling. He knew that wolves did not clamber so, and only severely famished bears would attack a house with such ferocity.
Mercer rose in the firelight and approached the door, bending close to listen; a monstrous weight bore down upon the portal, shaking its hinges, and he fell away in amazement. Deep scratching rolled from the top of the door, as if a massive animal were clawing frantically at the threshold.
“Don’t open the door!” the girl cried. She’d left her bed and stood hurriedly throwing more wood on the fire.
“I have no desire to do so,” he said, pulling his baselard from its sheath. “What is it, girl? What’s trying to get in?”
When she turned in the light he discerned the tears in her eyes. “The rats. It is the rats she’s set upon us in the night.”
“No rat bears such qualities. No thousand rats!”
“You don’t understand,” she said. She began weeping, and presently her mother and father attended her, soothing her misery, which they could not really cure.
“The witch sends them in the night,” the elder man told Mercer. “Anyone outside their doors when they come is never seen again.”
Along an hour passed before the sounds died away, as if the giant predators outside the door had been called back into their lairs for the evening. Mercer sat sleeplessly by the fire, contemplating the reach of this supposed witch, and the terrors she rained upon the common people. Perhaps it was all an illusion–perhaps the woman only conjured sounds and great gusts of wind, and nothing at all lay beyond the doors and windows. How could any enchantress be so gifted?
The girl sat by the fire, too, having been too frightened to sleep.
“You say this witch sits on the throne in the old queen’s donjon?” he asked her.
She nodded mutely, then said, “And the donjon lies upon a hill to the east of our house. No one may trespass without her knowing, and anyone who does is never seen again.”
“She makes brave men to disappear?”
“Any who displease her quickly vanish, like the sun has vanished from these lands.”
“If I choose to see this witch, I will not let her perform her manipulations upon me.”
“Before you seek her out, consider my words. Heed all the warnings you’ve been given.”
Mercer had displayed a fine quality of cowardice in battle–an exhibition for which he felt thoroughly ashamed. Now he wondered if he should try to atone for his sins by helping the people of this realm, and the girl, who should not suffer so at the hands of some wretched conjurer. He did not believe that a single practitioner of dark arts could keep an entire kingdom in her thrall; it would be an easy exercise for a soldier to end her rule.
When first light came, muted by the unending rain, he borrowed a cloak from the elder man of the family and left for the donjon of the witch.
***
The rain fell incessantly as he walked, the pathways slippery and awash with mud. When he drew close enough, he finally spied the edifice of the donjon through the mists–a lesser fortress than that of his king, nevertheless it stood upon a promontory above the pooling rains overlooking the countryside. Climbing up the hillside proved precarious in the objectionable weather, though he eventually achieved the main gate of the fortification.
No one guarded the entrance, a strange circumstance for a house of royals. Mercer proceeded through the gate and onto the grounds of the inner bailey, marking his solitude in a place that should have been most lively with craftsmen, servants, and guards, before walking through a door to the main house of the stone donjon.
He crept along the abandoned passageways, free of the rain but now inundated by shadows, listening for voices that might lend him some indication of occupancy. But, except for the wind blowing through the high windows of the rooms, he heard nothing. He moved up narrow spiral stairways and down again, studying every room he came upon in the dull light of the morning, finding each room empty save for its regal accouterments.
Then, in a large room pierced by beams of gray light falling from majestic windows, he found a single figure sitting in a chair.
Disturbed by the sight, for as he entered the room he discovered the figure to be that of a woman enwrapped in dense white webbing, he paused to reassess his motives for trespassing the donjon. The woman, perhaps the queen herself, sat mortified, her blue eyes wide and still, alive or dead he did not know. Pressing forward, he marked both life and death in her eyes, and silent grief.
“She is a beautiful creation, is she not?”
Mercer turned to the voice, his hand upon his baselard.
In the doorway stood a maiden dressed in a lovely taffeta gown, a crown of holly in her hair; her dark eyes shone brightly even in the gloom, and her smile held a disarming beauty in its humor. This beautiful woman was the first person he’d seen since leaving the house of the peasant girl and her family, save for the poor unfortunate in the chair at his back, and though she presented no threat, he kept his guard.
“Who is this woman?” he asked, gesturing toward the seated figure.
“I believe her to be a queen,” the woman said, still smiling. “Someone possessed of great magic has enchanted her, and there she now sits, ruling only within her own thoughts, for her body moves no more.”
“Who are you?”
“I have the better claim to ask the same of you, since you have intruded in these halls. What is your name?”
“Mercer. And you?”
“I am Leigh, custodian of all you behold. Why are you standing before me, Mercer? Have you come to kill me?”
“Why do you say this?”
“You have one hand on your blade and the light of desperation in your eyes. But even if you have come to harm me, you’ll find yourself incapable of the act. You cannot strike me down by force within these walls.”
By taking two steps forward and thrusting skillfully across her throat with his dagger, he could have easily killed her–but for some reason unknown to him, when he visualized the act in his mind his body froze, refusing to accept his mental command. Now he knew she must be the witch, though he had no means to destroy her as he’d intended.
The woman, Leigh, stepped into the room and stood close to him, studying his face and body as he struggled to find the will to remove his baselard from its sheath. She touched his cheek, which he hadn’t shaven for many days, then moved around him while he stood idle against his will.
When she faced him again, she said, “You are not of this realm, for I haven’t seen you in my visions. You are dressed as a soldier, though, so you must have come from far away. And in your eyes I see great sin. Have you fled into these lands to escape punishment for some crime you’ve committed, Mercer?”
“You see things that most eyes would never see,” he said, releasing his hand from his dagger. He knew he would never be able to disable the magic preventing him from acting against her. “You must have fine perceptions, or powers of divination.”
“Or both. What sin do you carry in your soul?”
“Cowardice,” he replied truthfully. “I deserted my king’s army during battle and fled. Now I am come to your lands as a pilgrim, and will pass through if that is your wish.”
“Whatever I wish,” she said, “shall always come to pass, my lovely coward Mercer.”
She laughed brightly, again stroking his cheek.
“I find you fair of eye,” she continued. “And I am lonely in these empty halls. This queen is no companion. Since you have no place to go, I think it would be to both our benefit for you to entertain me with your company for a while.”
“As you say,” he replied, measuring his words, “I have no place to go. And you are very beautiful.”
“Yes, I see the desire in your eyes. You cannot hide your inner passions from me.”
“But how do you sustain yourself if you live alone and do not leave this place? What do you eat or drink?”
“The villagers bring my meals. Or else they die.”
“Then you are truly ruler of this land.”
“Indeed, my handsome coward.” She lay her arm on his. “Would you like to bear witness to the source of a woman’s greater power?”
Mercer nodded, and followed her from the room.
***
Down into the depths of the donjon they walked and into passageways lit only by burning braziers. These lights seemed to burn perpetually, an impossible state Mercer associated with the witch’s influence. They moved into a large room which may have previously been a prison cell, but now lay occupied by a grand landscape upon the ground.
Mercer studied this miniature countryside in awe, for the stone floor lay covered by a replica of the village surrounding the queen’s fortification; small houses dotted the hills and pastures, even to the border of the road he’d followed leading to the girl. Flickering yellow light colored the dwellings, the lakes and ponds, the winding hills.
The woman stepped between the houses while Mercer kept his place by the portal. As he watched, she lifted one of the tiny roofs from off its house and retrieved two small figurines from within, each the size of his little finger. She brought these to him, and he realized that they were carvings of people with delicately painted faces.
She said, “All of this I commissioned an artisan to construct at my behest, representing the entirety of the realm under the queen’s rule. And after forcing a census to be taken of all the people in the land, I had that same man carve a replica of every villager, until the whole of the queen’s kingdom existed in diminutive stature. Once the artisan had completed his work, I terminated his employ in a manner that ensured he would never disclose my secrets to his countrymen. And then I cast a spell over the people of such magnitude that whatsoever I do to these effigies, so, too, happens to those people. Whatever occurs within this inner realm occurs within the outer realm. If the people do not do as I command, they will surely die.”
She placed one of the figures back into the tiny house from which it came–the other figure she raised before Mercer’s eyes and summarily broke in twain.
“Someone in the village has died,” she said, then laughed as she discarded the broken figure upon the ground. “More’s the pity. You see, I hold sway over all I behold, and all must do as I say.”
“What of the monstrous sounds I heard in the night?” he said, inwardly horrified by the thought of the harm she’d just imposed on some anonymous villager. “What is their source?”
“On many nights of the month I remind those peasants of their obligations to me,” she said, stepping away from the houses and moving toward a small iron gate in the wall. He hadn’t noticed it earlier because of the shadows. “Come closer.”
He obeyed her command and stood near the rusty gate, which sat level with the floor at the stone wall. A wave of her hand brought a frightening noise from beyond the slits in the grate, and in a moment the whiskered snouts of innumerable rats fought to gain entry through the barrier–so narrow were the slits that none could enter the room, but by the increasing sounds he knew there must be vast numbers of vermin clawing at the walls.
“When I open the gate these obnoxious rodents flow most enthusiastically over my little kingdom,” she said. “Of course, I lay scraps of food between the houses to encourage their explorations. Then I call them back to the depths of the earth from where they came. Any man, woman, or child foolish enough to be out of doors at the release of these rats will never make that mistake again, for as I said, what happens in the minor kingdom also takes place in the greater world.”
“You hold magnificent power over these people,” he said, desperately trying to keep his poise. “What use do you have of me?”
“I will find many uses for you,” she replied before waving her hand again and silencing the rats. “Your soul is as black as mine, however you might deny it. You left your countrymen to die and now will be judged in the next life as a coward. Your sins have condemned you as much as mine.”
If that were true, and Mercer suspected in his heart that it *was* true, he was just as much a sinner as the woman standing before him.
“There is nothing left for you in this world, is there, Mercer?”
“No, my lady,” he said, again truthfully. “I have no place to go.”
“Then stay with me and be my consort. We will fill our days with many pleasures.”
He said nothing, but by his silence she determined his decision. He embraced her arm in his and they ascended the stairs into the pale light once again.
***
That afternoon a woman from the village brought food and drink to the donjon, staring at Mercer where he stood by Leigh’s side for a moment before completing the setting of a table. Thereafter she hurried away, ostensibly to find herself within her dwelling before the fall of night.
That evening they ate by rushlight, and Leigh told him of all the places she had visited, of all the men she had corrupted, and of all the powers she’d acquired on her way to cocooning Esa, the queen of this land, and assuming her rule over the people.
Mercer listened silently, ashamed of his inability to do as he intended for the girl and her family, but feeling some security in the woman’s company. After all, they were sharing a fine meal, and he was free of the rain; and he found her loveliness enticing. He didn’t believe he could commit any additional sins that would earn him a more severe punishment in perdition.
In the days that followed, he forgot the girl and her family as he observed the woman conducting her daily predations upon the villagers. Though he witnessed her sadistic practices without objection, he didn’t share in her enjoyment of her acts. She grew to accept him in her life, and let him share her bed, demanding his presence when she desired him, and his absence when she sought only solitude.
For his part, he only prayed for some way to atone for all his sins.
Many afternoons he stood by the gate of the donjon watching the rain fall and listening to the continual patter of drops–his mind would wander back to the battlefield, and his lack of courage in the face of death. He should have died with dignity, for now he was enchained by subservience to a depraved sorceress. Why had he chosen these paths, except for some failing in his soul? He wore his shame like a pillory, even as he partook of the comforts she provided.
Then one afternoon, as they stood by the table, a girl arrived carrying their meal in a basket in her arms, bottles slung by cords over her thin shoulders. She placed these items upon the table, and when she raised her head Mercer realized that it was Caroline, soaked with the rain and shivering. The girl’s gaze met his and her eyes widened, but she said nothing. If the woman noticed the girl’s reaction she did not mark it, and Mercer, despite his surprise, gave no sign of recognition.
When she had set the table, the girl bowed to the woman, then bowed to Mercer, so much sorrow in her eyes that he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat that evening. Now he nodded to her, in a gesture he hoped she understood, and she departed. In a moment, as he considered what he might do to free the girl of her abiding despondency, he knew he would never see her again.
As they sat for their dinner, and as he dined abstemiously, he asked the woman what would happen when there was no more food in the lands.
“The rains will not let any crops grow,” he said. “The animals will perish for lack of sustenance, and all the wine and ale will eventually be drunk. What will you do when they have no more food to bring you?”
She sipped wine from a golden chalice, a queen’s vessel, and smiled. “Then it will be time to find another realm, and another foolish sovereign.”
“What will become of the villagers?”
“When that time comes I will go down to the cellar, find their effigies within their houses and leave them out for the rats. They will not suffer long.”
He sipped his wine, considering her words. “What will become of me? Shall I accompany you?”
“I have grown fond of you, Mercer. Perhaps I shall keep you with me.”
“If you will keep me, then let us be bonded to one another, so I will always know I am betrothed to you, and so you will know that I’ll always be loyal to your wishes.”
“I would like that very much. But I cannot be blessed by clergy.”
“There are the old pagan ways, are there not? Let us be bonded by blood that we may always share our love.”
She laughed loudly, seemingly delighted by the notion of pagan rituals and blood oaths.
That evening they stood in their bed chamber in the rushlight, naked before one another–she retrieved his baselard from her dressing table and extended her hand, drawing the blade across her palm until she held a pool of blood. Then she cut the palm which he presented to her, spilling his blood into his fingers. She lay the dagger aside and, as she recited words in a vulgar language of which he had no understanding, she clasped his bloody hand in hers, completing her recitations ecstatically.
When she’d finished speaking, he found a cloth and wiped the blood from both their hands, saying, “Now we are bonded by blood, and I am yours forever, as you are mine.”
“Then let us take this world together,” she said, embracing him, “and give damnation to its people.”
When she kissed him, he felt he’d just received the kiss of death.
***
Several more days passed, during which he stood by the gate observing the rain, lost in his thoughts. Though they were now bonded, she still demanded her solitude in those times she communed with evil agents, and so he spent these times in his own quiet pursuits.
Until one night, late by the hour, he found her after her studies and reminded her to loose the rats upon the small village in the cellar below.
“I’m happy you’ve come to appreciate my talents,” she said, smiling darkly. “Enough to participate in my duties.”
“We shall share your duties this night, my lady.”
“And all the nights that follow.”
“I shall wait for you in our bed,” he told her before kissing her cheek.
When she later joined him, she pressed her body to his and said, “I left more scraps within the village this night than I usually leave, Mercer, so happy was I that you’ve decided to share in my responsibilities toward the rabble of this appalling realm. They will know greater terrors this night. You are indeed my consort.”
“It is true,” he said, staring into the darkness of the room. “I’ve come to admire the dark arts you’ve mastered, and seek to emulate your achievements.”
“How so, my love?”
“Not through my own abilities, but through yours. I have received a vision of the days to come, though not through the use of magic.”
“You’re speaking in riddles,” she said irately. “Speak plainly!”
“I see the sun shining on these lands again, and the fields bearing crops, and the people happy again. I foresee many things of the kind, for it is in my power to know these things will come to pass.”
“What is the matter with you? Are you fevered?”
“No, my love,” he said, drawing her to him. “I am only a coward seeking redemption. And in the way of finding it, I contributed to your small village this afternoon while you were occupied by your meditations. In the days following our betrothal, I carved a pair of figures in our likenesses and dressed them in the cloth stained by our blood. I left our replicas by the donjon in the cellar. More’s the pity you didn’t see us standing before you as you loosed the rats upon your stolen realm.”
“Have you gone insane?” she said, her eyes widening with horror. “Mercer, what have you done?”
But he didn’t hear her. He was wondering, in that moment, if his sacrifice might be held in his favor at his divine judgment, and was aggrieved he wouldn’t be able to see the joy on Caroline’s face when she woke to the shining of the sun.
Then a plague of rats fell through the open doorway of the room–
©February 2021, Lawrence Buentello
Lawrence Buentello’s work has appeared in Compelling Science Fiction, Hypnos, Weirdbook, Stupefying Stories, and other publications. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.