by Josh Howard
in Issue 109, February 2021
Jialen crept closer to the edge of the trees, squinting at the torchlight in the dark wolf’s-glade. She had told Ektar she would watch his Vezi’s revel but not join in, not that night—maybe not ever, depending on what she saw.
She shivered. The wolves had been cleared out of this den in her father’s youth, and the Numenti had laid plentiful wards to keep them from returning, but the thought of beasts didn’t frighten her nearly as much as the folk making merry in the clearing. What was Ektar thinking, to risk all manner of ill by sporting with Vezi-worshippers?
The only music for the torch-dance was the pattering of drums and two droning notes sawed out on a viol. Even from where she crouched, Jialen could smell the mead wafting off the revelers. Each wore a vine circlet with small curling horns of the auvu-ram. Some sat on log benches drinking while others twirled to the rhythm, a lit torch in each hand. As she watched, one fellow stumbled and nearly got a torch full in the face. The others roared laughter, pulled him onto a bench and pressed a mead-cup into his hands.
Jialen recognized Ektar. The ox was holding his own in the dance. A woman spun into him and they locked together for a moment, their torch-holding arms outstretched. The wench pressed her breasts harder into his chest and he leaned forward to kiss her. They held contact for several drum-beats before spinning away.
Jialen’s teeth ground. Everybody did that at harvest and spring dances and no one minded. But this skulking about out of sight of decent folk and inviting the notice of the dark powers…this was dirty. She hated it and wanted to slap Ektar.
The idiots finally got enough of their playing with fire and retired to the benches. Several of them jumped—along with Jialen—when they noticed the woman standing at the edge of the bonfire’s light. She stood straight but not particularly tall, her long black curls cascading nearly to her knees. A single-piece white garment and a horned circlet like the others’ were all she wore. She smiled at the gathering, and Jialen blushed with simultaneous jealousy and reverence. This was no peasant.
“Welcome, good folk,” the woman said, and Jialen edged closer than she would have dared earlier.
Suddenly she froze. The woman’s voice continued, but Jialen took no notice.
There was a man standing under the trees not ten paces from her.
His face was barely visible in the dim firelight. Jialen could make out some sort of paint or scar marring the cheek turned to her, and she silently thanked the Gods that he was staring intently at the gathering.
“—choose—“
The man’s eyes never left the clearing. Jialen supposed she was safe behind her tree as long as she kept quiet. What was he, a guard? No, he was facing the wrong direction.
He had a full head of hair and was slimly built. Even in the shadows, Jialen could tell by his bearing that he also was not of Rhillonach. Something moved near his belly, and she saw that he was preoccupied with an object held in both hands. Her heart pounding, Jialen craned her neck.
Gods preserve me. It was a head—a massive shaggy head with pointed, notched ears and two great horns that made the auvu-ram crowns of the revelers look like fawns’ nubs. It was the head of no beast she had seen, though her mother had always told her of the Vezi’s pointed ears and curving horns…
“—summon the Vezi—“ came the woman’s voice.
The man tensed. The head shifted about, and Jialen noticed he was holding the thing by the stump of its neck, his thumbs thrust into the severed trunk. Not a head, she thought dizzily. A mask.
The music began again, the drums hammering out a beat that rose and fell like Jialen’s racing heart. The man moved forward at a crouch, his dark burden at the ready. He quietly observed the proceedings while Jialen stared at his back, terrified that he would suddenly whip around, the eyes in his scarred face burning like corpselights. But he only lifted the mask and set it over his head. The squatting silhouette against the orange glow of the flames now sported a horned nightmare on its shoulders.
The drums quickened. The man crept a few steps closer. Jialen wondered that the revelers hadn’t seen him.
“Come, my lord Vezi!” the woman screamed over the drums.
No, you fools! Jialen wanted to shout. It’s not the Vezi! It’s a Thane in a mask! But when she looked toward the fire the words stuck in her throat.
The noblewoman lay naked upon her wide-flung white robe. Her black hair spilled out in every direction. Ektar lay between her legs, his shoulders and calves flexing as he thrust into her. The woman’s ragged breath gathered for another scream. All eyes were fixed upon her and Ektar, including those of the masked man who waited as still as a stone idol.
“Come, my lord Vezi!”
Jialen fled.
…
Jialen slowed as she approached her family’s hut. The shock of what she had seen began to catch up with her. She had gone straight to the cluster of tents on the outskirts of Rhillonach first and demanded to see the Numentus. The words had refused to come, then they poured out in a confused jumble. He had given her wine to calm her and told her to go home and speak to no one of it. Now she paused and put an arm against a tree to steady herself. Her breath puffed fog, then caught as she gasped.
Jialen’s heart skipped. The wine-warmth in her limbs gave way to ice.
Standing before her was a woman clothed in pale luminescence. Her white hair tossed about ceaselessly though no wind stirred. Her eyes shone like steady stars and her skin and robe were of the same ghostly hue, like moonlight embodied. Jialen had never seen her before, but she knew her. She even knew her name.
Haûn.
Helplessly, Jialen dropped to her knees and turned her face earthward. The Goddess herself—of that Jialen was sure in a way that brooked no argument—was here, with her, for what purpose she dared not guess.
“Stand.” Haûn’s voice was deep and clear, though it seemed to come from within Jialen’s head.
She stood, not daring to lift her eyes for fear of being blasted.
“Look upon me, girl.”
Jialen felt her chin rise as if drawn by another will. The Goddess stood unmoved.
“Lady Haûn,” Jialen said, “if I or mine have given offence—”
“No, child. You have seen the high-born of your people playing a farce with the low. It is their own petty strivings for power they think of. But none may make light of Him, my enemy, without Him knowing. They will soon gain His notice and loose Him, whether they will it or not.”
Jialen’s head swam. She had not stopped to wonder what motivated the young Thane and that woman that Ektar had, had… But the ways of Thanes and Kings were dark. Grandmothers frightened children with tales of the ghastly things they did. The thought of the Vezi—the real Vezi—turning his eyes on Rhillonach, on her kin and all she held dear…yes, even Ektar…
“Speak!” Haûn commanded. “Will you aid me? I give you the choice.”
“I…I aid you, Goddess? The Numentus is far better suited, wiser and holier!”
“He cannot. You left him with one who was his undoing. See.”
As if through a mist Jialen saw the inside of the Numentus’s tent with its small central fire. She saw the Numentus, a potbellied old man in a russet robe. He was speaking to someone—herself, she realized. She still clutched the wine-cup he had given her. He wagged a finger and the other Jialen nodded solemnly, then left. The Numentus stared at the swinging tent-flap for a moment, and she heard him speak aloud to no one in particular.
“If what I’ve heard tonight is true, it must not get out. There are Thanes aplenty between here and the capital. The King himself must hear of this, and from me. I trust none of them.”
“Aye, I thank the Gods you made the girl swear to silence,” came another voice.
The Numentus turned sharply. Jialen saw it was his wife who had spoken. The young woman wrapped head to foot had sat so still and silently during the exchange that Jialen hadn’t noticed her.
“And what has it to do with you, wife-of-Numentus?” the man barked.
“Quite a bit, it so happens. If she had gone to her father’s house first or simply run yelping through the village, who knows what we would have done?”
“Enough! I decide what we will do.”
“Why?”
The Numentus stared open-mouthed.
“Yes, I asked why. You bear no arms, work no fields, tend no herds…and it’s appalling how little lust was in you, husband.”
“I tend souls! I speak for the Gods, I…” The Numentus paused, then started violently. Pointing a finger, he grated out, “Who are you?”
“Me? Why, I’m your latest wife. Don’t you know me?” The woman laughed. “But no, you don’t really, do you? Your kind are too busy living without working, bending the King’s ear with your talk of souls…any spirited man or woman would wonder why you should get away with it. True, you mumble prayers that may or may not cause things to happen, but there are those who aren’t afraid to risk their sons on the battlefield, or indeed their daughters in the bed if it means getting ears and eyes where they’re needed…”
“The Thanes! You’re some Thane’s brat, wench, and you’re speaking of rebellion.”
“Indeed. And you especially should know the value of having the common folk on your side.”
“Through tempting them to vile sin! Endangering their souls, offering them to the Vezi…”
She made a sound that was half titter, half tsk. “Really, it is one thing to overawe the simple, Numentus, but quite another when you start to believe in your own bogey-man.”
“That does it. I’ll have the truth flogged out of you, witch—you and those rutting lackwits in the woods! I’ll—“ he stopped, seeing the dagger emerge from beneath the woman’s wrap.
“Wife-of-Numentus,” he said, “you don’t dare—“
“The name,” she said as she dashed forward and thrust the dagger between his ribs, “is—“
Jialen moaned as the vision faded. Once more she was standing in the dark outside her Father’s house, the Goddess before her.
“The One to whom your Numentus was pledged had turned His attention elsewhere,” Haûn said.
Tears started at the corners of Jialen’s eyes. “But what would you have me do, Lady?”
“Wield my sword.”
Jialen sobbed. “I have never held a sword!”
“Wield it you must if you would aid me. I cannot interfere directly.” Haûn now held a blade of shining silver with white fire dancing on its curved edge. “And you would do well to remember your mate, who guesses naught of his peril. My foe is the Ram of the Night, and it is not only womenfolk who need fear him.”
Jialen stared at the blade. It seemed to shiver with power like lightning frozen in the sky. Her mind shrank from the idea of touching it, much less fighting with it. But with the Numentus dead—what would Father or Mother do in her place? And if Ektar was in danger, as the Goddess said…
“As you will, Lady,” Jialen didn’t feel herself speak, but her right hand extended towards the glowing hilt. Before she could lose her resolve, she thrust her arm forward and grasped it.
At once the world changed. Strength surged through her limbs and quelled the fear in her heart. The blurring tears vanished from her vision—as did Haûn. The Goddess was nowhere to be seen. It was then that Jialen realized she could see as clearly as on a cloudless day. Her eyes seemed to give off light before which the darkness fled everywhere she looked.
“Gods preserve me,” she said aloud, then nearly laughed madly at her own words.
Holding the sword-grip at chest height, she started back towards the wolf’s-glade and got another shock. One stride carried her to the edge of Rhillonach. Then she was beneath the trees, covering distance so fast that vertigo couldn’t catch up with her. It made her think of moonbeams moving from one patch in the forest canopy to another, only in an instant rather than over the course of a night. She did laugh then, out of exhilaration, all fear forgotten until she reached the glade where the fire still glared as if in envy of Haûn’s light. She stopped when she realized she could see without having to creep as close as earlier.
The Thane and the noblewoman sat side-by-side on a log bench, mead-cups in hand. Except for the man’s horned mask, both were naked. They watched as the revelers wallowed over each other in one writhing mass on the ground at their feet. Jialen looked for Ektar but couldn’t pick him out among the thrashing limbs and fire-reddened flesh. Then she saw the smirk on the black-haired woman’s face—she who sat straight-backed and with her breasts thrust forward like some grotesque mockery of a queen. With her sharpened eyes, Jialen could make out the weals on the woman’s thighs and torso where recent lovers had exerted themselves. Jialen’s tears of rage became burning radiance, and her jaw clenched painfully.
The Thane flung his mead cup aside and turned purposefully toward the woman. She laughed and threw her arms around his neck. He pressed the muzzle of his mask into her shoulder and pushed her backward onto the log. She lay with one leg on either side of it, looking up at him with heavy-lidded expectation.
Then it happened. The woman saw something in the man’s eyes—or within the maw of the mask. A moment of confusion, then pale terror, and finally shrieking panic. She pushed at his chest frantically, then began beating at him as she screamed. The revelers either did not hear or were too far-gone to care.
Jialen could see no change in the Thane. But the woman suddenly went stiff, then limp. She collapsed with her head lolling to one side. The man stopped and stared. His breath came hard. A dull, bestial sound began to emanate from within the mask. It grew louder with each exhalation.
Some of the revelers looked up. Cries of ecstasy became shouts of horror as they scuttled backward at the sight of the dead woman—or so Jialen thought. As several followed the gaze of their companions, she realized what was frightening them more.
The man’s flesh was steaming. His ribs continued to pump in and out, the roar of mindless anger growing ever louder. He quivered and heat rose from his muscles in visible puffs. His back arched and he flung his head skyward. The mask burst asunder, and revealed something that filled the air with despairing wails from the revelers—an elongated snout with glowing red pits for eyes and glistening, twisted horns that grew and curled even as they watched. Jialen sickly noted that she could still see the scar on the Thane’s cheek. His flesh remained, but whatever existed of his soul was gone. This was the dread Ram of the Night.
The Vezi.
Her feet propelled her into the clearing before she knew what she was doing. The Vezi was eyeing his cowering worshippers as if making a choice at a feast. The joints in his clawed hands clacked as he flexed them. When the bristly head jerked upward and the eyes glared full on her, Jialen stopped dead. Haûn’s curved sword brightened of its own will and outshone the remnants of firelight.
The Vezi lowered his horns and charged. He came loping awkwardly on all fours, though with terrible speed. A slow vision filled Jialen’s mind of those cruel horns tearing her belly—then he was on her, and it was all she could do to throw herself to the side and slash wildly with the sword.
The blade glanced off the Vezi’s horns with a flash and an ear-splitting clap. He continued past Jialen, then turned, shaking his head in a rage. Spittle flew from his open lips. He brayed as he locked on her again.
Jialen regained her feet and stood with the sword outstretched as her enemy came. He cast up sod in his speed and fury. This time she anticipated him better. She twisted and curled around to hack with all her might at his neck as he passed. But Haûn’s sword struck the horns and recoiled. Jialen flew backward. The Vezi skidded to a halt and shook the fog from his head once more.
Jialen’s heart quailed. The Goddess had asked her to wield the sword, but there was no hope in the fight. She whipped her head from side to side in desperation, now thinking only of escape.
Something beneath the trees over her enemy’s shoulder slowed her panic. Darkness fled before her Goddess vision, and she saw every leaf in clear detail. And something more—a glimmering circle that twisted in an unseen wind. It seemed to serve no purpose but to get attention…and to warn. There were other circles at intervals surrounding the clearing.
Jialen turned and ran. Her enemy roared in triumph and pursued. But in no time her supernal speed brought her to the edge of the glade, and beneath one glowing disc. She raised Haûn’s sword and cleaved the disc.
The light from the other circles winked out. Gray, slinking shapes emerged from beneath the trees. The Vezi halted. The revelers clutched at each other in shock at the sight of glinting fangs and red tongues approaching from every direction.
A howl sounded—not the soul-chilling keen of the Vezi but the clear, clean howl of a wolf. Others echoed with the joy of a hunt long awaited. Jialen could not help but exult at the music of Haûn’s children. She remembered the tales of how wolves were the souls of those favored by the Goddess.
With the wards broken, a pack larger than any Jialen had ever heard of entered their ancient territory and encircled the horned thing. The Vezi tried to turn everywhere at once. Howl upon howl filled the night. It occurred to Jialen that she was watching a drama as old as the world itself—fanged hunters and horned prey.
The Night Ram lost track of the gray stalkers. While his back was turned, one broke off from the throng and leapt upon him. He bellowed and clawed at it. That left his belly exposed for others. Within moments he was lost beneath a slashing blur.
Then the Vezi burst out of the converged pack. Blood sprayed from his every limb. He landed beyond them and, to Jialen’s amazement, ran for the forest with the larger wolves in pursuit. Soon he was beyond even the sight Haûn had lent her, his enemies still nipping at his heels.
There were many wolves remaining, who now turned their attention to softer meat—a rare reward for the weaklings of the pack.
“Ektar…Ektar!” Jialen screamed. The Vezi-worshippers were dying horribly, lupines tearing off strips of their still-living flesh. She saw Ektar. His eyes were rolling with terror. Jialen drew a breath, then time slowed and sound faded. Again the world appeared misty as it had in her vision of the Numentus’s murder. She was being offered a choice, she realized. In her mind’s eye she saw the mass of pleasure-maddened bodies…Ektar on top of the noblewoman with the others watching them…Ektar kissing that dancing wench… The man she had been faithful to had betrayed her three times in a night. She imagined him born to the ground by merciless fangs, a slavering canine maw falling on his throat. His blood. She remembered the way he smiled…
She screamed his name again. Time returned to normal. He looked up and sprinted toward her outstretched arms. At any moment Jialen expected him to be tripped, to see his body torn asunder—but the wolves seemed to give way before him. He reached her and they clung to each other like two children.
Unable to bear the sight of the wolves’ feast, they turned. Haûn stood before them. The Goddess was smiling. The sword vanished from Jialen’s hand.
“Return home,” Haûn said. “My other children will not touch you—this blessing I lay upon you and yours for as long as my fire shall last.”
Jialen and Ektar bowed their heads.
“I thank you, Lady,” Jialen ventured. “But I must know…the Vezi?”
“Not even the doughtiest of my children can outrun Him. But fear not. He shall have one who has already been given to Him, and then be satisfied for the time.”
Jialen looked up curiously.
“One widowed by her own hand,” Haûn said, “one who thought Him a mere bogey-man to overawe the simple…” The Goddess smiled at the realization dawning in Jialen’s eyes. “That one shall call for help which will not come. Farewell.”
Haûn faded. Jialen supported Ektar as they hobbled away from the fire, away from the screams, into the night toward Rhillonach and home.
©January 2021, Josh Howard
Josh Howard is a lifelong enthusiast of fantasy, history, language, and mythology. He enjoys speculating about improbable causes of historical phenomena. His work has been seen in Dream Fantasy International. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.