The Warrior's Tale

SUMMARY:
Captain Rali Emilie Antero and her elite corps of amazons, the Maranon Guard, must embark on a suicide mission with the wizard Gamelon on a hunt for an evil wizard who possesses a doomsday spell capable of destroying all civilization. Rali's search takes her to the end of the world and beyond -- but only in the uncharted waters of her own soul would she find the power to defeat the wizard and return home in triumph.

THE
WARRIOR'S
TALE

By Allan Cole and Chris Bunch

Published by Legend Boob in 1995
1
3579
108642
Copyright © Allan Cole and Christopher Bunch 1995

Allan Cole and Christopher Bunch have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Ad, 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in hardback in the UK in 1994 by Legend

Random House UK Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

Random House Australia (Pty) Limited 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia

Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland Road, Glenfield Auckland 10, New Zealand

Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited PO Box 337, Bergvlei, South Africa

Random House UK Limited Reg. No. 954009 [ISBN 0 09 946421

Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by Cox and Wyman

Book One

The Chase

One

Demon at the Gates

I
am captain Rali EmilieAntero
, late of the Maranon Guard. I am a soldier and a soldier I intend to remain until the Dark Seeker slips my guard. Like most soldiers I praise firm ground under my boots, well-made and well-tended weapons and a hot bath and a hot meal after a long forced march. In short, I'm of practical mind and trust common sense over a wizard's blatherings.

For two years, however, I trod the wooden decks of a ship-of-the-line. I fought with rusted blades and was glad we had them. I bathed in cold seas and ate
what
I could,
when
I could. I was lost in the uncharted Western Ocean, and doubted I'd ever see my home again. As for common sense, it was nearly my undoing; and it was trust in a wizard and magic that saved me.

My exploits - and those of my soldiers - have been praised by many. Mythmakers have already coined golden tales of our epic chase across thousands of miles to end history's greatest evil. The stake, they say, was destiny itself, with all civilization hanging in the balance. Truth has been sorely wounded in these myths and with it the lessons learned from so much bloodshed. Without those lessons, if someday darkness threatens again, we may find ourselves disarmed. Besides, I think you'll discover in this case the truth makes a more stirring tale than its prettier sister.

But before you enrich that thief at the bookstall for these adventures, I have a caution: I am a woman. If you object, keep your coin and depart. I shall not miss your presence. All others are welcome to my hearth - this journal. If it's cold, stoke the fire and warm your bones. If you thirst, there's a hot jug of mulled wine just
by the hearth-stone. If you hunger, shout up the mess steward for that cold joint I had her put by. Your company is my pleasure. My Scribe warns me some beseeching of the gods and goddesses of journal writing is in order here. But I've my own deities to keep content and they're a jealous lot. I've told the old fool a sword beats a quill any day, so the gentle gods of ink are out of luck. My prayers are saved for those who keep my blood in my skin, and
that
tight and whole about my bones.

At the outset, I gave the Scribe one further order. The words he writes must be mine and mine alone. I do not give a dry wineskin if he objects to my choice of phrases. I
will
speak the truth - be it bald as his pate, or plain as that pale, chinless thing he calls a face. The truth doesn't need a Scribe's garlands to sweeten its path. But this fellow is a stubborn, quarrelsome sort - not unlike the three I've already dismissed. I've told him if he persists, I'll cut off his head and mount it on a post outside my door as a warning to his successor. The Scribe says he fears more for his reputation than his head. He keeps babbling about Scholarship and Art. This is a
history,
he insists, not a barracks' yarn.

I claim the opposite and see no shame. For in arms this story began and in arms it ended. In between there's many a fallen warrior to mourn and many a deed to honour.

It's bad luck to kill a Scribe. Besides, he works for my brother, and I've promised Amalric to return him in good condition. In the interest of family peace I'll let him live. And I hereby warrant all blame for what follows is upon my head and I so warn the reader.

This then, is my tale.

There are those who claim there were evil omens by the cartful on the morning my story begins: nursing mothers whose milk suddenly soured; a two-headed piglet born to a tavern keeper's sow; newly sharpened swords mysteriously gone dull at the Armoury; a witch whose bone-casting cup shattered in mid-toss. There's even a yarn about an Evocator who went mad and turned his wife and mother-in-law into a matched pair of oxen.

I couldn't say. On the day in question I woke with a blazing hangover. It took a long and agonizing moment to orient myself. In happier times I'd have been lying on the big soft bed in the charming home that was my due as commander of the Maranon Guard. Next to me would have been the beautiful Tries. Ahead would be a day that started with a bit of a tickle and a snuggle, a hearty breakfast, and a brisk hour of exercise with the steel-muscled women who make up the Guard. Instead, I found myself in a narrow, bachelors' quarters room, cramped on an iron cot
...
and very much alone. I'd fled my own home three weeks before after our final, angry row. And the previous evening I'd seen my former lover in the company of a fellow Guardswoman with a notorious reputation. She was considered darkly handsome by some, but to my mind she was greasy, wanted bathing and had the shadow of a budding moustache on her upper lip. She was sure to be the ruin of my innocent Tries.

I'd treated my wounded feelings with first one jug of hot spiced wine, then another until evening became late night, a blur of loud song, alley stumblings, perhaps a fight, and finally the release of falling stuporous upon that hard bed.

I enjoy strong drink - but rarely to excess. The goddess blessed me with a quick, powerful body, eyes that can count the lice in the feathers of a distant sparrow and a clear, agile brain. This is no boast, but only the particulars of the gifts I was born with. I did nothing to earn these things, so have always seen it my duty to keep all in as fine a fighting order as the weapons I carry. Drink is as great an enemy to the body and mind as dirt and rust are to a sturdy blade.

All these things I told myself, as Madame Shame hounded me from the bed and I put my bare feet on the cold stone floor. As a thousand booted troops marched through my head and a thousand more squatted on my tongue, rebellion broke out in my belly, and I rushed for the chamberpot to surrender my innards. As I knelt there making a drunkard's penance, it suddenly came to me this was my mother's feast day. Each year, on the anniversary of her death, my family gathers at Amalric's villa to honour her memory. I retched again as Dame Guilt-that old fishwife - shrilled with joy at a new weakness revealed.

Drunk on
this
day, of
all
days, she a
sked. I'm not drunk, damn you! I snarled back. I'm only
suffering
from drink. It was Tries's fault, the slut! Go ahead, blame that poor girl, Dame Guilt whined. Meanwhile, your mother's ghost will flee your foul breath and be forced into the company of strangers. She'll wander the earth mourning the low state her darling daughter has fallen into.

'Begone, damn you!' I bellowed. Then I groaned, for I'd shouted aloud and another angry mob charged about my belly. As I hunched over the chamberpot, the door swung open behind me.

'I see we're at prayer to the porcelain goddess,' came a sarcastic voice. 'You are an inspiration to us all, my Captain.'

I wiped my chin, came to my feet, and with as much dignity as I could muster, turned to confront my new challenger. It was Corais, one of my chief legates. She was slender and wiry and reminded me of a cat - especially the way she grinned and toyed with her game before she ate it. At the moment, I was her mouse, and she was hugely enjoying my misery.

'Leave off, Legate,' I growled. 'I'm in no mood for sarcasm.'

Corais's grin only grew wider, sharp white teeth flashing behind sensuous lips, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. 'I never would've guessed, Captain,' she said. 'You hide your troubles so well I doubt there's a woman in the Guard who knows Tries has banned you from her bed
...
and taken up with another.'

I slumped on the cot, defeated. 'Don't tell me,' I moaned. 'I was shouting it from the rooftops, wasn't I?'

'Not shouting,
exactly
,' Corais said. 'But you certainly were in good voice. And although our fair city's roofs remained safe, Polillo
did
have to drag you down from the water tower on the parade-ground.'

As I picked at this new scab of humiliation, another voice joined us. It rumbled down the hallway like distant thunder:

'Who speaks my name?' The voice was followed by heavy bootsteps and an immense form filled the doorway. The speaker continued: 'By the goddess who made me, I swear if I catch someone talking behind my back, I'll cut off her left tit and have it tanned for my purse.'

It was Polillo, who, with Corais, was my other chief legate. As she said the last words, she ducked under the doorway, and strode into the room. Polillo was well over seven feet tall, with amazingly long shapely legs and a perfectly proportioned figure padded just enough to hide ropy muscles that became steely knots when she hefted her battle-axe. Her skin was nearly as fair as mine, and where my hair was golden, hers was closer to a light brown. If she'd been a courtesan instead of a warrior, Polillo would've soon made her fortune.

When she saw it was me sitting on the bed, she was instantly taken aback. 'Oh
...
I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't know—'

I waved her to silence. 'I'm the one who owes apologies all around,' I said. 'But if you really feel the need - the line starts behind the chamberpot.'

Polillo boomed laughter and clapped me on the back, nearly breaking my shoulder with her good humour. 'You just need a good fight to set you straight, Captain,' she said. 'And unless those snivelling Lycanthians turn coward, you'll get it soon enough.'

The mention of Lycanth opened the door to responsibility. I groaned to my feet, stripped off my sleeping tunic and padded to the basin. A servant had crept in while I slept and there was a pitcher of still-steaming water, perfumed with a cleansing aromatic on a pedestal next to the basin.

I called over my shoulder to Corais, 'What's the news?'

In the mirror, I saw Corais shrug. 'No news, really. Just a lot of rumours
...
some good
...
some bad. The only thing that's certain is we're still on the road to war.'

Three weeks before, the Archons of L
ycanth had tossed down the gauntl
et - sending out a warfleet to sever our links with our allies and harass our trading ships. Their action had come the very day Tries and I'd gone our separate, stormy ways. And as I speak these words to the Scribe, I realize there was no coincidence. My profession was at the heart of our quarrel, and since my profession is war, the news from Lycanth fell like a sword between us.

'War might be certain,' I said to Corais, gloomy, 'but what's not is whether our exalted leadership will allow the Maranon Guard to serve.'

Polillo sputtered. 'But we're the finest soldiers in Orissa. I'd match any
one
of us against any ten men from any barracks or drill field in the city. Why, in the name of Maranon, wouldn't they let us fight?'

She was only exaggerating our abilities a
little
, but the answer to her question was in my mirror, as I saw the reflection of my body. Inside, I was a warrior. But in a world commanded by men, the outside made me something less in their view. I saw the tilt in my long neck and knew it to be dainty in appearance - never mind the cables that leaped up when I hefted my sword; my skin has always been my pride: it's pleasing to the eye and touch, but suffers
little
from heat, cold, or hard exercise; although I'm past thirty summers, my breasts are firm and high, with nipples of virginal pink; the tuck of my waist is sharp; my hips, although narrow, flare like a bell; and finally, I saw the golden triangle between my thighs that marked my sex.

It was unlikely the Magistrates would let us fight for three - for them - very good reasons: (i) We were women; (2) We were women; and (3) We were women.

Everyone in Orissa knows
of
the Maranon Guard, but few know much about it - other than the obvious fact it is composed solely of women. We are an elite unit whose beginnings stretch back into the city's dim history. Our usual force is five hundred souls, although in war it's reinforced to nearly twice that number. We all praise the name and pledge our lives to the service of Maranonia, the Goddess of War. We must forswear men upon entering the Guard - although, for most of us, this isn't much of a strain. I'm not unusual in my taste for a woman's company, and a woman's love. Besides, in this so-called civilized age we live in, the Maranon Guard is the only world a woman
can
escape to if she does not wish to be wife, mother, or whore. Among those who still yearn for a man's bed, the trade-off is certainly not worth the price of a mounting.