After The Fall: Clissa's Lay

Prologue.

A millennium ago, during the Age Of Expansion, the huge starship ‘Good Hope’ had disgorged its cargo of colonisers onto a deceptively Earth-like planet, a process which those colonisers nicknamed ‘The Fall’.

The colonisers dutifully established settlements and bio-engineered embryonic Earth plants and animals to flourish in the alien environment of the planet which they called Newhome. From the surface of that distant planet, they faithfully beamed signals of their success. There was no reply. So they watched the sky, and waited... and waited...

Within a very few years they began to split into factions; those who stubbornly clung to the rapidly failing technology which they had brought with them, and who still saw their prime task to be continued preparations for the arrival of the main colonisation fleet; and others who vehemently insisted that they must adapt themselves to this new life on Nuome.

Even in the first generation there were fanatics on both sides.

Within a few generations the descendants of those fanatics had turned principle into religion.

Yet, however hard they prayed, no more ships ever came.

Those first colonisers never even doubted that all the established laws of Earth science must hold true on this planet. Their empirically trained minds could never have grasped the significance of the subtle elemental differences which the planet was concealing, holding in store for their descendants...

Left to their own devices they resorted to all of the other traditional occupations of mankind, including one of the oldest of them all...

The consequences, however remained the same...

Chapter 1: The Road To Keldale.

Part 1 - The End Of Summers.

It had been the longest, bleakest winter ever. This winter had started before the first snows fell.

It had been started the day in late autumn when the Captain of the Royal Guard and a score of his men had ridden unquestioned into the castle. They had seized Lord Odanis’s wife and family, put them in chains, and led them away.

‘Odanis is dead,’ the captain had cried as he rode out through the warriors’ compound, the men, women and children there all staring in disbelief, ‘he has committed the most vile of treasons, and is stripped of all rank. Lord Heldrek is your new lord. You are all commanded to await his arrival, then pledge a fresh allegiance to him.’

Then they were gone, the final clashes of their hooves ringing hollow in the gateway.

‘Treason?’ someone had muttered. ‘What treason?’

There was no answer.

The fear had begun then.

‘Where are our men?’

‘What will become of us?’

‘What will happen to the Lady Settana and the children?’

The first answers had come then. ‘They will be flayed alive for his treason.’

‘It might just be slavery for them, if they’re lucky.’

‘Unlucky you mean! Think what will happen to the girls.’

Standing alone amongst the frightened crowd was a tall, skinny girl in her mid teen years, her blond hair plaited back in a single waist length braid - Clissa, the only child of the Warrior Clirrad. Clissa thought about the fate of those girls and shuddered in horror.

But the young Clissa gave little more thought to the fate of Odanis’s family. An emptiness had already begun to consume her. What of Odanis’s warriors, what of her father? She prayed for his safe return, prayed with all her heart, straining to will him to ride back through the compound gate with a welcoming smile on his face as she ran to greet him.

The next day the winter deepened. The army of Lord Odanis rode back into the silent compound through swirls of falling leaves. The air of defeat hung heavy upon them. They rode with their heads bowed, in no military order, many dragging litters behind their horses, bearing the wounded.

‘There are so few of them!’

‘Where are the rest?’

The fear rose in Clissa as she looked for her father. She spotted Lensad first. She ran up to his horse, dreading the answer, but the question tumbling out.

‘Where is my father?’

Lensad didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Be brave, my little warrior, for your father was. He died valiantly, like a true warrior, honouring The Code and his oath.’ He looked briefly at her, the pain bright in his eyes. ‘It was quick, Clissa.’

Then the winter had consumed Clissa. Her courage had failed and she turned away, sobbing her heart out. She was not alone in her grief that day.

* * *

For everyone in the compound the winter had now deepened still further. Over the following days the tale had gradually unfolded, of how Lord Odanis had not been seeking outlaws at all, how he had secretly been trying to seize the throne, and how his plan had been thwarted at the desperately fought Second Siege Of The Northernmost Tower. How over a score of the men had fallen to a powerful magic of fire and light. How Prince Lynakris had slain Odanis in personal combat. All the time the terrible word was left unspoken, but was upon everybody’s lips... Treason.

There would be no ballads to honour the bravery of Odanis’s warriors who had fallen obeying their oaths, there would be no fine funerals, nothing but a simple mound in a far away field to cover their pillaged and defiled remains. Even though they had known nothing of it, nor even had cause to suspect it, they had all died traitors.

That truly struck Clissa hard. Her father had been the bravest and most honourable of warriors. But now they would call him traitor. She had wept bitter tears at the cruelty and injustice of it. In her grief she had sought solitude, and looked for solace in the well worn pages of her father’s book, The Book Of The Heroes, in the valour and honour of the legendary heroes of Ryadur. But those tales which had always entranced her now rang hollow. Her father would never rank with Bowen, or Farlan the Slayer, or Hynaris the Heroic. They were heroes... he was called... Tears of loss and despair and shame coursed down her cheeks.

There was another reason why Clissa sought solitude, a private reason, a reason she dared reveal to no-one, a secret which she had kept hidden even from her father since puberty, a secret which added the cruellest of twists to her grief, and which she was forever terrified she would accidentally betray to the others. She prayed fervently to the gods to release her from her affliction, but still the light danced in her head, the blinding headaches came, and she trembled in terror at what manner of release they might seek. Thus, whenever possible, she remained inside the curtains of their painfully empty sleeping booth, so that no-one should see her if she swooned, and no-one would see if anything more damning happened. To her relief, the others all made the obvious assumption.

‘She worshipped him you know?’ she heard a woman’s voice hiss beyond the closed curtain.

‘Aye, he was a good man,’ came the whispered reply.

Alone Clissa wept in the small private space she had shared with her father.

To Clissa the winter seemed to drag on for ever, one endless empty day merging into the next, and the bitter cold and bleakness matched the hollow emptiness in her heart. Lensad, her father’s friend, had tried to comfort her... but there was no comfort to be had. Along with everyone else in the compound she was living in a void, empty of purpose or future... awaiting the arrival of their new lord.

‘Odanis always thought Heldrek a pompous fool,’ Captain Weller opined.

‘But he remained loyal,’ someone responded. ‘Perhaps that is virtue enough?’

Lord Heldrek did not rush to claim his new fiefdom. The first snows fell. The passes closed, and he had not come. Above the compound the snows crept remorselessly down the mountainsides until the towering peaks of the Barrier Mountains were entirely glazed white. For the surviving warriors, and the widows and orphans of the fallen, it was the longest, coldest and most miserable winter in their combined memories, as they waited despondently in the snowbound compound to hear their destiny.

Like the other widows and orphans, Clissa clung to a single shred of succour. It was beholden upon a lord or his heirs to maintain the families of warriors who had fallen upholding their sworn oaths.

Not until the snows began to thaw in the spring did Lord Heldrek arrive. He rode through the compound arrogantly, a big, portly man with a close cut fuzz of beard around his face, well wrapped in an expensive cloak of imported seadog fur, riding a fine charger and surrounded by two score of warriors wearing his garish light blue livery. He did not stop, nor speak a single word to the silent crowd assembled there, but rode on to the tower of the castle. His men disappeared through the castle gate. The warriors who had loyally stood their guard there were dismissed to the compound, the great doors slammed shut behind them, and new men garbed in light blue manned the battlements.

Again the men, women and children in the compound waited, pensive, uncertain, for the pronouncement of their fate.

The following morning Lord Heldrek sent a blue-coated warrior to the compound with his command.

Everyone lined up, all hurriedly groomed and dressed in their best clothes, waiting to meet their new lord and to hear what was to become of them. They stood silent in the cold of the spring morning, mothers cuddling their children; and he kept them standing, one hour after the next. Then, as the sun climbed to its zenith, Heldrek at last rode down from the tower, surrounded by his men.

He reined his charger and scanned the silent, pensive crowd disdainfully.

‘You are all traitorous scum!’ he barked. ‘Had I been the Crown Prince I would have commanded all of you enslaved!’

‘My Lord,’ a warrior protested, ‘we knew naught of any treason...’

Heldrek went purple. ‘You! Be gone from my lands! No man contradicts my word!’

The silence hung heavy as the warrior turned and walked away. Heldrek’s horse snorted loudly, as if in approval of it’s master’s draconian decree. The fear amongst the crowd grew.

‘Those who held rank under the traitor Odanis, make yourselves known to me.’

Weller and the two surviving under-captains stepped forward.

‘You are dismissed. Collect your possessions and leave. Now.’

The men turned and left, their families following them, all stunned into silence.

‘All those warriors who will not have their oath to me truthsayed by a priest, take your people and go.’

There was an unhappy stirring in the crowd. People looked uncertainly at each other. Who could honestly confess that they had willingly made an oath of loyalty to this arrogant man? The crowd gradually began to thin further.

‘Those amongst you who are widowed, or orphaned or crippled, collect your possessions and go,’ Heldrek sneered, ‘I am not running some refuge for the destitute.’

The last point of surety in Clissa’s world crumbled.

Beside her, Lensad spoke out. ‘My lord, it is beholden...’

Heldrek purpled again. ‘Naught is beholden upon me with regard to the dependants of traitors! You, be gone!’

Lensad wrapped his arm around Clissa’s shaking shoulders. ‘Come, my little warrior,’ he stated firmly, ‘how could any man of honour make an oath to a man who does not honour his own obligations.’

So Clissa packed her possessions in a carrying bag and a blanket, and, beside Lensad, followed the steady trickle of people walking to the outer gate.

Lensad considered her loaded blanket. ‘You are carrying your father’s book?’ he asked.

Clissa nodded.

‘A book is very heavy,’ Lensad pointed out.

‘The Book Of The Heroes is my father’s spirit, and that is no burden to me at all,’ Clissa replied, a tremor in her voice.

‘Yet he was also my true friend, and so I would also honour him,’ Lensad replied, and took the blanket from her.

A group of warriors garbed in light blue were already guarding the gate. They beckoned Lensad and Clissa to halt.

‘Your spear, sword and dagger, warrior,’ they demanded.

‘What?’ exclaimed Lensad.

‘They are the property of Lord Heldrek, as are your helm, breastplate, surcoat and cloak. Hand them all over.’

‘You would leave me unarmed?’

‘Lord Heldrek wants no armed men roaming his lands.’

‘I am a warrior like you, and am sworn to protect this warrior’s daughter by the Code of the Warriors!’ Lensad protested angrily.

There were some unhappy glances between Heldrek’s men.

‘You must protect her with your fists then,’ one of the men informed him. ‘Now yield your arms and colours.’

Outnumbered, with no other possible recourse, Lensad grudgingly complied.

‘What of the girl?’ another of the men demanded, pulling Clissa’s cloak aside. ‘She’s also wearing a dagger.’

Clissa could bear these indignities no longer. She took a step back and grasped the hilt of her dagger. ‘This was a gift from my father, and is mine, not your stinking lord’s!’

‘Have you proof of that?’ one of the men demanded. ‘A fighting dagger is an unlikely gift to a girl.’

Clissa glared at him, her face red with fury. ‘You have my word,’ she shouted, ‘the word of a warrior’s daughter, and that should suffice if you are truly warriors.’

The men hesitated.

‘Else take it from me with your swords,’ she yelled, ‘and I shall prove what a fitting gift a fighting dagger is from a warrior to his daughter, and prove that you are truly honourless scum like your master!’

The men glanced uncomfortably in the direction of their lord, nervous that he might have overheard the girl’s outburst.

‘Would you treat your own daughters like this?’ Lensad demanded scornfully. ‘Or have them treated so?’

The blue-coated warriors looked elsewhere. Plainly they had but limited taste for this work.

‘I am no cursed Petrur,’ grumbled one of the men, turning away.

‘Pass on,’ another of them commanded.

Together Clissa and Lensad walked out through the gate. As her anger gradually faded a little, something began to puzzle Clissa. The Noble Petrur had been Lord Odanis’s swordmaster and personal bodyguard. What had Heldrek’s man meant: ‘I am no cursed Petrur’?

For a while they trudged away from the compound in silence. Clissa felt dreadful, for Lensad had given up his employ for her sake. It took all of her willpower, but she knew what was the right thing to do, and steeled herself to do it. She unbuckled her belt and presented the sheathed dagger to Lensad.

‘You will need this to protect me, warrior,’ she choked.

Lensad looked pained. ‘I cannot take that, Clissa, it was a gift from your father.’

Clissa felt the tears in her eyes. ‘I still have his book, Lensad, and that was his soul, and means more to me. He gifted this to me, and now, through me, he gifts it to you, his closest friend, that you might protect me with it.’

His expression still pained, Lensad accepted the dagger and strapped it to his own belt. ‘Then I accept the gift both from my friend Clirrad and from his daughter, and shall treasure it, and will use it to guard you with my life,’ he whispered.

They walked on in an awkward silence for a while.

Eventually Clissa asked quietly: ‘What will you do now, Lensad?’

Lensad snorted. ‘Travel some. Any employ round here will be fiercely contested, even as a merchant guard. I reckon more than a half of us have left.’ He paused, pondering. ‘I have a mind to head north, to seek employ with Denagart.’

Clissa blew through her teeth, both at the distance involved, and the awesome nature of the employ Lensad was seeking. Prince Denagart of the Northern Princedoms was famous, a modern day hero in his own right, and his forays to protect his father’s domain from the hill barbarians of the north were the stuff of ballads.

‘You think me unworthy?’ he chided her lightly.

‘Of course not,’ Clissa protested, blushing helplessly, ‘but it is so far.’ She hesitated. ‘And will Denagart not give preference to warriors of northern birth?’

Lensad shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I have the guild tattoo, and am tested in battle against the mountain outlaws, and that must be much akin to his own campaigns; and, as he is a true fighting prince, he will always be seeking new men...’

Clissa swallowed. To replace those lost in battle!

‘What of you, my little warrior?’

‘I travel with you,’ Clissa replied firmly.

There was an awkward silence. At length Lensad spoke, but softly. ‘I would truly like that, my little warrior, for you have been all but a daughter to me; but you are not my daughter, and you are of the age, and you grow ever more attractive, and I am a man. If you lived with me... then... then you would test my honour overmuch, and I would not shame myself by dishonouring the memory of my truest friend, your father.’

Clissa stared at him in bewilderment. Me, attractive?

She had always thought herself more a boy than a girl, and had always tried to be the son her father had always wanted, and who had died at birth, along with her mother. She looked down at herself. During her fifteenth year she had grown slim, and quite tall for a girl, and had blond hair, but she was scarce curvaceous... scrawny would be more accurate, she decided ruefully. Her face? From what she remembered it was not ugly... but attractive...? She squirmed in acute embarrassment. Lensad thought of her like... that...?

‘You have family, I think?’ Lensad asked, shattering her tangled thoughts. ‘I remember your father talking of a brother?’ he prompted her.

‘In the Northern Princedoms, at a town called Highcrosse. His name is Harrad. But... but I have never once met him!’

‘But he is your kin, and that is where you properly belong. If that base swine Heldrek does not know his duties I’m sure Clirrad’s brother will. I will give you honourable escort to High Arlesbridge, and from there see you safe on your way to your kin.’

There was no argument. Lensad would brook none.

Thus, day after day, side by side, they slogged resolutely northwards, shivering at the cold as they toiled through the melting snow which still lay on the summits of the highest mountain passes that divided the Princedom of Eastern into a patchwork of fertile valleys.

Though they shared Lensad’s cramped bivouac sheet each night, rather than fritter their limited silver on the luxury of accommodation at the inns they passed, always there was a space between them, a slender but inviolable space forged of Lensad’s words and his honour.

Together they trudged over the Northern Pass, now heading westward from Heldrek’s new domain into Prince Lynakris’s fiefdom. Clissa knew little of the geography of these lands, but a terrible concern began to trouble her as they descended the Northern Pass towards the villages and towns scattered round the wide valley stretching into the distance below them. The ancient round tower standing an empty guard over the entrance to the pass intensified the dread growing within her, to which she finally gave voice.

‘This is the route you took... back... last fall?’ she asked nervously.

Lensad nodded and pointed to the far distance, north-westwards. ‘Over there is the Northernmost Tower. Before it lies the town of Northend. I’m hoping to find a travelling company there heading west and north, over the Hardnose Pass, and to gain temporary employ as a merchant guard. That will see us comfortably to the border, and perhaps, if the gods favour us, to High Arlesbridge.’

Clissa said nothing, but inside her the unease turned to dread. They were heading towards that dark place where her father had died.

So they entered the town of Northend, now renamed Royal Northend for the loyal duty it had done to Prince Lynakris last year - as the town guard at the gate insisted on proudly informing them.

* * *

Now Clissa sat on the edge of a horse trough in the market place, sunning herself and resting her tired legs, while Lensad sought information about any travelling company being formed. As she relaxed, she glanced around curiously, and something caught her eye. A prosperous looking inn across the market place was having its sign removed. That puzzled Clissa, for the sign looked to be in good repair, two carefully carved and gilded merchants in their richly painted robes with a loaded packhorse between them. As soon as the old sign had crashed down, a new post was hauled erect. Atop it was a carving of a plainly dressed but shapely young woman, heroically posed holding a fighting dagger high. The girl’s red hair was carved very short, scarce collar length, but set on her head was a circlet of intertwined leaves, gilded silver like the blade of her dagger. Clissa gaped in disbelief. But that was the Hero’s crown of honour! How could any girl ever be depicted wearing that? If a girl was granted a hero’s crown of honour, that would make her... a heroine? Yet there were no heroines at all in her father’s book, saving for the courageous Princess Leana, Bowen’s wife, of course.

Clissa had always dreamed of setting out upon some noble adventure, some heroic quest, like the heroes of ancient times in her father’s book, and, fascinated by this statue, she strolled across. A prosperous looking man, most likely the innkeeper, was overseeing the work.

‘Your pardon, sir,’ she asked, ducking herself respectfully, ‘but who is the woman?’ She pointed.

The innkeeper seemed surprised at her ignorance. ‘That? That is the Heroine Tria of course.’ Seeing her incomprehension he added by way of an explanation: ‘Tria of Hammer Pass?’

Clissa shook her head blankly.

‘The Nuomist girl from the Percussor Vordan’s company of heroes,’ the innkeeper explained. ‘The courageous girl who, all alone, defended the Crown Prince from Odanis’s evil swordmaster in the Northernmost Tower?’

The hollowness consumed Clissa. Then this girl who had statues erected to her and was called a heroine had fought against her father who was her own hero.

‘She actually stayed here, in my inn, recovering from her wounds...’ the innkeeper continued proudly, then faltered, stared at the statue and cursed. ‘Damn! Wounds! The bloody wood carver has forgotten the bloody wounds! I specified bloody wounds!’ He glared angrily at the statue. ‘I suppose wounds can be painted on, but there’s something else wrong, but I can’t quite put my blasted finger on...’ He stared at the statue in puzzlement, then groaned. ‘Oh, damn! Of course! Tria is wrong-handed! He’s put the bloody dagger in her right... er... wrong bloody hand!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Clissa said, and hurriedly retreated.

She did not want to hear any more of this foreign girl’s heroism... even if she was wrong- handed. She seated herself on the horse trough again, facing away from the carving of the girl who had fought against her father, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at the statue.

Though the sight of it made her ache with discomfort, it also raised another thought. So there were people who everyone called heroes now, not just Prince Denagart, but ordinary people, people like herself... and a girl who was called a heroine... a wrong-handed, red-haired Nuomist girl, a lowly servant by her garb, and a criminal to have had her hair cropped.

She studied the face on the statue. The girl looked resolved and defiant. Surely she had not faced the Swordmaster Petrur armed with naught but a dagger? Petrur was famous, and all of Odanis’s warriors had been cautious of him, even her father, for he loved to prove his prowess, and not with blunted practise blades... and none could match his skill. Perhaps that was what Heldrek’s warrior had been referring to as she had left the compound at Newcastle? If this girl Tria had really faced Petrur in combat, then truly she deserved the title of heroine. But if a lowly Nuomist serving girl could become a heroine...?

Lensad returned, looking relieved, and shattering her thoughts. ‘The gods smile upon us, Clissa. There is a company forming to travel over the Hardnose Pass, heading for Gallads Market, then north to Northfort and the Northern Princedoms. My guild tattoo has worked its magic and I have employ, and we have the shelter of the merchant’s storerooms. That means a roof over our heads tonight, my little warrior.’

‘He pays you well?’ Clissa asked.

Lensad shook his head. ‘Naught but food and shelter for us both, but that will suffice. We shall need to spend almost none of our savings before we reach High Arlesbridge. Come, let us claim our place...’ he grinned wryly ‘...seek out the softest piece of floor.’

Clissa grinned back, picked up her possessions and followed him across the market square. As she did so, she couldn’t stop herself looking at the statue again. Nor could she stop the question.

‘Did you and my father fight against that girl?’

‘What?’

Clissa pointed. ‘She is called Tria, Tria of Hammer Pass. She fought Petrur in the Northernmost Tower.’

Lensad turned to look and shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of her. But I saw no girls there, two assassins, some warriors and a cursed magician... no girls.’ He considered the statue. ‘She’s supposed to have fought Petrur?’ he queried sceptically, then snorted. ‘He wasn’t with us. She must be fable then... or dead.’

‘Oh,’ said Clissa. She kept her peace. But the innkeeper had claimed she had stayed at his inn, which he was renaming in her honour...? Perhaps he was lying? She glanced back at the statue of the Heroine Tria of Hammer Pass one more time. So this girl who had become a heroine had never fought against her father at all? That made everything about her seem so much... better. Clissa decided to try one more question. All of the Princedoms of Ryadur were full of mountain passes.

‘Where is Hammer Pass?’

Lensad shrugged. ‘I fear I’ve never heard of it. It could be anywhere.’

‘Oh,’ said Clissa.

She glanced back once more. I wonder what happened at Hammer Pass that she earned that name? she mused.

* * *

It was several days before the merchants’ companies were due to be assembled. In that time Clissa could not help but overhear the stories. How it was from this very town that the Heroine Tria and her companions had set out for the Northernmost Tower to rescue Crown Prince Felaris, how the townsfolk here had bravely manned its walls and denied sustenance to Black Odanis, and how it was from here that Prince Lynakris the Loyal had ridden out to do personal battle with the evil Odanis...

There was more, much more, for this little town would be bursting with its tales of its own importance for generations to come, but the thing important to Clissa was left unspoken. It took her two full days to steel herself to ask. She and Lensad were bedding down on the stone flags of the dark storeroom when she eventually plucked up her courage.

‘Lensad,’ she tentatively asked the darkness, ‘could we visit the Northernmost Tower upon the morrow?’

There was a silence, then the darkness replied softly: ‘I understand. Of course, my little warrior.’

Thus, the following morning they packed a lunch of bread and cheese, and set out along the track to the village of Springbank... and the Northernmost Tower.

‘We rode this way...’ Lensad proclaimed as they walked, grimacing in anger and frustration ‘...believing that we were chasing outlaws.’

And a Nuomist girl called Tria also rode this way... upon her way to immortality... to become a heroine...

The track itself was prosaic, the sort of rough, rutted dirt road that joined up any villages. Beside it were fields of growing crops, and woodland bursting with life, abuzz with bird song and vividly coloured by blooming wildflowers. It all seemed improperly mundane to Clissa, who somehow expected the road travelled by a heroine on her way to a famous battle to be dark and forbidding.

At length Lensad pointed ahead. ‘It was from about here that we first saw the smoke, a pillar of black smoke rising high into the sky.’

‘What?’ asked Clissa, perplexed.

‘The top of the tower was ablaze. You could see it for killoms, like a beacon to us. That seemed right at the time... villainy of the outlaws Odanis was seeking.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘Damn it, Clissa, it all seemed right!’

They passed through the village of Springbank, beyond the last fields, and suddenly they were out in a wide rough pasture littered with sheep and cattle, the glacis of the tower; and there, before them, it stood; a gaunt and gutted silhouette, the top partly demolished, the fire blackened walls surrounded by a tangled trellis of wooden scaffolding, a small group of workmen labouring to raise new stones to the top.

In the middle of the pasture in front of the tower was a low mound, weeds and grasses struggling to cover the bare earth, a cow standing atop it, watching their approach. There was no monument, no marker, and Clissa knew that with the passage of the years the site of her father’s grave would fade into the landscape, become no more than another meaningless bump in the uneven ground.

She stared at the mound, struggling with her thoughts. There were worse places to meet eternity, she decided, than here beneath the wide blue sky with woodland behind and snow capped mountains rising beyond; and her father was not alone, he would be laid entwined in the arms of his comrades, who like him had died honourably, believing they fought for a just cause. They would face the gods together, confidently, cheerfully...

She choked.

Lensad stood back and watched as Clissa approached the mound. At the edge of it she sank to her knees, lowered her head, and prayed to the gods to judge her father fitted to enter their paradise. Then her emotions overwhelmed her and she bowed herself forwards and sobbed her heart out.

When the last tears were spent she lifted her head. ‘Father,’ she whispered, ‘I know you sit in the halls of the warriors feasting with your comrades now, and your blade never dulls and your cup never empties, but, I pray you, watch over me, and see that I am of credit to you.’

At length Lensad joined her, and bowed his head. ‘Goodbye, my friends,’ he said, ‘you have a fine monument to mark your resting place, better than most princes. In good time I will join you in the halls of the warriors. Wait for me, my friends, for I go now to redeem my own honour, and I shall not tarry overlong.’

What monument? Clissa wondered, and nearly spoke. Then she looked at the blackened shell of the Northernmost Tower.

Yes, she decided, that was indeed a fine monument.

Part 2 - The Heroine.

At length Lensad and Clissa turned their backs on the Northernmost Tower and strolled back towards Northend. As they stopped in some open pasture to partake of their lunch, Clissa cautiously tested her feelings. The deep sense of loss was still there, the ache, but perhaps now a fraction less painful in its intensity? She had shed tears over her father’s grave, and prayed for him, and bade him farewell, and made her final tryst with him. She had achieved... What? Something...? A small measure of peace...? Somehow as she walked on back towards the town the colours around her seemed just a little more vibrant, and the bird song a little more tuneful.

They reached the town gate in the mid afternoon. They could immediately see that something unusual was happening. Beyond the end of the street people were thronging in the market place, yet it was not a market day.

‘What is afoot?’ Lensad asked of the town guard at the gate.

‘A travelling priest has arrived, fresh from wintering at The Sanctuary, and announced that he will give a new sermon in the market square, as soon as he has refreshed himself.’

The guard sounded deeply aggrieved that he would miss it, but that struck neither Clissa or Lensad as peculiar, for travelling Ryaduran priests were famous for their oratorical skills, as well as their magical arts.

Thus both of them hurried to listen, joining the eager crowd of men, women and children all avidly awaiting the appearance of the priest. There was something of a holiday atmosphere, and indeed the entire town had basically shut down for the afternoon... save for the assistants of the town’s butcher, baker, pie-maker and innkeepers who were busy selling their wares amongst the crowd.

At length the travelling priest and the town’s lay priest emerged together from the town’s small House Of The Gods. It did occur to Clissa that there must be some reason why he had not told his tale in there. Perhaps the size of the crowd he had conjured was a part of it? She glanced up at the bright blue sky. Yes, the weather helped too.

As one, the crowd bowed deferentially, and muttered ‘revered sirs’, and stepped respectfully back as the two black and white robed men strode regally to the centre of the square. They strode past the raised platform with the whipping post and public stocks without pause. That surprised Clissa some more, for that was where all public pronouncements were normally made. Instead the travelling priest climbed the steps and stood in the roofed stone plinth of the podium near the centre of the square... stood where only slaves for sale would normally stand. The lay priest stopped at the foot of the steps.

Why would he deliver his sermon there? wondered Clissa.

She studied the travelling priest closely. He had a round, cheerful face, tanned by his travels, and sharp but kindly eyes; not a half so awesome and terrifying as priests usually were. Rather he was the sort of man you warmed to on first sight. He waited patiently for the crowd to readjust themselves around him and fall silent. As he waited Clissa saw his eyes flicker to the statue of the Heroine Tria, and lock on it for a moment. She wondered if he knew who she was.

‘Good people, thank you for your courtesy in listening to me,’ the priest announced clearly. ‘I shall ply my art here presently, for the gods have gifted me with the power to Change the Elements...’

Ah, that is why he stands on the slave podium! Clissa resolved.

‘But first I have a new tale to tell you, a tale which, if you have hearts at all, will truly stir them. This tale was first told last fall in the great hall of the royal castle at Highcastle, twice over, before both Prince Lynakris and Crown Prince Felaris. And each time the mighty walls of that hall shook with the applause of the greatest nobility of this realm.’ He gestured expansively around the market place. ‘And this is the proper place to tell this tale afresh now, for it is of import to this town above all others.’ He now gestured more closely at the four stone pillars surrounding him. ‘And of all places in the town this is the most fitting place to tell this story, for it is titled ‘A Slave’s Tale’.’

Clissa’s eyes widened in surprise. A slave’s tale? A slave’s tale had been told to both the Crown Prince and his brother? And had been demanded a second time?

The priest drew a thin, leather-bound booklet from his robes and held it high. ‘This story was originally related to the princes by the very girl whose tale it tells, and was writ down by her, in her own words, at the behest of the priests attendant there. I fear I shall struggle to match her skills as an orator, for she is truly gifted with eloquence by the gods.’

Clissa spotted the non-sequiturs and puzzled at them. Few girls were taught their letters. So how could any slavegirl ever learn how to read and write? And how the pox could any slavegirl ever come to speak before princes?

The priest grinned. ‘And I fear you must attempt to imagine me a young girl, which is difficult for you for I have neither the face, nor the form, nor the voice for the part.’

There was a subdued murmur of laughter.

‘You must also imagine me a Nuomist, which, if aught, is even harder, for, of all things, I cannot match their accent.’

Another murmur of amusement.

Clissa felt the first tingling then. A Nuomist? Like the Heroine Tria? But scores of Nuomist girls must be transported across the wilderness along The Ryaduran Road for sale as concubines, she chided herself. This slavegirl must be one of them? Perhaps this was a tale of The Road then? They were always exciting.

The priest cleared his throat.

‘My name is Tarriana,’ he began, softening his voice convincingly and speaking into an eager silence. ‘I was born in Singlehill and crafted a scrivener; yet the Skygods ordained that I should be orphaned at an early age; and my spirit rebelled at a lifetime of endless and tedious scrivening for my uncle; and how much I yearned to see what lay beyond the silent sea of sands circling Singlehill. I longed to see such wonders as you have here in Ryadur, green forests, flowing rivers of sparkling waters, carpets of bright flowers and mighty mountains that reach to the very clouds...’ He looked up, awed, lifting one hand towards the sky, acting out the story of a slave’s tale for the crowd.

Clissa listened captivated to this tale of a girl who was orphaned and yearned for adventure - just like her. The story was certainly well written, enthralling even, and provoked both chuckles of amusement and gasps of surprise from the enraptured audience, as the priest recited the girl’s travel north up the mighty River Nuarine into the Bakkomite lands. Then the story took a darker turn as Tarriana’s innocent dreams of adventure turned into the harshest reality as she, a girl, could find naught but the briefest of employs, and how at length, far from home, her silver ran out. Of how a printer scorned her desperate offer of her craft for naught but food and a roof, and instead studied her lecherously.

‘I have no use for your craft’, the priest said, deepening his voice for the male role, ‘but you are comely, and I would pay you a quarter piece for your... company.’

Every woman in the crowd shuddered.

‘I walked out of his workshop in disgust,’ the priest told them, ‘but then I stood alone and lost in the darkening market place, shivering with cold, and, eventually, though I hated doing so, I reluctantly turned back and... and accepted his offer.’ He paused, his head hung in shame.

‘I had no choice,’ he explained softly, ‘for I had eaten naught for three days, and had no shelter for the night.’

Clissa found herself feeling pity for the destitute girl as the priest related how she slipped irrevocably into whoredom in that distant town, then was cruelly betrayed by a vicious young nobleman who’s company she had spurned... who unjustly accused her of being poxed... and who paid a drunken old physician to proclaim her so.

‘I begged for a second physician to inspect me...’ The priest paused, his hands clasped in a pleading gesture, savouring the suspense of the crowd. ‘Instead, the next market day, I was stripped naked, dragged into the market square and I was shorn...’

He ran his hand through her hair. All of the women shuddered again.

‘Then the branding iron was pulled from the brazier, glowing bright red, and was pressed against my cheek...’

The priest lifted his right hand to his face, at the same time he flipped the booklet open and held it high, revealing a full page portrait of the girl Tarriana with her shorn hair and the branded X of a poxed whore disfiguring her cheek. The crowd groaned, horrified, and many of the women and children averted their eyes.

‘They did this to me,’ the priest said softly.

Clissa listened appalled as the girl told how, scorned, spurned and starving, she had eventually sold herself into slavery, and, at the last moment, had been saved from the cruellest of fates at the hands of a cesspit cleaner by the intervention of a Digressionist magician, a Thaumaturge, who bought her for pure pity at her plight. Now the priest skilfully modulated his voice as he played the part of both the enslaved girl and her new owner.

‘Your name is Tarriana?’ the thaumaturge asked.

‘Yes, master,’ the girl replied.

‘It is a long name for such a short girl,’ he taunted her.

‘Pray call me whatever you wish, master,’ she replied demurely.

He looked surprised, and studied her thoughtfully. ‘You would not object if I abbreviated your name?’ he enquired.

The girl shook her head firmly. ‘No, master, for all Tarriana did was to make a whore of herself. I would be someone else, and make of myself something better than that for you, master.’

Clissa found herself choking at the girl’s contrition and gentleness of nature. Beside her Lensad coughed and cleared his throat.

Again the priest paused to study the girl most thoughtfully. ‘Tarra, Tarna, Tarina, Taria...?’ he said, trying different names. ‘Tria...?’

Suddenly the priest pointed dramatically over the heads of the crowd and they all turned to look.

‘I like Tria, it suits you, girl, Tria the trier....’

The world lurched around Clissa and her skin prickled as she also turned to face the statue behind her, the statue of the Heroine Tria of Hammer Pass.

‘And that is how I became Tria,’ the priest said softly, his voice so convincing that for a moment Clissa thought a girl had joined him upon the podium.

Again he paused while the crowd grasped the special significance of this tale.

‘In the great hall at Highcastle the Heroine Tria removed her crown of honour and told this tale bare headed,’ he informed them quietly, ‘for, in her own words, ‘I had yet to earn such honours as this’.’

But on the statue she bears no brand! Clissa realised, thoroughly confused.

Then the priest resumed the tale and she found herself entranced again, as he described how the thaumaturge had salved the cuts and sores on her body and given her his own cloak to keep her warm as she slept at the foot of his bed on her first night as his slave.

‘So I wrapped myself in his cloak and I lay myself upon the rug, and I cried,’ the priest continued. ‘I cried silently so as not to disturb my master. I cried in pure happiness, that today my life had been turned around. I cried at the kindness of my master. I cried that, for the first time in two months, someone should care for my comfort. And, as I cried, I felt for the first time the slave band that my master had sealed upon me. It was not a slave band around my neck or my wrist, for they are uncommon in the western lands, but a slave band he had sealed upon me so it could never be removed, the slave band I still wear now, the slave band he has sealed forever around my heart.’

Clissa wiped her face. There were sniffles and stifled sobs in the crowd around her. Yet, despite the horror and pathos of the story, Tria had somehow contrived to insert brief moments of humour into it, which broke the spell and raised smiles and chuckles amongst the audience. Yes, Clissa decided, the gods had surely gifted this girl with eloquence and the power to craft an enchantment out of her own tale.

The story continued, telling of the gradual growth of a deepening affection between the thaumaturge and his branded slavegirl until Clissa found herself lying under a flapping bivouac on a cold, rain-lashed