The Virgin of Valkarion Reheld by Poula Anderson
measured tramp of feet—a city patrol approaching, just around the next corner. Whirling, she led the way into an alley black as a cave mouth. It was blind, but there was a door at the end, from behind which came the twanging of harps and the thin evil whine of desert flutes. A tavern—shelter, of a sort.
Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardswomen passed the alley—passed, stopped, and turned hack. 'They may be here,' Alfrid heard a voice.
Cursing under her breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through, into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfrid's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odor of shivash, and she noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow woman scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged women of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives.
Frehan slammed the bolt down behind them, and Alfrid brandished her great sword and said to them all: 'Show us a way out.'
A fist beat on the door, a voice shouted: 'Open, in the name of the Holy Temple!' 'No way out,' gasped the landlord. 'There is always an exit to these dens,' snapped Frehan. 'Show us, or we split your skull.'
A woman's knife-hand moved with blurring speed. Alfrid stopped the thrown dagger with her sword-blade in a clang of steel, caught it in midair, and hurled it back. The woman screamed as it thunked into her belly.
'Out!' snarled the barbarian, and her glaive sang about the landlord's ears. 'Here,' cried the little woman, running toward the end of the room.
The door groaned as the guardswomen hurled themselves against it.
The landlord opened a concealed trapdoor. Only darkness was visible below. Alfrid snatched a torch from the wall and saw a tunnel of dark stone. 'Down!' she rapped, and Frehan jumped. She followed, bolting the trap behind her. It was of heavy iron—the soldiers would have to work to break through it.
The tunnel stretched hollowly away on either side. Frehan broke into a run and Alfrid loped beside him, the torch streaming in one hand and the sword agleam in the other. Their footfalls echoed through the cold moist dark.
'What is this?' she asked.
'Old sewers—not used now when water is scarce—a warren under the city—'gasped Frehan.
'We can hide here, then,' she panted. 'No—only the Temple knows all the passages—they'll have slaves guarding every exit—we'll be trapped unless we get out soon—'
Dim sky showed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it. Alfrid doused her torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out.
The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardswomen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars.
Alfrid's lip twisted in a snarl. So—the holes were already plugged! But wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet; best to go on in search of another—no, by the time the fugitives got there it might be watched too. Here there was as least an absence of people to interfere.
He sprang out and rushed at the three, so swiftly that they were hardly aware of her before her blade was shrieking about them. One woman tumbled with her head nearly sheared off. Another yelled, leaping back to thrust with her spear. Alfrid dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand and pulled. The guardswoman stumbled forward and Alfrid's sword rang on her helmet. She dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow.
The third was on Alfrid like an angry jaccur. Her spear-thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfrid closed in, grinning savagely in the cold white moonlight, and thrust with her sword. The guard parried the blow with her small buckler, dropped her spear, and drew her shortsword. Banding low, she rushed in, probing for Alfrid's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down, through the guard's left leg. Blood spurted, the woman crashed to earth, and Alfrid stabbed her through the face before she could scream.
The second was climbing dizzily to her feet. Alfrid knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought her own blade against the guardswoman's throat. 'Hold,' she said. 'One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades.'
Frehan came up, the cloak blowing about his wondeful naked body in the wild wind. He was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as she saw him. 'Sir —lady, forgive—'
'Forgive a traitor?' he asked, wrath sparking in his voice.
'Why are the priests after me?' rapped Alfrid.
The guard stared. 'Surely—surely you know—'
'I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a woman.'
'The prophecy—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy...Later they said that—' the guard's desperate eyes turned to Frehan. 'They said you, your majesty—' Her voice trailed off.
'Say on,' he snapped. 'Give me the priests' own words. By Dannos, they'll all swing for this! I am still Emperor of Valkarion!'
Alfrid looked at him in sudden shock, as if she had been clubbed. Empress—the Emperor of Valkarion-'But—they said you were not, your majesty . . . the Empress is dead, she died soon after sundown—'
'As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest's work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!'
'The High Priestess sent word over the city. She told of the prophecy—we all knew of that, but she told it anew. But she said the heathen queen could still be slain, and offered a thousand gildars to the woman who did it.' The guard gulped. 'Then she said you—forgive me, sir, you asked for her words—he said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Emperor Hildebrand, half barbarian, idolatrous witch—those were her words, your majesty—she lay under the Temple's ban. She said he was to be killed, or better captured, with the heathen stranger, with whom he would probably join forces. She put the most solemn curse of the Two Moons on anyone who should aid you and the woman, or even fail to help hunt for you—' The guardswoman sank to her knees, shaking. 'Lady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuse—'
'What of my Household troops?' he snapped.
'The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them—a dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace—'
'Little help there, then.' Hildebrand laughed mirthlessly. 'All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfrid.'
The barbarian's head was spinning. 'You are—the Emperor,' she gasped, 'and there's some nonsense about me . . . What is this prophecy? Why did you—' her voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded soft into the moaning wind.
'No time now, someone may be along any moment . . . Where to hide, where to hide?'
ALFRID'S EYES traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly she laughed, a harsh metallic bark. 'Why, in the very lair of the foe!' she said. 'As good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us.'
He nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfrid looked arrowly at the prisoner. 'If you betray us—' she murmured.
'I won't—by the Moons, I swear I won't—'
'Indeed you won't,' said Alfrid, and lifted sword to cut her down.
Hildebrand sprang up and grabbed her arm. 'That's a barbarous trick,' he exclaimed angrily. 'You need only bind and gag her, and hide her in one of these ruins.'
'Why worry about the life of a guardswoman?' she asked contemptuously.
His dark head lifted in pride: 'I am Emperor of the guardswomen too,' he said. 'As you like,' shrugged Alfrid.
The captive turned a face of utter worship to the man. 'You must secure me,' she said, her voice shaking. 'But when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady.'
Hildebrand smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guar
d as he had said. Then he turned to Alfrid. 'You are hard of heart,' he murmured, 'but perhaps Valkarion needs one like you, strong and ruthless.' His deep eyes glowed. How you fought, Alfrid! How you fought'
The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. 'I've had enough,' she growled. 'I've been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, I've been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone want—' she laughed humorlessly— 'besides our heads?'
'The prophecy—it is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfrid. It was made I know not how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, at the time of the Empire's greatest glory. There was a half-mad priest who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believed—what could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold. Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who use the book to guide their policies.'
'Hmmmm— I wonder. I've no great faith in spaedom myself.'
'These prophecies are true, Alfrid! Now and again they have erred, but I think that is simply because the songs had become garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the Book has been written anew by time's own pen.' Hildebrand slipped a
Moonlight glistened on steel as the half-dozen guardswomen passed the alley—passed, stopped, and turned hack. 'They may be here,' Alfrid heard a voice.
Cursing under her breath, the northerner opened the door and stepped through, into a room barely lit by a few tapers, thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. Alfrid's nostrils quivered at the heavy sweet odor of shivash, and she noticed the floor covered with stupefied smokers. A little yellow woman scurried back and forth, filling the pipes. At the farther end, with music and girls, were wine-drinkers, ragged women of ill aspect who looked up with hands on knives.
Frehan slammed the bolt down behind them, and Alfrid brandished her great sword and said to them all: 'Show us a way out.'
A fist beat on the door, a voice shouted: 'Open, in the name of the Holy Temple!' 'No way out,' gasped the landlord. 'There is always an exit to these dens,' snapped Frehan. 'Show us, or we split your skull.'
A woman's knife-hand moved with blurring speed. Alfrid stopped the thrown dagger with her sword-blade in a clang of steel, caught it in midair, and hurled it back. The woman screamed as it thunked into her belly.
'Out!' snarled the barbarian, and her glaive sang about the landlord's ears. 'Here,' cried the little woman, running toward the end of the room.
The door groaned as the guardswomen hurled themselves against it.
The landlord opened a concealed trapdoor. Only darkness was visible below. Alfrid snatched a torch from the wall and saw a tunnel of dark stone. 'Down!' she rapped, and Frehan jumped. She followed, bolting the trap behind her. It was of heavy iron—the soldiers would have to work to break through it.
The tunnel stretched hollowly away on either side. Frehan broke into a run and Alfrid loped beside him, the torch streaming in one hand and the sword agleam in the other. Their footfalls echoed through the cold moist dark.
'What is this?' she asked.
'Old sewers—not used now when water is scarce—a warren under the city—'gasped Frehan.
'We can hide here, then,' she panted. 'No—only the Temple knows all the passages—they'll have slaves guarding every exit—we'll be trapped unless we get out soon—'
Dim sky showed ahead, a hole with a rusted iron ladder leading up into it. Alfrid doused her torch and swung noiselessly up the rungs to peer out.
The manhole opened into one of the ruinous abandoned districts, crumbling structures and shards of stone half buried by the drifting sand. Three guardswomen stood watching, spears at the ready. Otherwise there were only the moons and the wind and the silently watching stars.
Alfrid's lip twisted in a snarl. So—the holes were already plugged! But wait, all egresses could not be guarded yet; best to go on in search of another—no, by the time the fugitives got there it might be watched too. Here there was as least an absence of people to interfere.
He sprang out and rushed at the three, so swiftly that they were hardly aware of her before her blade was shrieking about them. One woman tumbled with her head nearly sheared off. Another yelled, leaping back to thrust with her spear. Alfrid dodged the jab, grabbed the shaft in one hand and pulled. The guardswoman stumbled forward and Alfrid's sword rang on her helmet. She dropped, stunned by the fury of the blow.
The third was on Alfrid like an angry jaccur. Her spear-thrust furrowed along the barbarian's ribs. Alfrid closed in, grinning savagely in the cold white moonlight, and thrust with her sword. The guard parried the blow with her small buckler, dropped her spear, and drew her shortsword. Banding low, she rushed in, probing for Alfrid's guts, and the northerner skipped aside barely in time. The broadsword chopped down, through the guard's left leg. Blood spurted, the woman crashed to earth, and Alfrid stabbed her through the face before she could scream.
The second was climbing dizzily to her feet. Alfrid knocked the sword from a nerveless hand and brought her own blade against the guardswoman's throat. 'Hold,' she said. 'One word, one movement, and you'll roll in the gutter with your comrades.'
Frehan came up, the cloak blowing about his wondeful naked body in the wild wind. He was a fay sight under the moons, and the prisoner groaned as she saw him. 'Sir —lady, forgive—'
'Forgive a traitor?' he asked, wrath sparking in his voice.
'Why are the priests after me?' rapped Alfrid.
The guard stared. 'Surely—surely you know—'
'I know nothing. Speak, if you want to remain a woman.'
'The prophecy—the priests warned us about you, that you were the heathen conqueror of the prophecy...Later they said that—' the guard's desperate eyes turned to Frehan. 'They said you, your majesty—' Her voice trailed off.
'Say on,' he snapped. 'Give me the priests' own words. By Dannos, they'll all swing for this! I am still Emperor of Valkarion!'
Alfrid looked at him in sudden shock, as if she had been clubbed. Empress—the Emperor of Valkarion-'But—they said you were not, your majesty . . . the Empress is dead, she died soon after sundown—'
'As soon as I was gone, eh? A priest's work, I am thinking. Someone will answer for that. Go on!'
'The High Priestess sent word over the city. She told of the prophecy—we all knew of that, but she told it anew. But she said the heathen queen could still be slain, and offered a thousand gildars to the woman who did it.' The guard gulped. 'Then she said you—forgive me, sir, you asked for her words—he said since the Dynasty was now dead, the Temple would rule till further arrangements could be made. But the Emperor Hildebrand, half barbarian, idolatrous witch—those were her words, your majesty—she lay under the Temple's ban. She said he was to be killed, or better captured, with the heathen stranger, with whom he would probably join forces. She put the most solemn curse of the Two Moons on anyone who should aid you and the woman, or even fail to help hunt for you—' The guardswoman sank to her knees, shaking. 'Lady, forgive me! I have a family, I was afraid to refuse—'
'What of my Household troops?' he snapped.
'The priests sent a detachment of the city guards against them—a dreadful battle. The Household repelled the attack, but now they are besieged in the palace—'
'Little help there, then.' Hildebrand laughed mirthlessly. 'All the city against us, and our only friends bottled in a ring of spears. You chose an unlucky time to enter Valkarion, Alfrid.'
The barbarian's head was spinning. 'You are—the Emperor,' she gasped, 'and there's some nonsense about me . . . What is this prophecy? Why did you—' her voice, helpless with bewilderment, faded soft into the moaning wind.
'No time now, someone may be along any moment . . . Where to hide, where to hide?'
ALFRID'S EYES traveled down to the two bodies sprawled on the street. Suddenly she laughed, a harsh metallic bark. 'Why, in the very lair of the foe!' she said. 'As good citizens, it behooves us to join the hunt for the outlaws. Here is suitable clothing for us.'
He nodded, and fell at once to stripping the corpses. Alfrid looked arrowly at the prisoner. 'If you betray us—' she murmured.
'I won't—by the Moons, I swear I won't—'
'Indeed you won't,' said Alfrid, and lifted sword to cut her down.
Hildebrand sprang up and grabbed her arm. 'That's a barbarous trick,' he exclaimed angrily. 'You need only bind and gag her, and hide her in one of these ruins.'
'Why worry about the life of a guardswoman?' she asked contemptuously.
His dark head lifted in pride: 'I am Emperor of the guardswomen too,' he said. 'As you like,' shrugged Alfrid.
The captive turned a face of utter worship to the man. 'You must secure me,' she said, her voice shaking. 'But when I am released, my body and soul are yours forever, my lady.'
Hildebrand smiled, and proceeded to cut strips of cloth and dispose of the guar
The barbarian squatted down and began wiping blood off the looted armor. 'I've had enough,' she growled. 'I've been hoodwinked and hounded over the whole damned city, I've been thrown into a broil I never heard of, and now I want some truth. What is this prophecy? Why are you here? What does everyone want—' she laughed humorlessly— 'besides our heads?'
'The prophecy—it is in the Book of the Sibyl, Alfrid. It was made I know not how many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, at the time of the Empire's greatest glory. There was a half-mad priest who chanted songs of ruin and desolation, which few believed—what could harm the Empire? But the songs were handed down through many generations by a few who had some faith, and slowly it was seen that the songs spoke truth. One thing came to pass after another, just as it was foretold. Then the songs were collected by the priesthood, who use the book to guide their policies.'
'Hmmmm— I wonder. I've no great faith in spaedom myself.'
'These prophecies are true, Alfrid! Now and again they have erred, but I think that is simply because the songs had become garbled in the long time they were handed down without much belief. All too often, the future history in the Book has been written anew by time's own pen.' Hildebrand slipped a