In the Fig Tree's Shade

By Wilhelm Norsten

The Iron Maiden, far-famed thief and knifer extraordinaire, ranges the shadows of a long dead age of wonders, questing the fabled legacy of the living gods of old. At her side is Minotaur, the bronze-headed titan, whose horned shade few men dare to tread upon. Together they face the swords and sorceries of past and present, of men and devils, of wilderness and empire, to gain the rumoured treasure-trove of Gor-Eil the Wanderer, ameer of the gods: a promise of loot so glorious that passing it up would be sin!

Six tales of madcap venturing in a world which recalls the Arabian Nights and the fantasies of the early 20th century, brimming with crimson-brilliant sabre-play, high-hearted romance, night-black villainy, and myriad little lunacies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilhelm Norsten
• Release date: Aug 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370423774

Book preview

Travellers tell, spake the wizened anchorite, of a city of sin builded impregnable on the broad plains beyond the mountains, where now no man may dwell. For the earth is sere, crops abortive. The very air is loth and bitter, and no beast goes willingly to that dead expanse. Only deviltry can thrive in such a place.

The woman across from him muttered obliquely. The campfire limned her round swart face and silken headdress. Silk, too, swathed her bosom and the rich curves of her hips. She rested on her heels, rubbed her hands and extended them toward the fire. A priceless shamshir lay scabbarded at her side. Its myriad tiny gems sparkled chimerically, rivalled only by the keen mystic blackness of her eyes.

Behind her a horned shadow massed against the night sky. Now and again it stirred, producing variously a corded arm, or two arms, or a strange black labrys-shaped appendage. But of this the speaker took no heed.

If this is truly the settlement you seek, and there be no warning under heaven to sway you, then I shall say no more.

He loosened a length of fabric from the bundle at his loins and flung it about his shoulders. Atop his aerie, a boulder smoothed by the venerable buttocks of his forebears, the ancient sat cross-legged. His aspect seemed that of a skinny locust, buzzing sagely from a ball of dung.

He poked at the fire beneath with a crooked staff. Would you tell me the reason?

The woman plucked up her sword. "See you the scythe of gods? We seek its like, another tangible trace of the gods of old. You are no longer moved by the material, so its sheer value is lost on you. But know that it can cut the threads divine, and sunder even the shades of Ahraman. No measure of ambrosia can save one from its bite.

"Your wicked bastion aligns with certain histories. Accounts of starfarers and the galleys of gods. Particularly those of the void-sprung Gor-Eil, the Wanderer, to whom vain princelings trace their lines. To him the blade in my hand would be a trinket, for all sources name him chiefest among kings. A promise of loot so glorious that passing it up would be sin.

And the lifeless stretch you describe, its condition would be the result of past weapons, of devices too alien for comprehension. Gor-Eil’s palace, itself a mighty weapon, would char the flesh of invaders at his whim – make verdant jungles barren in the blink of an eye. Peccant ways may be ruinous, but I suspect no sin befouls that land.

The anchorite blustered incredulously: Whereby did you gain this knowledge?

Ha! Now there’s a tale, she grinned. Behind her the horned shadow rumbled amusement. It sounded hollow, as if out of some brazen bell.

"We came by sea to Thurmeia, famed for its many-coloured wantons and the finest library scholars dare name aloud. Thurmeians rule the western seas, or so they claim. Their military might is unmatched, of course, but the territories are so lean they have hardly a thing to fight over. They gut each other over carcasses of fish, or some perceived slight, just to prove their mettle.

Foreigners are usual targets, but crack a skull or two, slice an ear, get a reputation, and they leave you alone. Mino here hewed an officer in twain once we landed. The usual riffraff were quaking in their sandals at that.

Truth? The ancient peered at the massy shadow, at the tall dark ax.

Truth, she averred. The watch-bullies misliked us, of course, but they liked the officer even less. None harassed us. Not at first. Not before we left the library. But that I ascribe to the city wide panic at the time and a misguided desire for vengeance.

The other held up a bony palm. Hold. Panic? Whatever for?

The woman snatched a flaming log from the fire and held it aloft. Fire! Fire in the library. Fire in the streets. Meat roasting in the stalls. Smoke and horror!

You—?

"No. We came to read, not to ruin. We left the burning edifice to find learned men thronging about, brought nigh to mantic fury. The sight of glowing ash and whirling fragments of poetry drove them mad, and our sooty presence did not help. They swarmed at us in a heartbeat, frothing and tearing like rabid dogs.

"Mino scattered the nearest lot, knocking them down the library steps with the butt of his ax. Dashing down among them sounds ludicrous now, but that is what we did. I know not how we survived, much less how we managed to elude them; we came out ragged and bloody, gasping for air. By some miracle we slipped through the tumult of an eastern gate.

"The chaos of Thurmeia was scarce at our backs when their cursed army appeared. Riding stolen horses out of a fiery metropolis with its blood-mad populace at your heels makes for a poor first impression. Needless to say, we rode for the hills. The Thurmeians have forts up there, but once past them it’s all tribal land.

"The animals lathered hard as we approached the ramparts. Our pursuers were so close we could hear their wild shouts over the thunder of their horses’ hoofs. We dreaded briefly the possibility of getting caught between them and an oncoming force of hill soldiers. But that was not in our stars. The forts, too, were afire.

"Ah, what a day for cinders! Some furry mountain chief had forged alliances and assaulted the hated Thurmeian, scorching his bulwarks all along the border. Watchtowers transpired like hooded chimneys, dust clouded the slopes and the high settlements. The clamour of desperate battle echoed down the passes.

"We ascended at the head of the city’s finest cavalry. I could almost feel the dipping lances at my back. The hillmen must have panicked at the sight and called a mass retreat. We flew past the dust and smoke and debris of the foremost garrison, and our tail bottled up in the narrow ruins of the west gate. A handful horsemen kept our pace, but soon reconsidered their bravado.

"The slopes were charred and strewn with bodies, a great host of hairy raiders not far from us. I daresay the coin was still in the air regarding our survival. But to our right a clump of swarthy hillmen laboured under the weight of a bronze door. Evidently they had raided the quarters of an officer’s wife, for each wore on him mismatched sets of garish women’s garments.

"Remnants of the garrison harried them. Missing not a stride we made for the soldiers, weapons flashing. I rode ahead – a lighter load than Mino – yelling and whipping my horse with the flat of my sword. A thrice-damned peasant levy cut her from under me and I crashed among them. Next breath I was up warding sword points from my bosom.

"The shamshir slashed through tattered harness and broke the edge of any blade to come at me. Luckily my clothes were already ruined. I do so abhor to bloody them. The soldiers fell back. They kept their distance, thinking to win a deciding stab from a blind spot. Then out of the dust behind them rose Mino’s bull head and the gratifying curve of his ax.

"He bellowed as only Minotaur can, scattering assailants with a single swipe. His backswing caught a spearman under the chin, hitching a shoulder strap. The corpse spurted blood as it swept off the ground – came crashing down in a heap among its comrades. Men dashed shrieking from the sundering.

"A deafening roar went up from the host above us. Cries of victory and of ‘Gugal triumphant’ – the great bull-god of the hills – preceded a tooth-rattling charge. They poured like a deluge of flesh and molten metal down the slopes, threatening to sweep the very fort from the cliffs. We did not so much join them as rush before the avalanche, praying not to be trampled.

Now came the cavalry’s turn to flee headlong. We followed them only so far as the lower elevations. Most of us were afoot, and though wearied from the long chase the horses of the Thurmeians proved the swifter.

What senselessness, sighed the listener. Nay, go on. I can bear it. Clearly you are no strangers to the pain of this vain existence.

She eyed him curiously for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, we were much appreciated by the locals. They carried us to their hidden fastnesses to dress and feed us. Ere long the word came of a bacchanalia to be held at the stronghold of their chief-of-chiefs. To refuse meant death, but I suspect none would dare harm a living talisman of the bull-god.

"Besides, we’ve seen our share of revelries. Simple folk do them best. They do not bore you with uninspired recitals or ill-advised exotic treats. Wholesome food, red wine and drunken fondling – there’s your revelry. Musicians with the sense to pick a lively tune. Friendly bouts of fisticuffs. This and more the furry folk promised.

‘Twas a great occasion – they showered us with praise and colourful flower petals, plied us with wine and game. I’ve not danced so much in all my life, nor had my pick of such plunder. Ah, the cloth-of-gold khalats – the slippers of Thurmeian princesses – cascades of reddest rubies. I was outraged when I learned the reason for their generosity. The fool ruler intended to marry – me!

The ancient guffawed most unsagelike. Taken, no doubt, by your affinity for bull-men and the promise of many wild heirs. He indicated her hips with the crooked staff.

No doubt! she returned.

But I see no tall besworded chief in your company.

Nor will you. I told him he should know better: the Iron Maiden takes no crag lout for a husband.

Ho-ho! The Iron Maiden, crowed the anchorite. He stroked his beard in thought. Then you are pure – you defend your virtue by the weight of your steel?

She laughed. "No! I bed whom I wish when I wish it. But neither man nor devil can make me spread my legs for a poxy hillman. I care not if he is chief-of-chiefs in heaven. I would sooner love a meerkat king.

At any rate, this seemed to inflame the lot of them. The rotter decided he would have me by force if not by bribery. We wrestled drunkenly across the revel space while Mino took on the rest. Fortunately the old fart could barely stand. I knocked him senseless and gave him a slash to remember me by. Not a crease on the silk, either.

She beamed in a self-adoring fashion.

It pleases me that you did not slay the man. The ancient nodded as if thanking some unseen deity.

Oh, I would have, she assured him. The slash was meant to kill, but wine got the better of me. The furry folk are long to forget. I fear he is still on our trail, athirst for blood and rutting.

Her shadowed companion mumbled hollowly, letting the labrys swish through the night air to fell some imaginary foe.

We eluded his retinue in the valleys, she continued, beyond their native peaks, where the mountain streams join to form the Green River. The woods grow thick about it, and men there are slow in speech and action. We rode the logs they ferry south toward the sea, quitting the river to go east before the coast. Too many people wish to nail our hides to the prows of their ships there.

Friends come not easily to you, remarked the man. He unfolded his skinny brown legs and let them dangle over the edge of the boulder. But tell me now how you came by knowledge of the wanderer Gor-Eil and the wonders of the God-times.

Oh, the Thurmeians had texts about it. The Maiden studied his features a space. "But there were other promptings. We’ve seen more glyphs than many a scholar, plumbed strange abysses and bested far massifs. The sword is not the sole remainder of bygone ages to grace our senses. Nor have all our treasures been material.

"In a distant cave in the land of the horse-eaters, a brood of ancient ascetics – much like yourself – dwell pondering the greater mysteries and certain erotic dictums. They wear peculiar restraints, but I have yet to find a more sagacious lot. Much forthcoming, too. There we learned of the palaces of old, the galleys of gods.

We tracked many lands, known and unknown, dreaming the weirds of strange aeons. Our minds were afire. Where jutted ruins out of shifting dunes we sensed gardens and gleaming citadels. We deemed them mirages at first, till we found the splendid shamshir beneath the eidolon of a sepulchre. Think us base if you wish. We found a taste for artefacts.

The Maiden put away her sword and rose to stretch her legs. So you see why we docked in Thurmeia to scour the scrolls.

The anchorite offered no reply. His eyes roved her curvy form. Hunger showed in his every feature, more predator now than sage locust. His long brown legs were drawn up under him. His head thrust forth on the skinny neck like that of a leopard. The fabric about his shoulders fluttered.

The object of his attention smiled broadly, hands on silken hips. You are worse even than the ascetics. I enjoyed their smutty sutras, at the least. Come now, think of sleet and good kismat.

Worse? he murmured. Yes, much worse.

He cleared the space between them with a lighting bound, knocking her down. His garment fell away to reveal chitinous lames flaring wide. Acridid wings flittered spasmodically from under them, and the man’s eyes bulged black beneath his brow. He leaped over her prone form to snatch the sword from her blanket.

Minotaur rushed at him. His bronze bull head glinted in the firelight. His mighty trunk swelled under his tunic and the corded arms massed for a bone-shattering stroke. He let out a roar as he brought the labrys whistling at the offender’s head.

The other sank low on his haunches, balanced, and staggered the titan with a jab to the knee. Minotaur met the hallowed sitting-rock with a resounding clang and fell prone. He reeled up weaponless, grasping for his foe. The abomination winged at him, beat off his hands with the scabbarded sword. A tremendous kick sent him dashing toward a yawning crevasse.

The titan stumbled and vanished.

The victor pivoted. The Maiden was up, driving at his jugular with a silvered khanjar. He whipped up the shamshir, deflected her thrust and spun around her like a dancing insect. His opponent followed suit, slashing as she moved. Her lighting strokes pressed at his guard, forced him back. The scabbard slowed his motions, but she left him no chance to free the blade.

He feinted, struck at her wrist and bounded back. The dagger flew from her hand, but the Maiden kept his pace. He tore the sword from its prison. It shimmered phantasmal before his eyes – too late. The woman’s knotted fist crashed like a battering ram on his open jaw. He fell, spewing blood and broken teeth. Above him the Maiden danced in agony.

Shaven devils of Ahraman! she swore. My fingers!

The monstrous ancient laughed where he lay. He spat forth a final tooth and came buzzing to his feet. The twain circled each other warily. The Maiden scanned the ground for her weapon, clutching her broken hand. The other smirked redly.

Scarlet suits you, she taunted.

Scrapes, he parried. All shall vanish, morsel. Once I am fed.

She edged toward the fire. He stepped to debar her. The artefact blade danced under her nose.

Tut-tut, he admonished. We shan’t play with fire just yet. Or ever. I am altogether too hungry to bother with cooking. Too few the pilgrims in these hills. And so rare a female treat. Would you were a virgin, morsel. Pure souls are the very best.

The Maiden sneered at him. Pity! No doubt you’ll choke on me.

Purity of soul is not a must, but yours is only slightly mottled. Oh yes, what ‘kismat’ awaits it – post mastication – is not so dim as you might think. Trust me, I am somewhat an authority on the matter.

He chortled smugly.

What would an overgrown crag beetle know? jabbed the Maiden. She sidled toward the sitting-rock. Something gleamed on top of it. She’d plucked a vain cord in him, for the monster paced laggardly after, saying:

I am ancient even to unto gods, morsel. I watched their galleys break the clouds long aeons ago. I preyed on them, devoured them. Whereof you dream my naked eyes beheld. What you seek and vainly held I held and more. By the Pit, I ruined far greater wonders than this bejewelled toy!

He shook the sword in a passion.

You? she queried in honest disbelief. Dining on the gods? I punched you flat.

I am much diminished! he yelled. These latter ages are near void of virtue. But you...

He closed on her. She could almost make out the silvered khanjar now, resting on the smooth surface of the rock.

You and your bull buffoon – you are different. Not only do you gallivant about seeking godly trinkets, you have their stink on you. He emphasised ‘stink’ with a shower of bloody spittle. Worthy meals in these forsaken times. Perhaps even scions of some libidinous celestial – Rdita, or haply Gor-Eil himself.

The ancient licked his lips. I shall love draining you.

The Maiden blurred with motion. She caught the dagger from its perch and hurled it at her menacer in a single fluid motion. It found his shoulder, and so surprised was he that he stared dumbly as she kicked the shamshir from his hand. She caught it in her good hand and brought it down in a shimmering crimsoned slash.

The monster slid apart, shorn clean from shoulder to hip.

She gazed at the carcass in disgust, then rushed to the crevasse. She could see only darkness, but heard a hollow grunting near at hand. A little to her side a massive sinewy hand came questing for support. Then another. A moment later she helped heave Minotaur over the edge and to his feet. The titan rumbled exhaustion.

He was covered in dust and bloody scrapes. His tunic, made from eastern silk and fitted for a Thurmeian general, most arduously stolen by raiding hill men, hung in tatters. But one of his gilded buskins remained. The bull headpiece crisscrossed with scratches and one of the horns awry. Stiffly, he moved to recover the massy labrys.

A right mess you are, the Maiden mothered him. I will have to find a village to pilfer you some clothes. I believe I see lights over yonder. A shepherd’s den, likelier than not. We’ll set out for it by morning.

She joined him by the dying campfire, straightening her garments and checking them minutely for spots of blood or dust.

You know, she said sweetly. One of us will have to get rid of the carcass.

II. The Scarlet Pugree

The Maiden entered the little shepherd’s hut where Minotaur reposed. A boy balanced on a table beside the titan, now scrubbing the bronze headpiece, now polishing it with a rag. She tossed him a silver penny – which he pocketed with a youthy gapped grin – then turned to her companion and declared:

Great news! Our grateful hosts have agreed to guide us. There lies a modest trading post not far from here. From there we can make for the fabled city. Dromedaries and the like may be procured, so we needn’t worry about trudging about afoot, dying of thirst, or anything of the sort. Come on, shake a leg.

The pair enjoyed a modicum of favour in the small community. The monstrous anchorite had long preyed on the herders, who in turn had sent strangers and fresh-faced pilgrims to his aerie hoping to appease him. Having disposed of the reeking corpse halves, the twain made for the winking lights of settlement.

They descended in the early hours to the pitiful colony which clung like a pregnant sheep-tick to the rocky slopes. They knocked doors without answer then forced entry to confront the panicked residents. A deal was made and a runner dispatched to the nearby trading post to fetch clothes and modest supplies.

In return for hospitality the Maiden vowed to keep their desperate measures a secret, for angry ecclesiastics might well see fit to curse an already stringent livelihood. Minotaur merely grunted affirmation, as was his wont.

Presently they waved goodbye to sheep and shepherds and looming locust fiends to seek adventure past the mountains. The penny-padded urchin tromped along with them, as did his equally penny-laden daddy. The woolly pair competed viciously for each coin, enacting in comedic fashion the father-son rivalries of countless myths.

The quartet parted where the slopes gentled to accommodate a smallish cluster of stalls and tents. Animals grazed about it, and the familiar odour of pastoralists and cattle traders wafted at them strongly. Many ogled the bull-headed titan in mild disbelief, but the spirited woman beside him dispelled any serious misgivings – at least so far as the titan was concerned.

The Maiden hailed a young camel trader, determined to secure ‘shipboard’ transportation.

The man stared in wide-eyed amazement, then blurted out that his father would be a better man to deal with, seeing as he passed for the local hetman.

Then, pray tell, would you guide us?

Why...yes! This way. He pointed to the single permanent structure. I am Sherko, by the way. My father is Ozhan, though men call him the Hammer. These lands were Pugree territory, but the story goes he hammered them into the ground. I was much too little to remember, of course, but men speak fondly of him.

The Maiden hid amusement with a sleeve. Why, thank you, Sherko. We had no idea.

Yes, I know, he grinned. Foreigners. But I like you – I mean foreigners, or rather – well, never mind. Up the steps and through the portico there. He legged ahead of them, drawing door curtains and shooing away salesmen.

The Maiden studied him for a space. His appearance recalled more the roving Thurmeian than the local. She pictured him clad in western fashion, laurel wreath and all, then laughed aloud at her girlish indulgence. Minotaur rumbled quizzically, but she waved him silent.

They ducked – Minotaur crouched – into the airy office of Ozhan the Hammer, finding its occupant snoring over a heap of parchment. Sherko mumbled excuses and roused his portly progenitor. Ozhan blinked at the three intruders, half certain he was still dreaming, but at last his son’s persistence won out.

So you wish to reach the blasted main, he said, having had Sherko bring refreshments. A mean feat these days. The only pass to my knowledge is impassable, though you may question the herders if you like.

Impassable as in...? the Maiden probed.

Suicidal, Ozhan replied. The stronghold of Scarlet-headed Haphis is somewhere in that region. The man was named for his pugree, stained a permanent blood red. A more implacable savage you’ll never find. I would advise any course but the one you wish to take.

She caressed the shamshir-hilt in thought. Your son mentioned Pugrees.

Oh yes, he swelled with pride. I crushed the skull of Haphis’s great uncle on this very spot. Then they were simply Pugrees – now they are Scarlet, in all the ways you can imagine.

They cannot be worse than what we face should we turn back, mused the Maiden. Her round swart face grew crafty. Recount to me what you know of this bloody-headed reaver king...

* * *

Haphis woke with a start. A skull-faced servant loomed over him, scarlet headcloth aslant from the rousing. He shook the man off with irritation and rose on his elbows. It was barely noontide. The slim bars of golden sunlight were not yet east of their tent flap origin, and the servant bore no meat-padded platter. Nor wine or water.

The bandit groaned where he lay.

Master, the servant insisted. Master, the traders bring you tribute.

No! rapped Haphis. No more goats. No more wool or reeking cheese. Already I am scented a scabrous herdsman. Send them away. Have them come back laden with valuables – wine and virgins – or I shall ride to their craggy bazaar and set it alight.

Master, it would seem—

Gods, what! the bandit cried groggily.

The leathery skull-face assumed a patient configuration. The servant cleared his throat. He straightened on the spot and put his hands behind his back – though whether in deference or to keep from murdering the prostrate man none could say.

It would seem the traders anticipated your desires, master. They bring but one camel, laden, as you say, with valuables. With luck, even a virgin.

The bandit blinked at him from the cot. He sat up hastily and bundled up the folds of his kaftan in his lap so that his hairy knees poked out on either side. His brows ascended and his tongue darted out to wet the bearded lips, leaving his mouth partly open.

A girl?

The servant gave a stoic nod.

Haphis came erect, swayed with momentary vertigo and ordered the man to fetch his fine robes, still clutching the bundled kaftan. He hurried to where the scraps of his early morning meal lay languishing and dashed the contents of an earthen carafe in his face, wiping it with an ample sleeve.

The other brought him a sumptuous white and gold raiment, wrested from a passing lordling not a month before. Haphis had taken his head clean off, the body emptied down the horse’s hind, sparing the fabric. What crimson specks remained were timorously purged by an elderly shepherdess, the garb restored to brilliance.

What sort of girl? he demanded.

The servant paused. A courtesan from the west. Delivered by camel – veiled – wrapped in silk and clinking ornaments.

Does she sing? Dance? Or is she one of those irksome tale-telling courtesans I hear about? I have no patience for nightly prattle!

I should think a dancer, the servant offered, squirting perfume. She has a certain poise – a sureness of foot. She will please you greatly.

Haphis regarded his pampered reflection in a tall bronze mirror, turning this way and that while the leathery man smoothed plaits and girt at his waist a sleek poniard. The bandit gripped the gold-filigreed hilt and purposefully stroked his long mustachios. His aspect grew darkly lustful; with a sadistic twist of lip he said:

Has she a guardian? Some dog to growl at my advances?

I think not, the servant mused. There is Sherko the merchant cub. Two of his porters. None dare oppose you here. Unless their camel is somehow ensorcelled. I have heard of such beasts, possessed of some jealous demon and cantankerous in the extreme. If it comes to it I shall gladly slay it, master.

He clutched the bottled perfume in a murderous wise.

Excellent, Haphis purred.

He sent skull-face to bring the girl and refreshments, sat himself down to comfort on a fluffed pillow and studied the tent flap intently. A grand diversion at last. Soon his fingers would clutch black tresses, tear silk from flesh, and rove ravenous to secret places. He cared to discipline his features, however, for he wished nothing betray his intentions. Surprise must be writ supremely in the girl’s eyes, lest utter satisfaction elude him.

The servant repaired, dried fruit and cardamom coffee in hand.

She comes to you presently, declared he.

The bandit swallowed. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest alike the proud avian. His nostrils flared to the aromatic beverage and his features eased somewhat. A salient good-natured ameer, driven by cruel circumstance to raid and rapine – not a vile calculating jackal of the crag – would greet the unsuspecting dancing girl.

Said girl entered histrionically, a desert whirlwind swathed in silk, her myriad light ornaments clinking like the promise of vast treasure. She came to halt two sabre-lengths from Haphis’s slippered feet, keen black eyes a-flash over the wisp of her veil. She curtsied deeply, impressing her audience with unguessed grace and masterful dynamics.

Not so girlish as Haphis had hoped, yet her curvy shape made bounteous promise – not just of pliant flesh but of fighting unfeeble. She would struggle both prettily and mightily, the bandit mused. He nodded accordance.

Your Grace, she intoned. A pleasure to perform at your whim. I am Marali, cygnet of the western stars, but Your Grace may call me what he wishes, if it pleases him. Her eyes lowered in deference, but flashed momentarily toward the leathery servant. Skull-face, in turn, peered at her askance but said nothing.

Haphis extended an open palm toward the mat before him. Come, girl – many-starred Marali – dine with me. I fear I am remiss in my studies of your western lands. Displaced as I am, a luckless ameer can only do so much to stay abreast of distant events. Please, recline and civilise me a spell. He near giggled at his cruel caper. It was almost too easy.

The girl obeyed, if only so far as to seat herself deftly on her heels.

The servant poured them coffee, observing the girl from the corner of his eye.

Have you such libations in the west, black cygnet? The bandit smiled at her over his cup.

Not as such, Your Grace. Her voice was a soft caress. Hot wine and potent spice, but even that is an eastern inspiration. This powdered draft is yet unknown, so far as I can tell. She lifted her thin veil ever so slightly to smell the warm drink.

I imagine your men would grow strangely potent if they had it. Nay, not an aphrodisiac! Heavens! The bandit chortled ameer-wise. "But a customary empowerment – lubrication, if you will. Commerce is so much smoother when brains are apt and active. You may find your step lightened, your supple twirling effortless.

Go on, have a sip, he urged, slurping his own with great gusto. A gentle flavour. It will suit you perfectly.

Her eyes grew mirthful. She lifted the veil to taste her treat, then sighed as a seraph might sigh. Your Grace does not lie. But it fits me not so well as suggested. I would—

The leathery servant cut her short. He bounded at her like lightning and tore the veil from her face, scattering ornaments all about. His skull-face contorted dramatically and his lips quivered.

You! he squalled. You are no courtesan!

Her own swart face contorted, the girl blurred with motion. She shot to her feet, buried her knuckles under the accuser’s breastbone and jabbed his throat in so swift a manner it left Haphis gaping over his coffee. The servant gurgled and keeled over.

Impostor, he croaked.

Haphis made to rise and slice the false courtesan with a flick of the poniard, but she sensed his intent and planted a sandalled foot in his face with effortless authority. The bandit went down, more from shock than pain. The girl strode across him to pluck a heavy scimitar from among his war gear. Haphis rolled away, fully expecting to be beheaded at the slightest provocation.

He came to his feet, poniard before. Shock turned at last to ire. He abided assaults – integral to chiefdom – but never trickery where women were concerned.

Swart slattern! he bellowed.

Lost your wit? the girl jeered. She came at him at a languid pace. Behind her the skull-faced servant twitched. His wide eyes were on her and his open mouth wheezed wordlessly.

Haphis considered the scimitar and the ease with which she handled it. You would lure me with theatrics? Are you some crafty head taker of Sherko’s?

Not precisely, she laughed. But it seems my ruse is undone. Gods, you find old foes in the queerest places. She closed on the bandit, crossing his slim blade with the flaring scimitar-tip. I left Poonk wasting in the sun some seasons ago. I see that he is better. Was better, she amended.

Poonk hissed a curse at her.

You’re not unhandsome, though – for a loutish crag reaver. I would indulge your lusty whims awhile. The scimitar caressed Haphis’s poniard with a steely rasp. Alas, the stars renay us. Our kismat lies in another’s embraces. She gave a thespian sigh, hand to breast. I came not to slay you. I meant to dazzle you, O boob – to twine you ‘round my finger.

From without came the sound of approaching men. A clatter of steel and a murmur of the multitude. Your feeble plot comes tumbling down around you, Haphis gloated. You are unveiled.

She grinned at him wickedly, but gave no reply.

A dozen Pugrees entered. Scarlet were their sashes and scarlet their banded headcloths, scarlet too were sabre-hilt and boot and pantaloon. One wore scarlet on the cheek and bulked shirtless, knotting his sash with haste. Their eyes darted from Haphis to sworded dancing girl and back again.

Enter the audience, quo she. Now the spectacle.

* * *

And that is my plan, orated the Maiden, brimming with joy at her own cleverness. Sherko and Ozhan appeared both awed and disturbed. The single servant present stood frozen over a fruit platter, arrested mid-serving. Minotaur’s gleaming features betrayed nothing.

It requires some secrecy, of course. And a small investment on your part, Ozhan. Which you shall have back manyfold once the pass is scarlet free. The Maiden allowed herself some comfort and spread out lazily on her mat. I long to see Haphis’s face now, she breathed.

Ozhan chuckled, as much from fear as elation. The portly man passed his pipe to the cross-legged titan beside him, forgetful of Minotaur’s utter and all-encompassing abstinence. Sherko brought him to his senses with a portentous ahem.

Very good, Ozhan spake at last. I shall see to expenses and Sherko to beasts and porters. I admit it seems to me like the sheerest madness, yet no reasonable stratagem ever eased these ancient hills from Haphis’s grasp. Haply they will smile on your approach.

Alive with more than the discourse of sheep and the rutting of herders, are they, grinned the Maiden where she sprawled.

Aye, laughed Ozhan, the bluster of swart little women! He hushed, turned to Minotaur. And the boding silence of passing titans. He said nothing for a space, then exclaimed, He does not eat – your companion.

Only fat old traders and their sons, returned the Maiden. Mirth bubbled out of her in brief delightful gushes. Sherko smiled covertly, both at his father’s reaction and that of their horned guest. A loud reverberating sigh emitted from the titan’s headpiece.

Nay, said the woman at last. Mino subsists on a raw diet of danger and bold venturings. Would that we all might thrive on so little, and so well. But then think of all the mutton we’d miss.

Minotaur plucked the pipe from beside her treats and tossed it through a window slit with apparent zeal, then turned the silent bull-head on their host. Ozhan cleared his throat and had the servant trade smoke and sweetmeats for quickening beverages.

You firmly believe that Haphis will be duped, he asked the Maiden soberly. She rose to a crouch, balanced on the balls of her feet. Her head sank forward twixt her shoulders and the keen black eyes fixed on Ozhan.

We’ve known many a reaver and petty king. We’ve trampled some, aided others. Haphis is king-reaver and scarlet-minded, doubly amenable to my ruse. She rose to full height, tensed and bended aesthetically. And if he is not, she mused with relish, I’ve a myriad wiles yet.

* * *

A pox on your ratty loiterers! roared Haphis. You think because you reared some slack-jawed morons to despoilerhood that you are somehow my equal? What abysmal delusion bids you liken petty robbers to the glory of the Pugree? What deeds have you to rival the sack of Yezer, the abduction of Princess Enebesh from her lofty pleasure gardens, or the breaking of unconquerable Abezzer at the dragon gates of Iskeer?

The Maiden poised some strides away, her scimitar alike the cane, one sandalled foot across the other. Your equal? Nay, your better! I’ve heard of Enebesh – homeliest girl in all the east. Did you ever manage her ransom?

Haphis glared at her.

Evidently not, she smirked. Of course, the miserly ways of her father King Kreesus are notorious even in the west. Shall we measure accomplishments, then? Very well, you ripped a princess from the niggardly grasp of her daddy. But hear you aught of Sheshak, suzerain divine of aridest southland?

A questioning murmur rose from the assembled bandits. Haphis assumed a posture of smug imperiousness. No.

Predictably not, snapped the Maiden. My ratty loiterers shamed him so utterly that his queen mother struck his name from the records and forbade any future reference to his reign. No southland tongue nor southland babe bears his royal appellation.

Frightfully convenient, Haphis interjected. One or two bandits dared to snigger.

Ignoring his gibe, she lifted the scimitar and pointed it at her audience, transfixing each man with her eyes as the blade swept past. "I had no more rogues than you here. Night was ameer as we scaled the luxuriant arabesques of the walls of Sheshak’s palace to despoil it of treasure-wives. Imagine our surprise when the naked horde entreated to join us!

Poor Sheshak, the Maiden laughed. "The women, more ravenous than any reaver, picked him clean, right down to his gilded underpants. Ha! And his beloved boy-slaves – what gorgeous uproar – having never laid eyes on such a wealth of luscious girl-flesh, broke chastity to join the looters.

Ware you the unheeded hareem! she moralised with a grin. Treasure-wives and treasured slaves and treasure itself – all in one night. I daresay that trumps your Enebesh.

Now, she meditated. You broke your Abezzer. And I the lion men of Shervan, whose battle-fierceness, I am sure, requires no enlargement. And as you sacked Yezer, I plundered the fabulous coral-state of Ys, she turned her gaze playfully on the Pugrees, whose unbifurcated daughters, each a goddess in her own right, fell upon my men with such amorous abandon I could but envy them.

The Maiden gave a wistful sigh. Ah, to lead is to know sacrifice.

Fabrications, Haphis retorted. Boldest lies. Unbifurcated daughters! What vomitous fantasy will you spout at us next? Erectile-trunked man-adders – hairless bat-apes – eremite locust fiends? Fables avail you nothing. You are but a scheming she-snake – a peddler of false promise.

His antagonist regarded him mischievously. Then prove me thus. Or are you afraid that my claims ring true?

The bandit chief seethed. He wished no