Iron Axe (25 page)

But the shaman ignored her, and no matter how hard Aisa tried to catch up, she always remained a dozen steps
behind. Several times she thought she had lost the shaman, only to see a glimpse of an emerald cloak disappear around a tree or through some undergrowth to her right or left. Kalessa remained with her, a silent orcish shadow.

Aisa's breath burned in her lungs. How big was this grove? Surely they must be coming to the other side by now. Or was the old woman twisting her in circles? Birds sang evening songs in the leaves, and the smell of moss and ferns rose around her. It was almost completely dark now, and Aisa could barely see. Only the sound of the shaman's footsteps ahead of her pulled her on. This was foolishness. She should—

There was a
wrench
, and Aisa's knees wobbled. Her gorge rose, and she only barely pulled her scarf aside in time to vomit. She was vaguely aware of Kalessa doing the same beside her.

“Vik's beard and balls!” Kalessa growled when the spasm passed. “What in nine hells was that?”

Aisa wiped her mouth with her sleeve, wincing at the sour taste. “We Twisted. The shaman took us somewhere else. Judging by how I feel, it was quite some distance.”

“What is Twisting?” Kalessa got to her feet, sword drawn, and helped Aisa up.

“Stane magic. I didn't think orcs could use it. Where are we?”

Nothing much had changed. They were still in a grove of ash trees, though perhaps “forest” was a more accurate term. Wide spaces between the ancient trees were carpeted with short grass and low ferns. Twilight had fallen. Aisa saw no sign of the shaman. What had—

A thin, high scream rent the air. Aisa's heart jerked. Kalessa's sword leaped into her hand. Instinctively Aisa spent half a moment centering where the sound came from, and then she was running toward it with Kalessa beside her.
They dodged around a pair of trees and nearly stumbled over a brown mountain lion. Fear and shock constricted Aisa's chest. The lion was crouching over a little boy, its face dripping blood. It saw them coming and growled low.

“I have the lion,” Kalessa whispered, her eyes on the beast.

“I have the boy,” Aisa whispered back.

Kalessa shouted and waved her sword. The lion snarled with a sound like a woman screaming. Aisa's hands went cold, and her hair prickled beneath her scarves.

Kalessa jabbed at the lion. “Ha! Ha!”

The lion leaped aside with unnerving agility. Nothing that big should move so fast. It snarled and swiped at Kalessa. Kalessa danced aside.

The moment the little boy was free of the lion, Aisa darted to him. Blood stained the ferns, and her heart pounded at the back of her throat. How bad was it? She didn't even think about where the boy might have come from. Aisa rolled him over.

Golden hair spilled away from a bloody and beautiful face. The boy was an elf. Her hatred for his kind roared so intensely it made Aisa's jaw tighten and her hands clench. She wanted to see him dead at her feet. This child would grow up to become an elven lord, one who would enslave and rape and neuter thousands of humans over his long, long lifetime. Like a gleaming new adder sliding out of an eggshell, the boy would cause endless pain and suffering. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

“What are you doing?” Kalessa cried. She was dancing backward, leaping away from the lion and circling. The lion snarled and spat.

Aisa forced herself to look at the boy's wounds. Two long gashes along his chest bled copiously. He would die without aid; that was certain. She could help him, however. Dried sphagnum moss to pack the smaller wound, stitching for the deeper one. He would live.

Or . . .

She could let him die. No one would know. Aisa need only say he was too far gone. Take Kalessa, run, let the lion feast on his flesh and the beetles chew his bones. This elf would hurt no one else.

The mountain lion swiped. Kalessa ducked under it and stabbed. Her sword went straight into the lion's chest. The lion roared like thunder, then choked. Blood gushed from its mouth.

But this was a
child.
Did he not have the right to make his own choices about his life? Perhaps he would grow up to be an exception. And when she looked at his pale little face, she knew she could not just leave him to die.

Swiftly she removed materials from her pack—and when had she brought that with her?—and set to work with moss and rags, sinew and needle. No water to boil anything, so she doused everything with sharp-smelling liquor.

Kalessa leaned over her shoulder. “How is—Vik's balls!”

“Yes.” Aisa continued to work. “He must have wandered over the border. Either that, or—” Her mouth went dry. “—the Twist sent us to Alfhame. The country of the elves.”

Kalessa worked her jaw back and forth at that. She said in a grim voice, “Where are his parents?”

“If I knew, I would not be working on him right now.” She tied a final knot. “The lion?”

“Dead.” Kalessa raised her sword to the tree branches. “Ha! A fine opponent! Mother and Father will be proud to hear of this!”

“Your sister is also proud,” Aisa said. She rolled the elven boy into her arms and stood, a little unsteadily. Kalessa tried to help, but Aisa shook her head. “Your hands must be free in case that lion has a mate. We should find shelter for this boy.”

“Where? I don't—” She halted and sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

Aisa checked. Wood smoke drifted on the air. “I do. This way.”

The boy was light at first, but he became heavier. Tears ran down her face, but she moved ahead with grim determination.

It felt like years, but was only a few moments later that they saw a light ahead of them. Sprites, Aisa knew, sometimes fluttered through the forest, using their glowing forms to lure travelers into swamps or over cliffs, just for fun. Praying this wasn't the case, she kept her eyes on the light and continued on, trying to ignore the unconscious boy in her arms. Eventually they came to a stone house at the base of a large, multitrunked ash tree. It was unlike any of the rounded houses Aisa had seen among the northern Balsians, or the square, sandstone houses among the people of Irbsa, where Aisa had been born. It also looked nothing like anything the elves had ever created. The house was built from round fieldstones fitted together with mortar. Tight thatching provided the roof, and there were two large windows in front. Both had glass in them, something Aisa had only seen in enormously wealthy households. Warm yellow light shone through them.

Aisa hesitated, the boy still in her arms, but Kalessa strode fearlessly to the door. Before she could knock, however, it whipped open. More light spilled over Aisa and Kalessa, blinding Aisa. No one was there.

“Hello?” Kalessa said. She poked her head inside, then went in. Aisa hesitated and followed. The boy needed shelter; Aisa needed rest. That overrode any concerns.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the boy snapped awake. He squirmed and wriggled until the startled Aisa put him down. Before she could react further, the boy . . . changed. His build blurred like running water. He grew taller, and his build thickened. In seconds, he had vanished
and standing between Aisa and Kalessa was the emerald-cloaked shaman, but she was taller and broader than before.

Kalessa's sword was ready. “What is happening? Who are you?”

“Shut the door before all the heat gets out,” the shaman said. When Kalessa blinked, she added, “Honestly, child! If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. Quickly! We have much to do, and the Tree is tipping as we speak.”

Kalessa sheathed her sword and folded her arms. “I think this is your decision, my sister.”

Aisa looked at the threshold and at Kalessa. Then she straightened her back, pushed the elven hunger aside, and shut the
door.

T
he inside of the house was big. Too big. With pale wooden floors and thick-beamed ceilings and tables and chairs. Aisa stood timidly next to Kalessa in the kitchen, feeling like a mouse seeking crumbs while a cat slept in the corner. Lamps and candles occupied dozens of sconces, but they didn't actually burn. They simply glowed with a warm light. Intricately carved shelves held cooking utensils and fat sacks of foodstuffs. An upright loom stood against one wall, half covered in fine white cloth. In one corner was a trapdoor with a bucket next to it. Aisa drew her scarves more tightly about her, feeling tiny and ragged in this fine place.

A bright fire burned in a fireplace. Aisa hadn't seen a chimney since her time with the elves. Four large windows were set into each wall, in direct contradiction to the single pair Aisa had seen outside flanking the front door. Moreover, the scenes outside the windows didn't match. One window looked out into a forest covered with ice and snow, one looked out on a mountain covered in a spray of new flowers, one looked out on a plain of green grass under an azure sky, and one looked out at an oak tree robed in scarlet leaves.

“What sort of house is this?” Kalessa breathed.

“The sort that belongs to me.” The shaman, now a full head taller than Aisa remembered, dropped into a stool next to the fireplace and stretched, reaching to the flames. Her hands reminded Aisa of Hamzu's—thick and heavy. The shaman's fingers, however, were tipped with black claws.

“Shape-shifter,” Kalessa said flatly.

“No, child.” The shaman's cloak pushed itself back, revealing a heavy, lined face that reminded Aisa of a walnut. It was framed with a mane of uncombed white hair. “Out there, you see what you expect to see. In here, illusions come to die.”

“I did not expect to see an elven child,” Aisa said.

“Child, if you didn't expect to see elves everywhere, you wouldn't be so hungry all the time.” She rubbed her hands over the flames. “You had to pass a test before you could come here, and that was what your own mind conjured up. Don't blame me.”

“I do not understand,” Aisa said. “What test?”

“Some girls see an apple tree that begs to be harvested,” she said. “Others find bread in the oven that asks to be taken out. You two find an elf and a lion. I can see you'll be difficult.”

Aisa didn't know what to say to that. At least her hunger had faded back to its normal level, and she was able to manage it again. She changed the subject. “You look like Grandmother Bund. And you sound like her.”

“If you like, if you like.” She picked up a thick, heavy stick from the hearth and poked at the fire with it. “Over time, women with power merge with me, or I merge with them. We all become one. People have called me Bund and Percht and Berchta and even . . .”

“. . . Grick?” Kalessa said, awed.

“If you like,” she replied again. “But you can call me Old Aunt.”

“Why are we here, great lady?” Kalessa asked.

“When the Tree tips, it can turn over and change the
world or crash to the ground and destroy it,” Old Aunt said. “The two of you can help it turn. But not as you are, oh no.”

“What does that mean?” Kalessa demanded.

“It means you have problems. I brought you here to get you past them.” Old Aunt dropped her cloak to the floor behind her stool and from the recesses of her dress pulled a pipe, which she proceeded to fill from a wooden box on the hearth. Then she plucked a red coal from the fireplace with her bare fingers to light it. She grinned, showing sharp yellow teeth. “Or perhaps I'll devour you. I haven't decided yet. The Tree is still tipping.”

Aisa forced herself to stay where she was, though her instincts were telling her to run for the door. “Tell me, Old Aunt—are all the great powers in the universe women? So far, I have met three giants, Death, a trollwife, and now you.”

Old Aunt tossed the coal back into the fire and puffed on her pipe. “Why do you ask?”

“If women control everything,” Aisa said, “they're doing a terrible job of it. They allow the men to kill and rape and steal and do anything else they please.”

“Hmm.” Old Aunt nodded. “Your question tells me much, young Aisa, and I will have an answer for you, but you will have to earn it.”

Aisa sighed. “I have angered my elven master to earn exile. I stole the eye of the Three to earn knowledge. I fled my master to earn freedom. I followed a foolish troll into the underworld, and I healed a boy who came back from the dead. What else must I do to prove myself worthy?”

“You must clean,” said Old Aunt.

Silence hung like an anvil in the air. “I do not believe I heard that answer correctly,” Aisa said at last.

“Housework, girl. Every day, you will sweep my floors and wash my dishes and haul my water and cook my meals and dip my candles and brew my beer and do whatever else
I require. And when all those duties are done, girlie, you will take my feather beds outside and beat them until the feathers fly so thick and fast that snow falls in the parts of the world that need it. And when you're all done with that, I'll give you the answer you demand.”

“And what must I do?” Kalessa asked. “If I cook and clean, you will find yourself thinner and dirtier than when I began.”

“You will do housework of a different sort,” Old Aunt replied with a sharp-fanged grin. “It will be easier to show you than tell you. And don't worry, girl, you'll get a nice reward, too.”

“I want a
good
reward,” Kalessa said. “Something I'd really want, not a sarcastic reward like pitch poured all over me.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Old Aunt waved a hand. “Something nice. Do we have a bargain?”

Something occurred to Aisa. “How long will this go on?”

“That,” Old Aunt said in a low voice, “will depend completely on you.”

The work began that evening. Aisa cooked a rich supper of salmon roasted with mushrooms and new potatoes and strawberries with cream and bread pudding and plenty of mead to wash it down. Kalessa, divested of her woven armor, set to work sharpening an impressive set of knives on a whetstone while Old Aunt sat by the fire, puffing on her pipe. Aisa expected the sullen silence of the sort she had gotten from Frida in Farek's house, or the quiet of the sickroom punctuated with her dying mother's occasional cries for help. As she cleaned a new-caught salmon—and where had it come from?—she found herself automatically tensing, her eyes flickering from side to side, her ears stretched to their limits, her body ready at any moment to dodge a blow or rush to her mother's side. But none of that came. Instead Kalessa started talking about how the kitchen reminded her
of her grandmother's kitchen fire, even though that place had been a pit outside a tent.

“It has the same feel,” she explained, and picked up another knife from her seat behind the whirling whetstone. “Did you know your grandmothers, my sister?”

Aisa shook her head and carefully deboned the salmon. “My father's parents died before I was born, and I never even learned who my mother's parents were. She never spoke of them. I only knew that she came from somewhere far away from Irbsa.”

The quiet, friendly talk continued while they worked and Old Aunt watched, and the scene filled Aisa as sweet liquor filled a jug. She'd had no idea how good simple talk could feel. A bit of the tension lifted from her shoulders. Even the hunger eased.

Supper was a fascinating and monumental event. How fine a thing it was to cook a rich meal and then sit down to eat it! As a slave, she had always eaten leftovers and crumbs at the smoke-filled hearth. The orcs and trolls, kind as they were, had given her strange food. This was food she could make as she liked and devour until she was full. Even washing up afterward was pleasant, with Kalessa to help and the soft scent of Old Aunt's pipe.

Afterward, Old Aunt pointed Aisa to a room with a strange bed in it—a shelf with a big bag of feathers for padding and a smaller bag of feathers for a pillow. Thick quilts were piled atop the entire affair for warmth. A lamp stood beside a pitcher of water and a bowl on a table in the corner for night and morning washing, and one of those incredible glass windows looked out over a moonlit beach, where soft waves lapped at brown sands. The luxury took Aisa's breath away. Her amazement grew when she discovered that she and Kalessa wouldn't be sharing the room or the bed—Kalessa had a room of her own.

“The door latches,” Old Aunt said, “from the inside. Good night now.”

After she left, it took Aisa a moment to understand what she meant. With trembling fingers, Aisa closed the latch with a solid
clunk.
Four thick walls stood guard around her, and the only way in was a door that she alone controlled. For the first time in years, Aisa felt completely, totally safe.

For a moment, she didn't move. Then she threw her hands wide and spun in a giddy circle. The relief was so powerful she didn't know what to do with herself. Suddenly her bindings felt too close, too confining. With a little cry of happiness, she unwound the rags from her hands, noticing for the first time that the blood from the elven boy's wounds had vanished, and flung them into the corner. Then she cast back her hood, tossed aside her dirty dress that smelled of sweat and wyrms, and unwound the scarves from her head and body. These she also cast into the corner, and she stood in the center of the room in her underthings with a feeling of lightness. Night black hair spilled down her back, and she ran her hands through it, feeling it rumple soft beneath her fingers and scratching her itchy scalp. It was a fine thing to wash from the basin and sponge away days of dust and travel, and never once did she have to hurry or worry that Farek with his hard hands or Hamzu with his piercing eye might barge in.

In a trunk at the foot of the bed, she found fresh new clothes, and a long, soft shift she assumed was for sleeping in. For all these things, Aisa decided she would work for Old Aunt as long as the woman—or whatever she was—would have her, and Hamzu could twist in the wind. As she slid between clean sheets on a delightfully comfortable bed, the butterfly sound of gentle singing wafted under the door. The tune had no words, just a melody soft as rising bread and soothing as a mother's touch. It sent Aisa into a deep, comfortable sleep.

In the morning, Aisa woke easily and dressed in the fresh white clothes she found, including a clean white scarf to wrap around her face and a hood to pull over her hair. There were, however, no rags to wrap her hands in. And her clothing from last night had disappeared. Aisa glanced uneasily at her bare hands and at the latched door. Well, it was only Kalessa and Old Aunt out there. No men to stare at her bare skin. Gingerly, feeling oddly naked, she left the sleeping room and found her way to the kitchen. Outside one of the windows, an orange sun was just creeping over the horizon. Old Aunt was just settling onto her stool by the fireplace, which had been banked for the night. Aisa hurried to stir it up and add wood as Kalessa wandered in wearing a new tunic—also white—and buckling on her sword in the absent way Aisa already recognized as automatic to her. Her golden eyes were still heavy with sleep, and her auburn braid was still down for the night. Kalessa was not a morning person.

“Just in time,” Old Aunt observed as Aisa set the table with cheese, bread, and small beer for breakfast. Old Aunt poked at the fire with her stick. Aisa again thought of Bund and the shaman and even of Hunin's brother the priest. Did everyone with power brandish a stick to show it? She wondered what it would be like to wield one, be in such a position of power herself.

“Thank you, sister,” Kalessa said with her mouth full. “You are so quick at setting a table. I'll fetch the water and more wood, since you have become our food maiden.”

“I'm afraid not,” Old Aunt said from her stool. Her plate was on the stone hearth. “You have other duties today. In fact . . .” She leaned back to glance out the window. “. . . you should finish that bread and draw your sword. Aisa will tend to the washing up.”

Aisa tensed, and Kalessa was on her feet in a flash, her bronze sword out. “What are you talking about?”

The kitchen door smashed open. Sunlight slammed into Aisa's eyes. To Aisa's utter shock, Hamzu burst into the room. Foam and saliva flecked his lips. His left eye glowed like an angry sun, and its gaze penetrated Aisa's very soul until she stood naked before a jeering crowd. With a bull's roar, Hamzu rushed straight at Aisa. Cold terror washed over her and turned her ribs to ice. She couldn't move, couldn't think as he thundered toward her, overturning tables and benches along the way.

Kalessa was already moving. She interposed herself between Aisa and Hamzu, her sword up, and she roared a battle challenge of her own. He slashed at her with his claws—when had he gotten claws?—but she eeled aside. Her sword flicked out and scored his massive chest. Blood flowed. He bellowed thunder again and slashed. His claws raked Kalessa's off arm, leaving great furrows. Aisa cried out. Kalessa didn't seem to notice. She stabbed at Hamzu's heart, but he caught her wrist and twisted. Her sword clattered to the floor and slid away. Without hesitation, Kalessa kicked Hamzu in the groin. He grunted and let her go.

“She fights dirty,” Old Aunt remarked from the heart. “What a delight.”

Hamzu bent for a moment from the pain. Foam dripped from his mouth to the floor. Fear gripped Aisa in an iron vise. Her mind couldn't encompass what she was seeing. She wanted to run, but she was also terrified that Kalessa would be hurt. And Hamzu—what was wrong with Hamzu that he would come here and attack her this way? It made her sick.

Blood ran freely from Kalessa's wounds, and from the table she snatched the knife Aisa had used to cut meat. When Hamzu straightened, she leaped straight at him. The knife gleamed in the firelight. With a shout, she plunged it straight into his glowing red eye. Aisa flinched at the sound it made. Hamzu bellowed to shake the windows. He staggered
backward, his massive clawed hands over his face. Kalessa dove for her sword, but Hamzu was already stumbling for the door. He lurched into the sunlight beyond and his pain-filled bellowing faded into nothing.