Hugh Cook - The women and the warlords

'Peace,' said Draven. 'We come here to sign a peace. It would be a bad omen to have a killing the night before a peace treaty. I will stand as father for the child.’

Celadric turned on him.

'Why,' said Celadric, 'are you doing this?’

There was death in his voice.

'A debt of honour,' said Draven, reluctantly. 'As your father's son, I'm sure you understand the meaning of honour.’

Celadric took a deep breath. He could have Draven killed here and now. For opposing the emperor like this, the pirate deserved to be killed. But if Draven died, there would be no marriage between the pirate and the Princess Quenerain, and no peace treaty – and the pirates of the Greater Teeth would choose another leader, and go back to their old habits of raiding and plundering.

'Take the child then,' said Celadric. 'And the woman. And get out of my sight!’

The last words were said in a snarl.

Silently, Draven motioned to the four handlers holding Monogail down, and they released her. Yerzerdayla tossed the knife she was holding into a soup tureen, and gathered Monogail into her arms. Screaming for her mother, Monogail was carried from the room as Yerzerdayla exited in Draven's wake.

'The night is ended,' said Celadric, meaning that the entertainments were over. 'Everyone get out!’

York released Yen Olass.

'Well, my dearest heart,' said York. 'Shall we retire to our nuptial bed?’

Yen Olass wanted to faint, to weep, to sleep. Instead, she mustered up a smile.

'The night's pleasure is all mine,' she said.

Yerzerdayla had done what she could. The rest was up to her.

The castle was in darkness, except where flaming brands burnt here and there in the flagstone corridors. As York led Yen Olass to his own suite of rooms, a slave went in front bearing a lantern. In the bedroom, the slave smoothed the feather mattress and turned down the feather duvet. Then York dismissed her, and she departed. Yen Olass was alone in the suite with Celadric's brother.

Yen Olass put all thought of Monogail out of her mind. Yerzerdayla had risked her life to save Monogail, and Draven had chanced his; with such protection, the child would survive the night. Now Yen Olass had to concentrate on the task at hand. She had to contend with York. She felt very tired. Exhausted, in fact. But she did not allow herself to collapse.

'That was fun tonight,' said York.

'Yes,' said Yen Olass.

She considered attacking him. If he had been drunk and helpless, she would have killed him without hesitation. But he had drunk little. He was a strong, ugly, battle-hardened thug. Furthermore, he had insulted his brother by wearing chain mail to the banquet, and he was still clad in this armour. He was also carrying weapons.

York yawned.

He was weary; he was well-fed. Perhaps, given the chance, he would prefer to make love to her rather than to rape her. All evening, until Monogail's entrance had interrupted the party, they had played the game of love, and, to a certain extent, people become what they pretend to be. Yen Olass knew something of the arts of seduction – she had studied the Princess Quenerain often enough – and now she decided to romance her warlord. With a little luck, she would make him hers. She would make him her ally.

Yen Olass, letting the slightest husk of desire steal into her voice, said to her warlord:

T intend to enjoy this night together.’

Then she softened her lips for a kiss, and yielded up her mouth to his. But he did not respond. His lips were hard and dry, almost leathery; beyond them, his teeth barred the way into his mouth. He took her by the throat and pushed her face away from his. Then he scooped her up and threw her onto the bed. She was a solidly built woman, but he tossed her onto the bed as if she had been a child. As she landed, her head cracked into the wooden bedstead. She lay there shocked and dazed.

'Dralkosh,' said York.

Yen Olass felt stunned. How could he reject her like that? So absolutely? So completely? For a moment, she had been prepared to offer him her tenderness, the full cooperation of her body, and her unstinting assistance in every intimacy that he might desire. But he had pushed her away and then he had thrown her on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

York drew a knife and threw it.

The blade slammed into the bedstead by her left ear. Yen Olass started as the heavy-bladed weapon buried itself in the wood. She did not turn to look at it, but she could see it out of the corner of her eye.

'To cut you open,' said York.

Yen Olass did not understand. Did he think she was still a sewn-up woman? Surely he must know she had slept with his father? If he had never heard the gossip, he must have learnt as much from the argument in the banqueting hall. Yen Olass tried to speak, and found she could not. She cleared her throat noisily, and regained her voice.

'I'm not a virgin,' said Yen Olass.

'Oh?' said York. 'If you want a true confession… neither am I.’

York did not seem particularly interested. He started to unbuckle his swordbelt.

'I… I know how to please a man,' said Yen Olass. York raised an eyebrow. 'Both of us?’

'It would please me as well,' said Yen Olass. 'You have… you have a very beautiful body.’

'When I spoke of us,' said York, T didn't mean you and me. I meant me and my friend.’

And he gestured at something near Yen Olass's head.

At first, through a deliberate act of will, Yen Olass prevented herself from understanding. But then his meaning forced itself upon her. His friend was his knife. He was determined to cut her. At the beginning or at the end? She was going to find out very shortly.

She watched as York discarded armour and clothing, dropping each item carelessly. She watched with helpless fascination. Her head still hurt where it had hit the wooden bedstead. She had felt his strength then. If she fought, he would break her as a bully boy breaks a kitten. And if she surrendered, he would break her anyway. She felt paralysed with fear.

What weapons did she have? Her steel finger nails, which were no match for a knife. And her voice.

Yen Olass used her voice.

T killed my first man at the age of twelve,' said Yen Olass.

All her skill and training went into the threat. Undertones of menace rumbled in her voice. Her tones were the tones of truth, making her threat a statement of absolute, irrefutable fact. By rights, York should have blanched, flinched and faltered. But he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he laughed.

'Maybe so, little Yenolass,' said York. 'But it didn't make you a man.’

'My name is Yen Olass,' said Yen Olass, emphasizing the way her name broke into two words.

Her name was the last dignity left to her.

'A slave owns nothing in its own right,' said York. 'Not even a name. Tonight, I'll call you Skak.’

He took off the last piece of his clothing, and stood before her, naked. She could not keep herself from looking. His cock was flaccid, a dead weight hanging limply. That was the final insult. He had rejected her love: now he was not even lusting after her body. Yet he was going to rape her all the same.

Yen Olass still did not look at the knife, but she thought about it all the same.

'What's your name?' said York, working his flesh.

Yen Olass held silence.

'Your name!’

His shout hit her like a battering ram. She flinched, as if she had been struck. Then, reluctantly, she named herself: 'Skak.’

And, speaking the word, naming herself with the crude Yarglat term for the female part, she finally accepted her destiny, which, she saw now, was the true and inevitable destiny of a woman – to humble herself before the power of a man, and to be broken by a man. York stood before her, naked, his male strength now rising erect. Now, gazing on his raw masculine might, she said: