'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:
'Skak. That's what I am.’
Defeated, she closed her eyes. Though she was lying down, she felt dizzy with fatigue. The moment she closed her eyes, she seemed to be falling. She felt as if the world was collapsing, as if her body was disintegrating.
'Open your eyes,' said York.
He wanted her to watch. To see.
With a dull, helpless obedience, Yen Olass complied. Then, unbidden, she began to slide out of her clothes. York laid himself down beside her. His worm sagged, as if starting to lose interest, so he played with himself, keeping his flesh alert while she stripped, Finally, all that remained to dispose of was one small item.
Yen Olass removed the blood-rag guarding her quim,
and held the ghastly item between thumb and finger, momentarily uncertain as to what to do with it.
'That's one thing I won't have to worry about tomorrow night,' said York.
'Tomorrow?’
'When I take Monogail.’
Yen Olass was no longer sleepy. Her body burnt as if her veins had been filled with scalding water. Suddenly alert, as tense as a beast of prey about to strike, she stared at the man lying beside her and said:
T don't think you'll have her. First, she's too young. Second, she's under protection.’
'Oh, don't worry your head about that,' said York cheerfully. 'I've had them that young before. They rip, of course, but there's no helping that. As for her protection, so called…’
He laughed.
Then yawned, closing his eyes for a moment.
Yen Olass stuffed the blood-rag into his mouth.
As he gagged, she snatched the knife and stabbed him. He tried to sit up. She punched him in the throat. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed backwards. Yen Olass wrenched the knife out. Holding it with both hands, she plunged it into his heart. Then lugged it out and struck again. And again. And again.
'For Monogail!' said Yen Olass, slamming home the knife one more time.
Then she grunted, strengthened her grip on the knife, and twisted, turning the blade in the body.
'For my mother!’
She was hot, burning, sweating. With one hand she pushed down on the dead man's body, and with the other she hauled out the knife. Her frenzy was passing, and she began to realize exactly what she had done. She felt no horror at this murder. Instead, it gave her a profound sense of satisfaction. She licked the blood from the blade. Slowly. Tenderly.
'Dara ko cha,' said Yen Olass, using a phrase from her homeland which meant 'The apple bites back'.
She had bitten back with a vengeance.
But was York really dead? He looked dead enough. She had seen battlefield corpses which looked prettier. Nevertheless, it was best to make certain.
Carefully, Yen Olass aimed the knife at a well-chosen spot and jabbed it in. There was no response. She smiled, as happy as a cat with cream.
'Darling,' she said, and kissed the dead man.
But she did not kiss him on the lips, which were stained with her blood and his. Instead, she kissed him on the throat. Then, remembering how the Lord Emperor Khmar had once demolished a man in her presence, she gave York a love-bite. Then she went to work.
When she was entirely finished, Yen Olass looked as if she had just climbed out of a bath of blood. Searching the suite, leaving bloody footprints on the floor, she found plenty of spare linen. She washed her body in wine, there being no water available; she finished up clean but reeking of alcohol. Never mind. She dressed herself in wool and leathers which had belonged to York. She wore no armour, because she would be moving through the castle by stealth.
Yen Olass took the knife which had already served her so well. There was going to be a lot more killing in the castle tonight. She was going to free Hearst, Watashi and the others, even if she had to kill a dozen guards and sentries to do so. Once she had liberated her manforce, they would be tasked with the job of liberating Monogail and Yerzerdayla. Then they would kill out the castle, taking their victims while they slept. By dawn, the floors would be knee-deep in blood, and Yen Olass and her companions would be far away on stolen horses or a stolen ship. If they had to ride, Monogail would sit on her horse. Once she had recovered her child, nothing would separate them, not ever again.
Yen Olass opened the heavy wooden door which guarded York's suite, and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. By the light of a guttering torch, she saw a sentry sitting in the hallway, his head nodding down to his chest.
Yen Olass held her breath.
Was he asleep?
She hoped so.
She crept forward, moving stealthily, knife in hand so she would be ready to strike if the sentry woke and grappled with her.
'No need to mouse along like that,' said a deep, heavy voice. 'He's dead. I've killed him already.’
Yen Olass started.
A shadow advanced out of the shadows. To her horror, she saw it was Nan Nulador. This time, he was armed with a double-bladed battle-axe.
T was going to give the happy couple a little more time to finish their business and get to sleep,' said Nan Nulador. 'You've saved me a long wait.’
