The wind drove murderously past Yaga's face as he beat across the plains. Blood throbbed in his ears and coursed through his veins as he urged his wearying steed ever onward. His arm, burnt brown from a thousand suns, clung grimly to the white-skinned girl on his lap.

Behind him, nearly on the horizon, a plume of ashen smoke rose high into the clear sky.

The two pursuers were nearly astride him, and he knew their own fresh steeds would catch up to him long before he reached safety. Beneath him the horse frothed in near exhaustion.

They closed upon him, their curved scimitars held aloft. He slashed out with his free hand, struck one man’s horse. The mount whinnied in pain and man and mount went down in a spray of dirt. The other rider ducked a swipe, came alongside . Their blades whirled in a tempest of clashing steel, hooves thundering beneath them.

Ferociously they battled, their blades singing out across the steppes, until the final blow that clove the man’s head from his shoulders and smote his body to the earth.

Reining in his steed, Yaga eased up to a canter. He saw no sign of further pursuit, but if he knew Sunswat there already would be a hunting party on his tail. He wanted to put as many miles between himself and the camp as possible.

He felt weak. The bleeding from the gash on his arm was heavy, the blood clotting beneath his furs. The girl moaned once, half in delirium, and struggled feebly in his grip.

All about him stretched an endless sea of green. The heavens spread infinitely above and the aching sun beat fiercely upon his shaven scalp. Ahead rose the great mountain range, the frosted peaks hazy in the distance. By nightfall he would reach the foothills that bordered those impenetrable peaks. Then at last would he be safe.

Abruptly the girl awoke, screaming. She bit and spat and squirmed so that they both nearly fell from the horse. Cursing, he slapped her hard across the rump. She was feral as a wildcat, and the slap only increased her fury. It was not until he drew his blade to her soft white throat that she at last calmed.

"Untie me," she demanded, looking up at him.

"And risk you gouging out my eyes as well? You'll remain bound and be thankful I don't gag you in the bargain."

"Then at least raise me from your stinking groin and allow me to ride in some dignity... husband."

Without halting he hoisted her rudely upward, swinging her leg across the back of the horse's neck so that she sat perched in front of him. It blocked his vision a little, but it was preferable to having this bothersome woman behind him. He smelled the zesty lavender incense of her hair, felt the softness of her curved flesh against his own.

They rode on in silence for a time, the steady beat of the hooves upon the clod and the whistling peal of the wind their only companions amid the pitiless desolation.

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly, trying to turn and face him.

"Yaga, the nomad."

"Of the cast-out Tzujin tribe?”She laughed, a high-pitched sound of indignation and disgust. "Then you are no one at all!"

He didn't reply, but stared steely onward. His almond eyes narrowed and his wide mouth thinned. He grimly contemplated throwing the girl from the horse, to leave her for the buzzards or the wolves, whatever came first. But she was Qazira the Beautiful, whom some men called the Tigress, and she had been owned by many powerful warlords prior to his judicious acquisition of her. She was a prize worth keeping.

"Where are we going?" she asked, a hint of nervousness entering her voice. The sun was beginning to sink and the chill of the steppes was rapidly descending upon them in the dusky light.

"We're making for the Tinduk highlands."

"Your home?"

"No. We must head east through the Ganik Pass until we reach the Jarka valley. My people await me there."

"But you are a cast-out, Yaga. No tribe recognizes you now."

"The hill men do. I am their leader." His voice dripped with arrogance. "Did you honestly think a man such as me could ever command anything but respect from others?"

"Respect from those bandits? Ha! Better to be master of a pack of mangy dogs."

"They are strong," he retorted savagely. "I could not have freed you without their help."

"And yet they died just the same," she mocked.

"Aye, and don't forget it. They were good men all, despite their other failings; you owe them your life."

"For what?" she spat incredulously. "To be wife to a filthy barbarian and to live in squalor for the rest of my years, when I could be the most desirable courtesan amongst the Seven Chieftains?"

He felt too weary to argue. In his mind there was no point in bandying words when the deed was already done. Her desires didn't enter into it. Here in these lawless lands one took what one wanted; it had always been that way since the earliest ancestral times, and it would always be that way until humanity crumbled to dust. And Yaga the nomad, who belonged to no tribe and bore no allegiance to man nor beast, had taken the thing most precious to Sunswat from beneath the warlord's very nose.

He recalled the raid on the settlement, saw the panic-stricken faces of the women and children as they were ridden down in the dawn light, trampled to death beneath uncaring hooves. Wails and cries of anguish arose as unarmed men were impaled where they stood, tents set ablaze with the occupants not yet arisen from their beds, livestock gutted and slain.

Murderous rage had flooded through Yaga as he slashed madly at anything that so much as got in his way. Forcing himself into Sunswat's tent, he had burst through the gauzy draperies to confront the fat warlord lying naked on the cushions, Qazira beside him. His skin had been slick with sweat from the previous night's lovemaking. Sunswat had backed away, blubbering incoherently, as Yaga strode forth and grabbed the half-swooning girl...

He had emerged, carrying the insensate bundle on one shoulder, to find most of his men dead. The soldiers had been quick to react, the fire of bloody retribution in their eyes. Heaving her onto his mount, he had cut a swathe through the mass of men as he fled from that scene of madness and death, a grin of hell-born satisfaction upon his devilish face.

"I am cold."

He looked down at Qazira. She was dressed only in a thin silk shift, little more than a nightrobe. The finely woven lotus blossoms in gold thread might have warded evil demons from the warm comfort of one's bed, but they did little to halt the biting cold of the open steppes.

"We will stop soon," he replied flatly.

She settled once more into a sullen silence, interspersed only with the occasional shiver. A cruel smile played across his lips. He had brought with him a less costly but much warmer cotton jerkin and breeches for her to change into for the crossing. But not yet. Let her suffer a bit first.

The immense silhouettes of the mountains towered above them now, and the plaintive howls of wolves could be heard away in the distance. They were trotting along at a leisurely pace, but in these lawless lands danger was never far away, and now there also was the danger of ambushes to contend with. But a resourceful man could find much to live for amongst these inhospitable hills, and the terrain made the odds more even.

They stopped at the base of a great craggy peak. Rocky scrubland lay about them and nearby a small mountain stream burbled. Ahead, thickly forested slopes rose until they were lost in the misty heights.

Dismounting, he dragged the woman to her feet. Her long black hair was bedraggled and her skin caked with dirt, yet she looked up at him fiercely, none of the hatred extinguished. Yaga felt the warmth spread in his loins as he looked upon her lithe and comely figure, her breasts round and firm beneath the silken gown.

"These lands are a day's walk from any settlement," he said, walking nonchalantly round to her back. "In addition to the merciless terrain, they are inhabited by all manner of wild beasts and savage barbarians." He cut the rope with a single slash, letting her arms fall to her sides. When he returned to face her she had not moved, nor made any move to escape.

He threw his backpack to the ground and removed the clothes, threw them to her. "Change," he said. She stripped naked, her blazing eyes never leaving his, and brusquely donned the tunic. Wordlessly, she threw the bundle of silk to him. Then she put on the provided moccasins, stuffed with dried grass. Thus attired, she looked no different from any other peasant girl, except for her extraordinary beauty that neither clothes nor filth could disguise.

"The going is tough from here on," he said, leading the horse to the stream, where the animal lapped appreciatively. "I suggest you drink now."

With a shrug of resignation she cupped her hands into the icy water. Nearly numb and chattering, she drank, not because he said it, but simply because she was thirsty. Qazira had also been raised on the grasslands in her early youth, and despite the luxuries and soft life lavished upon her by tribal leaders since then, she still retained that ferocious sense of personal survival that was as inherent to her as breathing.

Yaga had removed his furs and hide britches and now squatted by the banks, a lean figure of whipcord muscle and sinews, covered with scars. Laving his own sweaty arms and face, he drank deeply and filled a small yak-skin canteen. Then he removed a small box of dried herbs from his pack and dabbed them gently onto the oozing, half-crusted gash on his arm, wincing at times.

Qazira watched all this, and wondered at the calm way the man went about his business. He was almost a part of the very wilderness in which they had submerged themselves. In contrast, she kept looking nervously about at the surroundings, as if expecting at any moment for a wild beast to come upon them, but the hills remained empty. She wondered at this strange man, wondered which of the fantastical stories of his past were true and which were mere rumor. She was no longer sure.

They proceeded on foot. The crags lurked oppressively to either side as they ascended the gorge, and giant boulders sat in the earth. Thick coniferous trees, bleak trunks mildewed with age, rose gauntly in the wet stony ground. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains and now slinking shadows followed them in the deathly stillness. The mountains rose remote and forbidding against the deepening sky.

A sudden strange cry sounded high above them on the craggy fastness. A moment later this was joined by similar cries from across the dark valley. The sound had a shrill, tuneful quality that set Qazira's teeth on edge.

"What are they?" she whispered, sidling close to the nomad.

"Damned if I know," he replied, looking warily about him. The cries had now risen in pitch so that they sounded more like whoops, almost human in aspect. The unearthliness was abominable.

Yaga drew his scimitar from his sheath, his eyes scanning the slopes on either side.

"These valleys are ancient and untrodden by man," he said. "I should have guessed the stories told to me by fear-struck tribesmen were more than idle rumor."

"What stories?"

"Tales of half-human cries echoing amongst the mountains. Men attacked as they attempted to cross the pass, torn limb from limb. But who would believe such nonsense?"

They were traversing a narrow ravine, high granite walls rising sheer on either side. The sounds filled the air in a deafening cacophony, echoing off the walls. An ominous dread filled Qazira's breast as they made their way through that hellish pass, and the horse whinnied in agitation and tugged hard against Yaga's grip, as if sensing the crouching evil that had suddenly descended. They were no more than a few feet from the opening of the ravine.

A black shape suddenly rose in front of them.

Qazira caught a fleeting glimpse of a monstrous and heavy form, vaguely man-like, with baleful red eyes glowing in the darkness. Then the horse reared up screaming, forcing the rope from Yaga's grip, and bolted down the shale slopes. Immediately the shape disappeared, bounding after the poor fleeing creature in great lumbering leaps from rock to rock. It was followed by more of the same, their whoops singing out in the distance.

Without wasting any time, Yaga grasped Qazira about the wrist and led her frantically up the slope, away from the direction of the chase. Already he could see more black shapes slinking down to meet them, but in the rapidly darkening valley he could not make out their exact number.

Trees rushed past them as they scrambled up a terrain that seemed to slip and skid from under their feet. Panting and straining, their thighs afire from the ascent, they came onto a small corrie beset on all sides by impenetrable slopes, a still and fetid lake lying in the center.

"Hurry!" yelled Yaga, his chest heaving. "No time to double back. We can at least make a stand there!"

Qazira's heart pounded in frenzied reply as she dragged her exhausted limbs ever forward. Unutterable despair rose like a tide within her as she realized this was where she would meet her death, and an utter hatred for all men and their ravaging ways became embodied in the nomad who had so cruelly abducted her.

They reached the back of the corrie, there to meet their deaths, when hope arose once more in the most unexpected way.

It was a cave, hidden away amongst the rocks, and they had not seen it until they were nearly upon it. Without second thought they dove in and were swallowed up by the mountain.

Immediately upon crossing the threshold, Yaga turned sharply and stood snarling at the cave's mouth, his muscles quivering in anticipation of a brutal and final violence. Qazira's gorge rose as she realized with a horrible certainty that Yaga didn't intend to escape; he was merely using the cave mouth as the most effective and narrow point from which to make a last desperate stand against the things.

A massive shape blocked the entrance.

Standing framed in the light of the moon was a white, hairy ape-like creature with a hideously bestial face. Its mouth opened unnaturally wide in a rictus yawn, showing cruel fangs, and it bellowed forth that awful whoop, followed by a guttural grunting like a primitive laughter. But it did not set foot inside the cave. It's red eyes glowered at them.

Yaga taunted it, spat curses, struck his blade upon the floor at his feet in an impatient desire for combat, yet still it did not move. And now Qazira noticed others behind it, like a conclave of demons, all unmoving as if in solemn funereal respect.

It was too much for her. A miasma clouding her eyes, her head spinning sickeningly, she half collapsed against the rock wall. Then, with a sudden heave, she vomited. Her limbs trembling uncontrollably as if in a fever, she looked up at those leering devils' faces and the lean figure standing like an immovable guardian between her and them, before oblivion consumed her.

Qazira awoke to the crackling warmth of a fire. Lifting herself weakly to her elbows, she looked about for any sign of Yaga.

They had penetrated deeper into the cavern, she noticed, and there was no sign of the entrance. All about the flickering walls were strange, crudely drawn pictures, faded with time. Somehow she sensed they were ages old. The images portrayed a scene; stylized white apes in various postures of prostration and worship before a grisly demonic figure.

A movement suddenly alerted her.

Yaga came strolling from an inky side passageway, carrying a pile of small logs. In the lurid orange light he looked unspeakably savage — his eyes shadowed pits, his mouth a mere gash across chiseled jaw. Dropping to his haunches he began carefully placing new logs into the fire, apparently unaware of her conscious presence. His arm, she noticed, had stopped bleeding.

"Feeling better now?" he asked, still staring into the fire.

Unsure of how to respond and too weak to kick up a fight she said simply, "Yes." Then, remembering the creatures, she shook. "But what about the..."

"Gone. Or at least good as gone. They wouldn't enter the cave for some queer reason."

Looking about at those murals, a strange sense of some hidden memory stirred uneasily within her, but she couldn't recall it. A nursery story.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"Some sort of ancient shrine, I think. Whatever its purpose, it's well stocked."

She frowned, indicating ignorance.

"Did you not notice the wood?" he said. "Where do you think I got it?"

"Then it's inhabited?"

"Maybe once, long ago. But whoever lived here must be long dead. All I found were these old dried logs and those same weird pictures everywhere. A small well also, but I don't think it's fit to drink."

"A well?" The flood of remembrance came upon her in a chill wave of horror. "Oh no, please don't let it be."

"What?" he asked.

"A... a legend. Little more than a bedtime story. We lived near the shadow of the mountains in my youth, my grandmother and I, and there were always folktales of the gruesome creatures that dwelt there. In countless eons past, when the Celestial Emperors still strode the Earth and made war against the giants and dragons that yet roamed the world, Mother Zag was said to have dwelt in her mountain well amidst the gleaming bones of her underwater abode. All men feared Mother Zag, for she was cruel and malicious and cunning. Even the mythical Mi Te, who are said to roam about the snow-hung peaks, worshiped her and brought her bloody sacrifices."

"Very entertaining," he interrupted, "but what gives you reason to think it's anything but fable?"

"Did you not think the same about the stories of the Pass?" she chided. "And the way those creatures refused to enter the cave, almost as if they were afraid..."

Even as she said it, a foul gush of air burst forth upon them from one of the tunnels. The stench of putrescence and some other, more pungent, underlying smell assaulted their nostrils.

Yaga leapt up, his blade gleaming like liquescent gold. "We're not alone."

She rose, nausea momentarily assailing her, before she steadied herself. "You'd best give me a weapon in case I need to defend myself."

Without questioning, he handed her a small dagger from a leg sheath. "Here. Make sure it doesn't slip and accidentally lodge itself in my back."

Torch in hand, they hurried down a tunnel away from the stench, but the maze-like warrens threw all sense of direction out of balance, and in the flickering light all the tunnels looked identical.

They roved about madly, lost in a labyrinth of blasphemous design. Sometimes they smelled that revolting stench up ahead, whereby they turned tail and ran. Other times the distant patter of footfalls seemed to sound to either side. Without wholly understanding it, they felt they were being herded toward a certain location.

And then they emerged into a lighted chamber.

For a terrible moment, Qazira thought that they had come full circle back to their starting point. But then a deeper unease settled upon her as she saw that it wasn't the same chamber at all, but a wholly different and more unwholesome place. A small fire crackled near one corner, next to a gigantic crusted iron cauldron, a pile of logs nearby. A well lay in the center.

"What in Zin's name?" said Yaga, a mask of confusion on his face. "That fire wasn't lit before."

A cackling sounded behind them, freezing Qazira's spine. It was no more than a few paces from them, but worse than that, it had come from the very tunnel by which they had entered. And there was no secondary entrance. They were trapped!

Flapping footsteps approached them now in the darkness of the tunnel, that cackling getting louder as they backed into the middle of the cave, closer and closer to the well...

And then Mother Zag appeared.

Thick, bedraggled gray hair sprung like a wormish mass of tendrils from its enormous head, perched atop a bloated, green body of squamous and frog-like appearance. Its arms were fat, webbed things, and its breasts drooped almost to the floor. A nightmarish grinning visage peered from behind the hair and large yellowish eyes stared malevolently with all the decadent, loathsome intelligence of a creature from the Old Times.

Without warning Yaga rushed forth, his lips bared in a wordless battle cry.

But the creature moved with surprising speed and embraced Yaga to its squelchy body, thrusting his blade from his hands to clatter upon the floor. Madly he wrestled with the thing, back and forth across the cave, his sinewy arms knotting in cords as he tried to resist. But he was being slowly overcome. Then, with horrendous strength, it lifted him bodily into the air and dove backward into the well.

Murky, viscous water engulfed Yaga as he struggled vainly against the inhuman grip of the beast, his lungs bursting. Piles of bones lined the slimy base of the underwater cave, extending into the watery distance, bones beyond count of every creature ever sacrificed to Mother Zag.

He bit desperately into the arm choking him, felt soft pliant flesh give way. He thought he felt the arm loosen slightly, and kicked out hard, the water surging about him in a froth of bubbles. A roaring filled his ears and flashes played before his eyes as he strove vainly to wrest himself from that monstrous embrace, and a moment later he was free, swimming toward that tiny, shimmering circle of light and the glorious world above.

His ankle was seized in a vicious grip, and he gulped a mouthful of foul water, panic rising within him.

He was being dragged back down!

A small hand dipped through the surface, dipped down from the light above that was like another world, and he saw the ripple-distorted face of Qazira lunging downward. But it was not an open hand she held out, but a sword.

Stretching agonizingly for the weapon, he grabbed the hilt and hacked clumsily downward, a wave of weakness already overcoming him. But it must have struck home, for a furious frenzy of motion erupted beneath him, and a cloud of inky blood boiled about in the darkness.

His senses going, he stared up at that heavenly face framed in the golden disc above him, reached pleadingly with all the remaining strength in his muscles, his mind an agony of longing as his vision went and darkness consumed him...

And the next instant he was thrust back into the light.

Qazira was hauling him from the well, his limbs flopping about lifelessly as she dragged him ashore. He lay still upon the stones, pallid as a corpse. Then, retching convulsively, he threw up brackish, watery bile and wheezed with all the blind impulse of raw survival. Looking back at the well, he saw no sign of the creature.

"Is it dead?" she asked tentatively.

He waited for breath to return before answering, "I don't think so. But it won't be coming out any time soon."

"Why?"

"It's gone to nurse its wounds. Still, let's not wait to find out."

"But what about the creatures?"

"By Zin girl, I'd rather take my chances with them than have to battle that fiend again!"

Helping him to his feet, Qazira led Yaga from the warrens.

They emerged into the night. Free from the fetor of that abominable lair, Yaga gulped fresh lungfuls of air with savage relish and vitality. He saw no sign of the creatures, guessed they must have been scared off by the scent of the sticky alien blood that coated him like a stamp of warding.

He turned to Qazira. "You saved me."

She nodded, eyes averted.

He touched her shoulders, looked deep into her eyes. "Whatever you may think of me, I am a man of my word and I honor it with this: you may go as you please once we arrive in Jarka, or you may stay and marry me. It is your choice to make."

She came close to him, pressed her lips against his.

"Then I shall not choose just yet," she said smiling. "For we have several days' journey ahead of us, and a girl may change her mind much during that time."

Flashing Swords Fund Drive

Help us bring YOU more great fiction!

Show your support with t-shirts, sweatshirts, magnets, mugs, mousepads, and more!

Visit here for Flashing Swords products featuring Storn Cook's art work!

And DON'T miss Storn Cook's own web site!
Craving some swashbuckling? Don't forget Lords of Swords! See for yourself why Black Gate gave it rave reviews!

If you want us to keep bringing YOU sword and sorcery, purchase Lords of Swords! And keep your eye out for Sages and Swords, coming this Spring!

---

---

For more fantastic Sword and Sorcery fiction,
check out Pitch Black Book's Lords of Swords anthology