The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Read online

  She wondered, if it came to that, whether her father would allow it to happen. She knew she was his favorite child; he had always doted on her. Perhaps he would elect to join her in exile, thereby giving him a chance to do what he had always desired. That was wishful thinking, however, and not terribly realistic. Debanrack loved Janelle. It was an attraction Ponari couldn’t understand. Her father was a handsome, caring man - the kind of person she might have agreed to marry if there were others like him in Santimon. Her mother was a fattened sow whose beauty, if it had ever existed, had been lost to the passage of years.

  Over the next few weeks, Ponari, like every other member of the village, was kept busy with the business of preparing for the coldest period of the year. Firewood, culled from trees in the nearby forest, had to be split, transported, and stacked. Grains had to be stored, meats cured, and furs made ready. It was an annual rite in which every man, woman, and child participated. Despite being a woman by age, Ponari’s unwed status forced her to work with the children.

  She and Janelle were no longer on speaking terms, their final fiery exchange having exhausted any desire either had to converse with the other. So, as the temperatures outside plummeted, the frost between mother and daughter deepened. This distressed Debanrack but there was little he could do to thaw the glacier within his house. Until Ponari’s marital situation was resolved, he was doomed to live a life of familial discord.

  Winter came and went as it always did, with its biting winds and heavy snows intensifying then abating. The Planting thaw brought with it not only more hospitable weather but the rarest of rarities: a visitor. Santimon was so far from any of the main thoroughfares in the North that only the most adventurous traders paid the occasional visit. The closest neighboring village was three days’ travel by foot (although the journey could be made in a day on horseback) and the nearest big city, Andel, would take two weeks to reach. Outsiders almost never came to Santimon.

  The man’s arrival excited interest and speculation. He wasn’t some merchant seeking a new place in which to hawk his wares or a bandit who had lost his way. He was a man with a reputation throughout the North - one whose name was known even in an isolated community like this one. The feats of the famed adventurer Warburm, expanded by rumor to almost mythological proportions, were the fodder of taproom gossip.

  Warburm came without fanfare, entering the village from the north and heading down the rutted, muddy path that formed Santimon’s main thoroughfare. His goal was The Tavern, the closest thing the village had to a pub. He was unaccompanied and on foot. Children playing in the street paused in their games to gawk at him and adults were equally nonplused. Warburm smiled cheerfully and waved at everyone he saw.

  As soon as she heard about the stranger, Ponari knew she had to see him. He represented what she so desperately desired: a life beyond Santimon. He was doing what her father dreamed of but didn’t have the courage to pursue. Although she supposed Warburm must have someplace he called “home,” he wasn’t constrained by it. He was free, not trapped.

  Warburm didn’t stay long and Ponari’s efforts to contrive a meeting were defeated by her mother, who kept her bridled with an endless list of chores, most of which seemed designed exclusively to prevent her from joining in the general sense of excitement that had enveloped the village. By the time she was done, she was in a less than presentable condition, being badly in need of a dip in the nearby river, and the adventurer had already concluded his business with the village elders and was headed back on the road.

  There, at the southern entrance to Santimon, their paths crossed. No words passed between them, but Warburm, a bear of a man with a fine, thick mane of black hair and a wide, weathered face, grinned at her and offered a wink. Ponari could only stare, hyperaware of how drab she must appear in her filthy peasant’s dress with grime on her face and matted in her long, dark hair. Then he was gone and she was still there, no closer to escaping Santimon than before.

  Later that day, Ponari, unable to dispel the image of Warburm’s wink and smile, approached her father. “Why was he here?”

  “Who can say with a man like that? To see the elders, but what he spoke to them about, we’ll likely never know. They keep their own counsel and don’t share their thoughts with the likes of me.”

  “Who is he? Everyone speaks his name like he’s a great man.”

  “Depends on what you consider ‘great.’ He’s known throughout the North, that much is true. Not all the tales speak favorably of him, though. In some, he’s a bold defender of the peaceful and the meek, beating back raiding bandits from farming communities. In others, he does that job for pay, like any common mercenary. And in still others, he leads the bandits in their attacks. I’ve also heard tell he’s on a religious crusade, having sold his sword to one of the zealous prelates. What’s true? I don’t pretend to know but the name of Warburm isn’t one to ignore. It commands respect and fear.”

  Respect and fear. Those words resonated in Ponari’s imagination for the next several days. The more she considered, the more she grieved that she hadn’t been more aggressive in courting the adventurer’s attention. She romanticized it as a lost opportunity although, had she been honest with herself, it had been no opportunity at all. The cheerful gaze he had directed at her was no different from that with which he had accorded every citizen he had passed in the street. There was nothing special about her, at least to him. But to be given another chance…

  As the world warmed with the approach of Summer and the date of Ponari’s sixteenth birthday - the day on which her fate would be sealed - she became increasingly agitated about the bleakness of her future. Should she yield to the pressure still being applied by Janelle and give herself to one of the village’s unwed young men? Should she resign herself to a life among The Women, giving and receiving pleasure only to those of her gender? Or should she take the ultimate risk and allow Santimon’s elders to exile her?

  It shamed her to admit she lacked the fortitude for the last option. Although exile offered the ultimate freedom, it would mean her death. She knew nothing about living on her own. Her ability to find food and drinkable water was limited and she had no working understanding of geography. If she struck out on her own, she would likely either become the lunch of some wild beast or a victim to a band of marauding bandits. The wilderness wasn’t kind to lone travelers, especially when they had little working knowledge of basic survival skills. Accepting exile would be more foolhardy than brave. Unless her father agreed to accompany her, which was a remote possibility at best, exile was no choice.

  If she had been more attracted to the female form, entering the abode of The Women would have held some appeal, but she craved the touch of a man. That left only one alternative - the one her mother had been preaching since she had been a little girl: find a man, take him into the fields on Midsummer’s Day, and let him fill her with his seed. A season later, when she began to show, a wedding would be arranged and, two seasons after that, she and her husband would have their first child. Santimon’s newest citizen - the most recent unfortunate to be caught in the village’s subtle snare.

  Late in the evening on the last day of Planting season, Debanrack approached Ponari as she was churning butter. His countenance was unusually dark. Ponari paused in her work to hear what dire news her father brought.

  “The elders have made a decision about you. It’s what we expected and what your mother has advocated. You have until the week after Midsummer’s Day to choose a husband or join The Women. Either is acceptable - they make no demands about how you find fulfillment. If you refuse both options, you’ll be given a satchel full of provisions, led blindfolded a half-day’s journey from Santimon, and left there to fend for yourself. There won’t be any restrictions on your future movements as long as you don’t return here. If you were to violate your exile, you’d be subject to execution.”

  Ponari gaped. It was the harshest judgment imaginable - the kind of sentence reserved for criminals. Was guardi
ng her virtue to be regarded as an act as vile as murder, rape, or theft?

  “I pleaded with them but to no avail. Their word is final. Ponari, I know you have no regard for any of the boys in this village and I understand you not wanting to be tied in marriage to any of them. Won’t you consider joining The Women? I’m told there can be great pleasure in the things they do and it won’t leave you with a swollen belly afterward. You can continue to be a valued and respected member of the community.”

  He wanted the best for her; she knew that. But taking the offer was no better than marrying the Mayor’s son. Still, exile terrified her. She wanted to cry out in frustration. Why couldn’t she continue as she was? Do her chores, help her family, and aid those who needed her aid? It was all so damn unfair.

  When she didn’t say anything, Debanrack added, “You’re going to have to choose. You can’t keep ignoring it and hoping it will go away. You have seven weeks. Then your fate will no longer be yours to decide.”

  On the next day, Warburm returned.

  He sauntered into town as if out for a pleasure walk. As on his previous visit, he offered smiles to everyone he encountered and hale greetings to those he remembered from his earlier time in Santimon. Despite his seeming good cheer, his strides were purposeful as they took him toward the hall where the elders met. Although they might have been expecting him, his arrival was a complete surprise to everyone else, including Ponari.

  She was in the fields when word of Warburm’s appearance filtered through the village grapevine. She immediately set aside her work and headed to what passed for a center square. A number of people had already gathered, most motivated by idle curiosity. For a stranger to return…it was unheard of. Her father was there.

  “Why is he back?” asked Ponari.

  “I’m not sure, but there are rumors. Dire portents. Heard tell there’s a large mass of marauders gathering to the north, up near The White World. Warburm leads a group that plans to go up against them. We’re the nearest inhabitation to the proposed battleground and he hopes to make Santimon the staging area for his band. With the elders’ permission, that is.”

  “Why would they give that?”

  “Because if they don’t, Warburm will go elsewhere and Santimon will be defenseless if the bandits strike in this direction. This is a peaceful settlement with no warriors. We farm, make babies, and care for our families. We wouldn’t stand a chance if a large band of outlaws came. The elders don’t have a choice. Far better to have Warburm and his men here than elsewhere even if they cause a disruption to our routines and consume our supplies.”

  “Then he’ll be here for a while?”

  “I’d wager at least a week, perhaps more. He needs to gather his men and give them ample opportunity to rest before leaving.” Debanrack paused as if debating whether to say more. Eventually, he continued. “While he’s here, Warburm will be accorded the hospitality that befits a man of his standing and the one who might become the savior of this village. There will no doubt be a feast in his honor and he will be given whatever his appetites require: ale, food, and… women.”

  Ponari said nothing.

  “You recognize that Warburm isn’t constrained by our conventions. Obligations that might bind those living in Santimon don’t apply to him.” Debanrack knew his daughter’s mind and could see the plan developing. It might seem appealing to her but she was naïve to the ways of men with women and how the world worked beyond the place where she had spent her entire life. Here, taking a girl’s virginity was a proposal of marriage. Elsewhere, it was a bit of fun. Seasoned warriors like Warburm bedded plenty of maidens and married none.

  “I’m no empty-headed fool, Father. But if he… likes me… maybe he’ll take me with him. Not to wife but to warm his furs on his travels elsewhere. All I need is a protector on the road to another village or city.” Anywhere that isn’t Santimon.

  “And you think what’s between your legs will be currency enough for that? With someone like Warburm?”

  Ponari nodded. It would have to be. She had run out of options.

  That evening, in Santimon’s overcrowded tap room, Ponari was officially introduced to the great adventurer Warburm as he sat at the bar and downed tankard after tankard of Santimon’s finest ale. His wide smile rarely slipped and he offered compliments generously: to the barkeep, the serving girls, and anyone who purchased him a round. Ponari, under her father’s watchful eye, sat next to him as soon as the stool became free.

  With a twinkle in his deep blue eyes, Warburm regarded her speculatively. “Lassie, you be the prettiest little thing I done seen all week.”

  Ponari couldn’t hold back the blush. She was complimented so infrequently that this offhand comment delighted her more than she could have anticipated. “Thank you.” The words were spoken quietly in the voice of a shy girl in the presence of a great man. She hoped that was what he liked. She could have been brazen but she suspected Warburm might find that commonplace. She judged he saw himself in the role of a maiden’s protector, although it was probable he would expect more than a chaste kiss for payment.

  “How be it that your husband lets you sit this close ta me?” He placed a hand on her leg above her knee, just below where her skirt ended. A shiver traversed her body. His touch was warm and gentle and when his hand began to slide ever so slowly up, she was careful not to give any indication it was unwelcome.

  “I have no husband.” In Santimon, where there were no whores or unmarried women past the Age of Maturity, men offered their wives for companionship to honored visitors. Knowing of this tradition, he would have assumed Ponari was being sent to him by a husband eager to curry favor. But, if she was unmarried, that would mean she was younger than her manner and appearance indicated. Not wanting to give offense by courting a child, he removed his hand.

  Guessing the trajectory of his thoughts, she leaned close enough so that only he could hear her next words. To combat the noise level in the small, boisterous room, her lips nearly brushed his ear. “I’m past my Maturity. A year past, in fact. But none of the boys of this village have what it takes to satisfy me. They’re provincial and think only of their own pleasure and securing their line. I want more in exchange for what I can offer.”

  Warburm’s expression was one of surprised delight. At that moment, she knew she had his attention. Seriously had it. The question was: Now what? Village fishermen said that hooking the fish was often the easiest portion of the catch. Many of them wriggled free and the strongest often snapped the line after consuming the bait.

  For her next move, Ponari did what came instinctively. After allowing the tip of her tongue to swipe across her upper lip, she smiled at Warburm then rose and left the taproom. Her final words to the adventurer lingered behind her like a perfume: “I hope we’ll meet again somewhere less crowded.” Once outside in the cooler air, she took a deep breath and headed home. Although she wasn’t experienced, she knew this shouldn’t be rushed. She needed to entice Warburm. If her father was right, she had time. And if Debanrack wasn’t right, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

  As she lay in bed that night, Ponari felt alive in a way she had never before experienced. Sleep was elusive, her mind too active to shut down. She could close her eyes but the darkness only invited images in her mind. Her flesh tingled, especially where he had touched her. She imagined this was how it was for men when they went on a hunt. The recognition that failure was possible made it all the more tempting. And with Warburm as the prize... There was something about him, something untamed that made him unlike any man of Santimon. The words she had spoken to the adventurer, that none of the boys of the village could satisfy her, were true. She perhaps hadn’t realized it until she had said it aloud but that understanding lay at the root of her dissatisfaction with the marriages arranged by her mother. It wasn’t only that she didn’t want to be trapped in Santimon for the rest of her life playing out the pantomime of every woman she knew. It was that she didn’t want to be ensnared by one of the male she
ep of the village. A woman should respect her husband, not treat with him through a veil of thin contempt. Warburm was here to stage a war party to attack a force of bandits and she doubted any of the good citizens of Santimon would accompany them - her fellow villagers were weak with backbones of jelly. In that assumption, however, it turned out she was wrong.

  The next day, as she was planning to contrive another meeting with Warburm, her father approached her. “When they leave, when they head north to confront the threat, I’m going with them.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised but she was.

  “I can’t in good conscience stay behind while they risk their lives in an action that will benefit this village more than most of the North. The elders seemed almost relieved when I told them, as if a guilty burden had been lifted from their shoulders. They know in their hearts it isn’t right for Warburm to do this thing without someone from Santimon in his party. They promised me a position on the council if I survive, as if that might be an inducement.”

  “You’re going alone.” It wasn’t a question.

  Debanrack laughed mirthlessly. “Would you expect differently? I can’t fault them, though. As the elders pointed out, the men of Santimon are farmers and hunters, not warriors. In a battle, they would be more of a hindrance than an asset.”

  “A plausible excuse for cowardice.” Ponari allowed her naked contempt for the men of her village to seep into her words.

  Debanrack raised an eyebrow. “You must learn tolerance. Not all the men of Santimon are craven. Given the opportunity, some would fight but the elders don’t want to strip us of our young men. Fighting means dying and this village is too small to lose a fraction of its male population. Save your barbs for a more worthy occasion.”