The Sinners of Erspia

Histrina put her arms around his middle, resting her head on his shoulder, feeling the feathers of his hat tickle her hair. Drosh's heels kicked the horse's ribs. Together they went cantering swiftly across Erspia.

The rest of the day seemed to pass extraordinarily quickly, and so did the next night. Drosh explained that they were travelling counter to the sun's motion around the world, so that it seemed to move across the sky more rapidly than usual. Histrina could not understand any of this, but it was already night for the second time when they came to the Ahrimanic camp.

The sight that met her eyes, illuminated by starlight, by torchlight, and by the light of numerous campfires, was unlike anything she could have imagined.

Instead of the orderly, peaceful cottages of Courhart, there were gaily coloured tents. Instead of well-mannered folk, there were mobs that surged to and fro, drunkenly fighting and fornicating. The air of violence was thrilling. And the weapons! There was no one who was not armed!

Or no one who counted. Drosh guided his horse through the camp, picking his way through the jostling crowd. They passed by a fenced compound where men and women sat silently on the ground, passively watching the revels around them.

By the flickering firelight, Histrina suddenly recognised a face. She squealed, beating her fists on Drosh's back and begging him to halt. He reined in the horse, twisting round to see what had excited her.

“Borrow!"

The bearer of the name looked up, then when Drosh signed to him, rose to his feet and trudged to the fence, peering between the stakes.

“Borrow, I know you,” she said. “You were taken by raiders from Courhart four years ago!"

He stared up at her. “I don't recognise you, lass, but it is as you say."

“What are you doing here?"

“The same as all do that are prisoners. We work the fields, growing food for the friends of the Evil One.”

He sounded subdued, beaten. There was no vestige of hope in his face.

Drosh laughed. “You see what a piece of luck you had in meeting me, girl! Do as you're told, or you too might end up in the compound."

The horse moved forward, leaving Borrow to turn away and resume his place on the cold earth. A snarling sort of music started up somewhere, a twanging of strings and the harsh bellow of some crude reed instrument. Seeing Borrow had momentarily saddened Histrina. Pangs of guilt rose in her; the camp faded before her eyes, and involuntarily she found herself thinking again of Courhart and of her family.

Then she thrust the thoughts from her mind and let her senses bathe in what was around her. They arrived before a tent larger than the others, before which two men sat at a large trestle table eating bread and meat and drinking from flagons constantly refilled by ragged girl servants.

Drosh and Histrina dismounted and Drosh tied his horse to a hitching post. He saluted the larger of the men at the table, who glanced up carelessly as he wiped meat juices from his plate with a piece of bread.

“So you're back, eh, Drosh? Well, what did you find?"

“Much as I hoped, master. Jong village is poorly defended. It's been too long since they were set upon, and they've grown careless."

“Good. We'll teach them a lesson in vigilance, then, eh? And have plenty of sport doing it.” The man’ s eye fell on Histrina. “What have you here? Is she from Jong?"

“No, master. She's from Courhart. I found her wandering. I sense she has a taste for our style of life."

The man Drosh had called ‘master’ rose and walked round the table. Histrina smelled sour wine on his breath as he stroked her smudged cheek.

He was a large, powerful man whose personal aura made him seem even more frightening than Drosh.

Like everyone else in the camp he was flamboyantly garbed. She was dazzled by the gleaming-cloth-of-gold of his embroidered tunic.

“Courhart,” he murmured, frowning. “It's right on the other side of Erspia—the furthermost of all the villages. Maybe we'll crush Courhart soon, my dear, and you can enjoy yourself torturing any you dislike there."

She shrank back, appalled by the thrill of anticipation the suggestion brought her. He caught hold of her by the throat, his huge hand squeezing her windpipe, and drew her close so that his face seemed to bulge.

“If you want to be one of us,” he hissed, “you must worship Ahriman with all your heart. If he tells you to subject those who have displeased you to indignity, torture and death, you must do it with delight. If he tells you to do the same to those you once held dear, you must enjoy that, too."

He turned to the smaller man who still sat at the table, looking on expressionlessly. “Here, Laedo, you've proved uncommonly fastidious over our women so far. This one still seems to have scruples—maybe you'll like her."

He shoved Histrina forward. Drosh pursed his lips and caught the big man's eye.