for fear of reprisals from his guards.
“Hail, the conquering heroes come,” announced the King, which Halfshaft
took to be premature, smug and wildly inaccurate. “We know that you will
do Us proud.”
“We’ll win it for you,” cried Ditherer. “We’ll win it for our King!”
“Yes,” replied King Spartan, sounding just a little dubious. “Or die with
dignity in the attempt!”
“Dignity?” asked Ditherer. “What’s that then, Uncle?”
“Buggered if I know,” sulked Halfshaft. “Something to do with cats, I
expect.”
“I like cats,” Ditherer nodded in satisfaction. “I hope we don’t have to fight
any in the Games. That would be too sad. I don’t like to beat anything with
whiskers, as a general rule.”
There was a commotion behind them. Three soldiers approached at speed,
a woman in their midst. And not just any woman. It was the one from the
courtyard, the one who had tricked him into taking her number. What was
the devious harlot up to now?
They marched towards the King, who did not look best pleased at being
interrupted in this fashion. The senior soldier gabbled away, pointing
towards Halfshaft from time to time, while the woman stood nearby, an
amused smile on her face. She glanced over towards the wizard, giving him
a friendly wink. Surely she didn’t still want to show him something in her
room? Her timing was awful, if she did.
King Spartan looked perplexed. He approached the two prisoners, and
regarded them thoughtfully. He then stared at the woman again, though his
gaze seemed to be focussed more on her chest than her face for some reason.
He came to a decision.
“This woman here has told our soldiers that she swapped numbers with you
at the lottery, and that it was her number which was subsequently drawn.
She has volunteered to go to the Games in your place. Our first thought is
that it We’d rather not have a woman represent Us, because they’re soft and
gentle, and prefer housework to fighting. But then We recalled that the
Amazons win the Games virtually every year. And We looked at the quality
of the candidates We presently have, and We thought that she could hardly
be any worse. So, why not?”
He pointed an Alan-Sugar-like finger at Halfshaft. “You’re fired.”
Halfshaft whooped with joy. He had never been so happy in all his life, not
even when he was given a sympathy-shag by two ex-communicated vestal
virgins when he was twenty three (and he had been very happy then indeed).
He beamed at Ditherer, who seemed genuinely pleased for him (the idiot!).
He bowed his head gratefully to the King, who failed to notice as he was
looking at the woman’s bosoms again. And then he noticed his younger self
in the crowd, looking distinctly shifty.
One of the soldiers untied his wrists. He dropped clumsily off the horse,
and the woman jumped up into the saddle in his place, perfectly relaxed as
they lashed her to the saddle.
“Thank you,” he said, the words unfamiliar and foreign to his tongue. “For
coming back for me.”
“My pleasure,” she replied. She had to be a simpleton, surely? She would
get on well with Ditherer, at least.
He looked around, to see his younger self scurrying off into the distance.
With a hurried bow to the King – who was back in conversation with the
soldiers – he set off after him, determined to give himself the kicking of his
life (and who better than him to judge what that might be?)
He moved surprisingly quickly for someone of his age (revenge always
motivated him to new heights), and had covered a full fifty yards before his
King commanded him to stop. He carried on running for a few steps,
knowing that his monarch’s command could only be a bad thing, but then
decided that he had little option to obey. To ignore the King would be
treason, punishable by death (or at the very least by forty or fifty years with
Ian and his pitchfork).
“Come back here,” the King ordered. He reluctantly obliged. This was not
good; this was not good at all.
“We have been thinking.”
“Well done, Sire,” Halfshaft congratulated him, eager to please but
realising all too late how patronising this sounded. Spartan, fortunately, was
so used to compliments that he waved off the remark, and carried on
regardless.
“If you swapped numbers with this buxom young lady here, then she had
the winning number and it is only right and proper that she represent us in
the Games as I have decreed.”
“Yes, Sire, very wise, Sire,” Halfshaft agreed, bowing profusely.
“But you did have the winning number in your possession before this other
gentleman here, so surely you should represent us, too?”
“No, no, that can’t be right.”
“Are you calling Us a liar?”
“No, of course not. Heaven forbid. I’d never do such a thing. Sire.”
“Perhaps you’re suggesting that We are mistaken, then? That there is an
error in our regal logic?”
Halfshaft shook his head furiously. “As if!”
“Well?” prompted Spartan. “Tell me why you disagree with Us.”
Halfshaft opened his mouth to explain, and was surprised to find that no
explanation came out. He thought some more. This was important. If he
came up with something plausible and convincing now, he would be safe.
He could slink off back to his chamber, throttle his former self at his leisure,
and spend the rest of the week in bed, with or without company (as the mood
and his budget took him). But nothing came. Nothing at all.
He sighed loudly.
“Back on the horse for me, then.”
“Back on the horse indeed,” Spartan agreed.
Ditherer yelped in delight. “I’m free!” he cried. “Free! I’m off down the
tavern to get well and truly bladdered. Then back home to my wife, if she’ll
have me, or to someone else’s if she won’t!”
“I’m very pleased for you,” Halfshaft lied badly as he exchanged places
with Ditherer on the horse.
He glanced over at his fellow prisoner; she was smirking. He gave her his
fiercest look, but it just made her grin all the more.
“Just you wait ‘til I get you out of the saddle!” he hissed. She laughed out
loud.
“I will not be the object of your amusement,” he told her, with all the
dignity he still had left. And then a soldier slapped the rump of his horse to
get it moving, it bolted forwards, and he fell off. He was dragged along
beside it by his bound wrists, her horse (which was tethered to his) not far
behind, and all the while he could hear her virtually crying with laughter as
he attempted unsuccessfully to climb back on to his mount.
Theirs was not going to be an easy relationship, he could tell that already.
#
They rode along in sullen silence (at least on his part) for quite some time,
flanked by guards, as he waited for his anger to subside. This took longer
than even he had expected. She spent the journey looking about her, taking
in the sights as if she was a tourist, apparently totally unconcerned by her
fate. It wasn’t even as if there was much to see. A ploughed field here; a tree
there; the occasional ditch or two. Nothing to write home about.
“Why me?” he eventually enquired, and not without a hint of self-pity.
“Out of everyone in that courtyard, why give that number to me?”
“You’ve asked me that before.”
“Have I?”
She nodded. “In the courtyard. And I told you that you’d taken my fancy.
You’re a wizard, after all. Who wouldn’t be impressed by that?”
“True,” he nodded. “But why give me your number? Why not hand it to
Ditherer instead? Or any of the others?”
“I had a feeling I was going to end up here. So this way, I got to pick my
company.”
“Thanks for that,” Halfshaft said, oozing sarcasm.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, either oblivious to, or totally unconcerned
by, it. He suspected it was the latter.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?”
“The usual place.”
“Which is?”
“The circus. For training.”
Circus? What was a circus when it was at home? He wanted to ask her what
she meant, but he didn’t want to admit his ignorance. He would find out soon
enough.
They were heading towards the Amazon village. He didn’t have happy
memories of the place. Last time he was there, they had made him duel with
this huge lump of a woman, who had nearly taken his head off. He had used
spell after ineffectual spell, but all to no effect. He wouldn’t have minded
grappling with some of the Amazons; generally speaking, they were lithe
and supple and beautiful, and their clothes were virtually non-existent. But
in view of her size, his duel with Trugga had not even given him the cheap
thrill he would have got from wrestling one of her more streamlined
tribeswomen.
There was a squat rectangular boulder at the side of the road (which, by
coincidence, reminded him a lot of Trugga). This marked the border with
Amazon country. To pass that rock meant certain death if you were a man
(and probable death if you were a woman, to be fair). Some of the better
looking males might be mated with for a week or two first, but sooner or
later they all ended up in a shallow grave. He shuddered. He was pretty keen
on staying above the ground for as long as he possibly could.
They branched off to the left, following a line of stones which led off into
the distance, like badly spaced dominoes.
“Shall we steer our horses over the boundary?” suggested Cherry, in a
conspiratory whisper. “Just to see what happens.”
“Let’s not,” ruled Halfshaft. “We might get to make it to the Games if we
stay over here, and I’m looking forward to them so much that I wouldn’t
want to put it all at risk.”
An Amazon seeped out of the long grass to their right. He couldn’t work
out how he hadn’t been able to see her before. She was anything up to seven
feet tall, whereas the grass was maybe eighteen inches high at most.
As always, she was wearing squirrel skin. A pelt or two round her chest,
and a pelt or two round her pelvis. It was more like a pair of narrow parallel
straps than an outfit. Bizarrely, he found herself wondering whether all three
or four squirrels were from the same family. Whether they had been sitting
in their nest one minute, minding their own rodent business, and the next
they were dead and skinned and draped round the most intimate parts of a
very tall lady. At least they hadn’t died in vain; there were worse places to
end up.
Another Amazon emerged ahead of them, and then another, each just a foot
or two on their side of the boundary, watching the four horses as they trotted
past. The soldiers increased their pace, nervous of assault. There was no
point in running, though. If an Amazon wanted to kill you, then you might
just as give yourself up and enjoy the experience as best you could (which
depended to a large extent on whether they considered you to be of mateable
quality or not).
“I don’t like this,” muttered Halfshaft. “What are they up to?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Cherry reassured him. “We could have them
easily, if it came to it.”
Much as the idea of “having them” would ordinarily have appealed to him,
he was very much of the opinion on this occasion that the safest course of
action was to keep his head down, and hope they went away. It was his
second favourite tactic, after running like buggery, though neither of them
seemed to work very well.
“At least they’re on their own side of the boundary,” Halfshaft said. “As
long as we don’t say anything to provoke them, maybe they’ll leave us in
peace.”
Up ahead, one of them stepped across the imaginary line between the
stones, and waited for the horses to approach. She was even taller than the
others, even more graceful, even more beautiful. The quiver on her back
bristled with arrows with golden feathers. There was no doubt about it; this
was their queen.
She stood stock still as the horses made their uneasy way towards her. Her
face was expressionless. That made it somehow worse. There was something
daunting about not being able to read the mood of a woman who may or may
not be thinking of killing them.
He looked behind him. The Amazons they had passed earlier had crossed
the boundary, and were following silently along behind them. He watched
as they peeled away from the boundary one by one, taking their places
behind the four of them as if they were following a funeral procession.
Which, in all likelihood, was exactly what they were doing.
The lead soldier came to a halt. The others lined up behind him. He tried
to shuffle his horse backwards to fall in line with them, not wanting to take
the lead in a situation like this, but the Amazon Queen took hold of the
bridle, and the horse didn’t seem inclined to argue with her.
“You are coming with us,” she said. “Except you. Girl. You are free to go.”
“I’m coming, too,” Cherry replied. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“We’ve got to go on,” protested the lead soldier, torn between fear of
Spartan and fear of the tall woman before him. On balance, he’d decided
that Spartan was worse. How scary could a woman in squirrel skin knickers
be, after all? “We have orders from the King, and you will stand aside or
face his wrath.”
The Amazon Queen seized his jacket, and pulled him from his horse. In the
same movement, she had slit his throat with her knife, the feat accomplished
before he had even landed on the ground. He gurgled incomprehensibly for
a second or two and then lay still.
She stooped, pulled up a handful of grass, and used it to wipe the splattered
blood from her body with the merest hint of distaste.
“Is anyone else reluctant to accept my invitation?” asked the Queen
sweetly.
Halfshaft and the remaining soldier shook their heads vigorously, too
frightened to speak in case they said something which the Queen found
offensive. Cherry, however, was rather more relaxed than her travelling
companions.
“What’s up, then? How come we’re all being kidnapped? Well, they’re
being kidnapped, and I’m coming along for the ride.”
“They are trespassing.”
“We stayed on the right side of the boundary,” the second soldier protested.
“We didn’t cross it once.”
The Queen drove her knife up beneath his ribs. For a second, he sat there
on his horse, an expression on his face midway between surprise and a sense
of injustice. And then he toppled off, landing lifelessly on the grass below.
The Queen nodded. Two or three Amazons rocked one of the stones back
and forth, until it fell over. They rolled it across the grass, past the horses,
and with the aid of a few more women they set it back up again on the other
side of the two remaining prisoners.
“You are now on my side of the boundary,” the Queen announced.
“Trespassers, as I said. Would you not agree?”
Halfshaft nodded stupidly. Now did not seem to be the time to argue the
point.
Cherry appeared to be on the verge of saying something. She then glanced
down at her wrists, still tied to the pommel on the saddle. She came to a
decision.
“Busted,” she smiled. “Do with us as you will. As long as we get lunch
first.”
Halfshaft was feeling rather less relaxed about the situation, as the two of
them were led towards the nearby village by a tribe of very scary
tribeswomen. His only remote hope of survival rested on Cherry keeping her
mouth shut. Which meant, he suspected, that he was already well and truly
buggered.
#
The Amazon village was much as he remembered it. A little smaller,
perhaps, but the last time he had been here had been forty or fifty years in
the future, and he assumed the population had increased a fair amount in the
meantime, what with all the mating they got up to.
There were two or three large huts, surrounded by dozens of smaller ones.
Each was pretty basic, with circular mud walls topped by thatched roofs.
Most villages had walls or trenches around them to keep out enemies or
predators, but the only protection the Amazons had was a latrine ditch a
dozen yards to the north. He wasn’t sure whether this was because no-one
would be stupid enough to venture into the village without permission, or
because their latrines were particularly offensive. He suspected the former,
as the tribeswomen were far too proud and graceful to tolerate any of their
number whose poo did not smell of roses.
They stopped outside a hut. There were a number of unhappy looking
people inside, including a couple of soldiers, a few villagers, an infant troll
and a dwarf. All of them were male. One solitary guard stood at the entrance,
a javelin in her hand. She bowed low to her Queen.
“Queen Selene.”
Selene beckoned towards the horses. “The final prisoner. Take him.”
“Take us, surely?” protested Cherry.
“You are a woman,” replied Selene, with one immaculate eyebrow arched
in surprise. “Why would I imprison you?”
“I go where he goes.”
“I do not understand why you would demean yourself for a man. Is he your
mate?”
Halfshaft waited for Cherry to protest, but to his surprise she did not seem
even remotely disgusted by the suggestion. Most of the attractive women he
knew would have been outraged that anyone might think that they had been
intimate with him, which was slightly irritating bearing in mind that most of
the attractive women he knew were being paid good money to be as intimate
with him as they possibly could, at least for half an hour or so at a time.
“Best mates,” Cherry elaborated.
Selene’s eyebrow raised higher still. “Best mates?” she asked,
incredulously. “Then I would hate to see what the others look like!”
Halfshaft started to feel guilty, which was not an emotion he had
experienced very often in the past. He was doomed; that much was all too
clear. But there was no reason for Cherry to sacrifice herself too, out of
loyalty towards him. She should go, denounce him, save herself. That was
exactly what he would have done in her shoes (metaphorically, of course,
because they were far too small for him, not to mention rather effeminate-
looking).
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It looks a bit cramped in there. You’re better
off out here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You must.”
“Look at all the men in there,” Cherry joked. “All crushed up together, like
a tiny little meat market. If you think I’m staying out here when I could be
squeezing myself in there, then you’ve got another think coming!”
“You’re just saying that,” Halfshaft replied. “Why would you possibly
want to be squashed in there with a load of sweaty men?”
She winked.
“No. Women don’t think like that.”
She laughed. “Don’t they? It must just be me, then!”
Selene brought the discussion to an end, her patience exhausted. “The
woman is obviously mad, if she wants to be imprisoned in there with all
those weak creatures, when it is not even mating season. Throw them both
in, and see if that brings her to her senses.”
They were ushered from their horses, the Amazon guard prodding
Halfshaft with her javelin to encourage him into the hut. Cherry followed
along behind him, unmolested and perfectly content. The wizard testily
pushed his new hut-mates backwards to make some room for the two of
them near the door, but much to his irritation Cherry wriggled between two
villagers (blacksmiths or ploughmen, by the look of them!) and disappeared
towards the back of the hut. He could no longer see her, but was able to
follow her progress by the sound of satisfied grunts each man made as she
squeezed past him.
The Amazon guard gave him another poke, just to see what noise he would
make, and then turned her back on him, losing interest. She obviously did
not consider him to be a threat. He looked around, checking out each of his
neighbours in turn. The first thing that struck him was that they could all do
with a good wash, although he was conscious of the fact that he had had no
opportunity to bathe since he had been doused in his younger self’s urine
back at the castle, so he was probably not in the best position to judge them.
“Halfshaft,” he said to a man nearby, in the need of some conversation,
however basic. He held out his hand, and waited for the man to introduce
himself back.
“You’re asking for a smack in the face,” the man replied, scowling at him.
Halfshaft shrugged, and tried again with the man on the other side, who gave
him a friendly smile but said nothing in return. What was wrong with these
people?
Eventually, and against his better judgment, he introduced himself to the
young troll.
“I’m Halfshaft. And who might you be?”
“Buster,” the troll replied shyly. He held out a tentative hand for the wizard
to shake, but Halfshaft declined to accept it, conscious that it could be
crushed to a pulp. He knew what these trolls were like, and even a young
one like this would be capable of splintering bone if the mood took him.
Halfshaft preferred his bones unsplintered, given the choice.
“Have you been here long?”
The troll nodded. He was avoiding eye-contact. Halfshaft had never met a
shy troll before. It was rather disconcerting.
A thought occurred. “How old are you?”
“Five.”
“Five? That’s pretty good counting for a troll. No offence.”
Buster shrugged.
“Five’s very young. Are your years the same as ours? Or is it like dog years
or something, and you’re really seventy three?”
“Dog years?” asked Buster, looking upset. “How do you mean? I’m not a
dog.”
“Nothing, nothing. I was just babbling on. I tend to do that when I’m taken
prisoner and shoved in a hut with a whole bunch of people I don’t know.”
He heard a girlish giggle from the back of the hut. He felt a pang of
jealousy. If she was going to wriggle about anywhere, it should be against
him rather than with total strangers. He would have words with her when
she came back.
“I don’t know anyone, neither,” Buster told him. “No-one will talk to me,
cos I’m a troll.”
“Where are your parents?” Halfshaft asked, hoping despite his concern for
the young lad that they weren’t too close by, as trolls always had the habit
of trying to eat him. “You can’t be here on your own.”
“They got picked for the Games. I wasn’t allowed to come with them, but
I followed them, all the way through the Forest.”
“You got through the Forest alone?” asked Halfshaft incredulously. Now
he really was shocked. The Forest was Death. It was packed full of man-
eating wolves, man-eating elves, man-eating everything. For a five year old
to make it through unscathed – whether it was five in dog years or not – was
incredible.
Buster nodded. “It was scary. I cried a lot when it got dark. There were
things out there, things with yellow eyes and big teeth, things that wanted to
eat me. But I stayed as close to the