Chicks - Did You Say Chicks Part 11

Under the gentle (hardly) direction of our recent enemies, we've all been given jobs at hard labor rebuilding the city, mending broken idols and replacing the jeweled bits, building shelters and so forth while we are left to sleep in the mud and fed the same thing for weeks and months at a time.

Very much like boot camp, actually.

Our chow comes from a soup line run byLocalTemple 303, where the girls are not especially virgins and are a bit smaller than the mountain la.s.ses. The food is cold but it tastes well enough except that it makes your belly ache all night until you spew it all up in the morning. The bad conditions haven't done much for anyone's temper. In fact, the men are behaving in rather strange ways. I saw Captain Burden hurl his soup at the wall and declare that he simplyhadto have pickled cod and clotted cream that day or he wouldn't be able to go on. At that Sarge (poor soul) started weeping and said that it was simply too much to expect him to carry on as he had been when the officers who were paid ever so much more behaved like spoiled children.

The rest of us have had the cravings and the vomiting too, though that finally mostly went away after the initial endless weeks of work. They switched our diet to some sort of gruel then. This wasn't as tasty as the soup and this for some reason bloats a fellow something fierce. My ankles are so swollen some days I can barely walk and my feet look like oars. And my-er-chest hurts, around the tender bits.

While we are working, a lot of people line up to throw things at us and jeer.

Through it all the temple virgins pretend not to notice. I tried winking bravely at Melisel when I saw her but she just stared straight ahead and pretended not to notice. Fickle wench.

Some of the women just smirk at us, though they talk nicely enough with the temple virgins. My belly isas big as a hay bale and I've gas something awful and feel as if I'm going to have to get rid of it somehow or die, quite frankly.

A couple of days ago, just when it seemed our conditions were improving, as we were given a sort of sweet with our gruel, some of the men began screaming and falling down, grabbing themselves and crying and grunting. I found out first hand last night that it was because they were in a lot of pain-I know I certainly was. I thought I'd split wide open with the agony of it all. The pains were an hour apart to begin with, then every fifteen minutes or so and every ten and so forth until at last it was just one long unbearable century or so of anguish while the thing that seemed to fill me from gullet to goolies, a thing with sharp hooves and needles like a porcupine, was being pried out by some invisible force using a battering ram and a fireplace poker.

It finally ended but I am still very tender and well and truly knackered.

Fortunately, this morning for the first time, though the work is not done, we have been ordered to stand in a line and face our accusers. We have been here, and I know as the Virago makes a point of telling us how long we've been in captivity every day, as it it has some meaning we don't understand, some three months shy of a year, but it's been like forever. Please send troops or money or whatever they ask and get us out of here.

SacredSecretTemple-The Creche Dear Mum, h.e.l.lo. It's me again. Your son. At least, I started out that way.

Wish you were here, and I mean that more than you may realize.

You see, the vengeance of the virgins upon us was a terrible and subtle one indeed. While we stood at attention beside our work stations, the Virago, with the Queen at her side to translate, read out a list of our crimes.

"Now," the Virago said sternly, looking over her magnifying gla.s.ses at us, her chain mail frock jingling like a jailer's keys in the high wind that swept sodden debris up and swirled and smacked it against the various onlookers as well as us accused. On the other side of the Virago stood Melisel, her curly horse tail fanned out and spread like a cobra's hood around her head. "You the war criminals will be faced by your victims and your punishment will be meted out as is appropriate."

A troop of city women, some of them young, some older, some barely more than children, and all somewhat familiar, trooped forward. Each carried a bundle, some carried more than one.

The Virago's magnified eyes were the blue of glaciers as they met the gaze of each man.

The Queen translated. "What is it with you guys? Your country never seems to learn! We are just sitting down here minding our own business, worshipping Our G.o.ddess, sculpting beautiful images of Her, eating, drinking, trading, our citizens falling pa.s.sionately in love with each other and carrying on blissful consensual s.e.xual relations in order to have happy, healthy children who will carry on our chosen lifestyle while respecting that of others, when here you come again. Once was not enough for you. You come over and over, never letting us alone nor taking no for an answer. In the olden days, our foremotherswould simply impale any of you who sacked our city, making the punishment fit the crime against our women under the protection of our Great G.o.ddess, the Divinity whose name is Diversity, Affirmaterra."

(That's it. Not Amy after all, but Affirmaterra. I'd heard them jabbering it, of course, but until the queen translated, I didn't know.) As soon as the name was uttered, all the women stamped the ground and raised their fists in salute while shouting, "Yes!" or so near as to make no difference in their own tongue.

"However, we have since gained enlightenment. Impaling was messy, noisy, smelly, and generally icky. It was also a waste of resources-treesdiedto make the stakes that impaled your countrymen. So over the years, we have come to rely on our Sacred a.s.sets instead (at this the women did a stomp-stomp, slap right mailed hip with right metal gauntleted hand, left with left, and each fist is socked into the air so that the whole salute has six counts to it-stomp stomp, slap slap, sock sock, sort of thing), the life-giving force of our Womanhood which we conserve and dedicate to Affirmaterra, the Divinity of Diversity (the G.o.ddess's salute, described above) to neutralize and nullify you, to punish you."

We lads looked at one another in dismay. The Sacred a.s.sets weren't golden treasure at all then? Oh dear. We could have dispensed with the temple all together then, saved ourselves the trouble and gone home with the booty we just finished rebuilding into the temples and idols and such. Hindsight is better than foresight, I suppose, particularly in this case, if you'll pardon me for being a bit crude, Mum.

"Through the use of the a.s.sets we made you helpless. And in administering the G.o.ddess's Nectar of Natality, we have transferred to you the pains and bodily indignities endured by your female victims in the aftermath of your cruel misuse of their G.o.ddess Given bodies."

"That's what it was all about?" muttered Symington. "Well, it was worse than kidney stones just like me wife always said it was. Don't suppose they'd let me go to tell her so, do you?"

He got smote just then and only the Virago and the Queen could be heard after that.

"During the Gestation we have made use of your formerly misspent strength to repair some of the damage done to our buildings.

"But at last, the time has come to see to it that you reap the harvest of your crimes. Extend your arms in front of you,now." Since we were all chained together still most of us had little choice but to obey and held out our arms. Whereupon each of the townswomen, with the nastiest possible expression on her face, handed each of us one or more bundles. Which promptly began howling and wetting and c.r.a.pping and demanding to be burped and cuddled.

After that, chain-mail skirts swinging, the Virgins force-marched us back out of the city and to the mountain temple, up to our old room. The creche, as they call it.

It has no windows, only one door, and accoustics that echo each whimper, whine, and squall into a din-and that's before all the others join in.

None of us have slept for months. My guts and backside and chests have been aching me something terrible. See, the nectar makes us able to feed the little dears from our own manly b.r.e.a.s.t.s but all the tots seem to have come born with teeth.

Moreover, the virgins are always on hand to scold us and tell us we are c.o.c.king up everything and how their mothers raised children and how you can't fold a nappie that way and what are we thinking, letting the child cry for two seconds before we pick it up once more to pet it?

Symington says it is like having a battalion of mothers-in-law. And the other day, the Virago caughtSarge, as she said, trying to abuse one of the triplets he is charged with the care of. After she gave him a sound thrashing in front of us all (and he never stood a chance, believe me. That woman is at least ten feet tall and her arms are bigger around than most of the babies), she a.s.signed him latrine duty in perpetuity, using only a thimble and a toothbrush to clean the area, plus he must wash all of the nappies by hand forever after.

I hate to say it, but I'm glad not to have to do it myself any more and it serves him right. I felt sorry for the poor little triplets though, and said so. Melisel overheard me and I thought perhaps she might be pleased and like me again, but instead she smiled in a very roguish way and spoke to the Virago. Now I have four tots to tend. They're all very good, really, but it's a lot of work and very tedious. We lads never have time to speak of manly things among ourselves and there are no campfires, just the large fireplace at the end of the hall where we take turns sitting to nurse the kiddies, too exhausted to speak.

MUCH LATER.

Dear Mum, I hope this finds you and my sisters alive and well because the thing is, it looks as if I may be coming home. This may even reach you before I do.

A lot has happened since I last wrote, when was that, almost 20 years ago? I have tried to sketch the children for you at various stages but unfortunately, the only things I could find to draw with were bits of charcoal and the wall and the Virgins are not likely to let me bring that along (ha ha).

Oh, we've kept very busy. Although the Virgins themselves have taken care of schooling and training our little ones into the bright and attractive young people they are today, they have also been schooling some of us. I have learned a great deal about Affirmaterra, the Divinity of Diversity, and have for the last five years made offerings for all of you in Her Name. I have been at the head of all my cla.s.ses, thanks to special tutoring from Melisel, my dear mentor.

It's because I've done so well that I'm to be allowed to come home. I won't be alone. In fact, I'll have about three or four hundred young people with me, so I do hope the crops have been good. After all, the children ARE sired by the lads of our country but with their proper Ecotrian upbringing, the Virgins feel it would be a civilizing influence to return them to the land of their fathers. I am coming along as Guardian, under the protection of Melisel, who was appointed Virago upon the death of the old one.

So, I'm afraid you'll need to set a few extra places at the table but don't worry. I've grown very handy with both the cooking and the washing up.

See you soon!

Yr. Returning Son

Oh, Sweet Goodnight! Christina Briley & Walter Vance Awsten

Fern let the gentle rocking motion of the horse between her legs soothe her anger as she rode along-but still, how dare that farmer say such a thing? What didheknow?

He probably didn't even think she'd heard him, but she had, clear as a bell. There was nothing wrong with her ears, and she'd had years of practice listening to the world through the padded steel of her helmet. When she had the helmet off, as she did now, she could hear a roadside conversation perfectly from a dozen yards away.

"You wouldn't getmein bed with a b.i.t.c.h like that," that farmer had said to his son as the two of them watched her ride past. "She'd probably break your ribs with those arms of hers. And think what she'd do with her legs!"

"It might be worth it," the son had replied, and the farmer had punched him on the shoulder, and they'd both laughed like fools, not realizing she'd heard every word.

"Idiots," she muttered. "I do my best to keep them safe, and this is the respect they show me? Don't they know how much padding there is in this armor? They think I'm some sort of musclebound freak?"

The fanner's comments were bad enough, but the son's reply bothered her more than she cared to admit; it was a bit too familiar. Helikedthe thought of broken ribs in the bedroom?

Her mount shook his head and snorted, and she reached forward to pat his neck. "At leastyouhave the sense not to beg for the whip," she said to the ebony stallion.

There was no question that the casual exchange of remarks had touched a nerve, and brought up a well-spring of acc.u.mulated unhappiness. "How did my life get to be such a mess?" she mumbled to no one in particular as she straightened in the saddle. "I love my work, and I'm d.a.m.ned good at it, but my love life... ugh!" She grimaced.

Of course, she knew the two were connected. She was a respected guardswoman, the only such woman in Lord Worsley's employ, feared by every bandit in the North Riding, known for both her incorruptibility and her superb swordsmanship-both traits she had worked hard at for more than a decade. That was fine for her professionally, but when the time came for sweet and gentle romancing, most men saved it for something a bit more feminine.

Fern hadn'tintendedto become a guardswoman. She had merely wanted to learn the art of the blade.

She remembered well when the desire to do so had first gripped her. She had been fifteen, standing in the street with her friend Antonia, and struggling to see over the crowd that had gathered to watch two swordsmen spar outside The Fine Companion, the local tavern.

"Look at them move-it's as if they dance!" Fern had exclaimed. "Oh, Antonia, don't you wish you could move like that? And the swords sweeping and flashing in the air-isn't it beautiful?" "A pox on being so short!" Antonia had said. "Fern, it's not fair! You can see and I can't!"

Just then the crowd in front of the girls had parted as the action moved toward them, and those most in danger of catching a stray swordstroke stepped back out of the way.

Fern didn't move.

"Fern, get back, you'll be hurt!" Antonia shrieked. Then she snapped, "And no, I don't see any beauty in a sword. It's but a weapon. If you're a man you use it to kill someone for some foolish reason or another, or to show off, and if you're a woman you use it because you have to, to defend yourself. Now Fern, please, get back!"

But Fern hadn't stepped back. She'd stood there, swaying to some unheard rhythm of which only she and the swordsmen were aware. It wasn't until Fern suddenly realized that she had become as much a part of the show as the fighters that she had reacted to Antonia's entreaties by looking around.

Not only had the crowd been watching to see if Fern would move out of harm's way, but the two soldiers had begun playing their act to this tall, budding young woman who gazed at them so intensely.

When Fern had blushed and finally stepped back the two men had abruptly stopped their sparring and sheathed their swords. Then, each draping an arm over the other's shoulders, they had turned towards her, chuckling.

"Fern," Antonia had whispered desperately, tugging at her friend's arm, "they're coming over here. Let's hurry away!"

Fern had hesitated, torn between a desire to learn more about these men's sword skills and the wish to avoid any further embarra.s.sment for both herself and her friend. The decision was out of her hands, though, for when she had glanced over her shoulder she saw that the crowd had not yet dispersed enough for them to make a quick getaway.

"Shhh," Fern had hissed. "We'll have to make the best of it. Anyway, they're not bad looking-better than the boys our age you go on about."

"Hallo there, girls," one of the approaching men had called out. "'Tisn't polite to stare, you know."

"Pardon us, sir," Fern had replied, essaying a quick curtsey. "I was, perhaps, too fascinated with your skill with a blade to remember my manners."

The man who had spoken had grinned at her. "Well, in that case, we'll forgive you. My name's Ridley, and this sorry gent is Willem," he had said, indicating his comrade. "We're just pa.s.sing through on our way home from Lord Balarin's war, but we'd be pleased if we might share your company for a bit."

"Sir!" Fern had drawn herself up to her full height and, with much more confidence than she felt in the situation, had replied firmly, "You are strangers to us and we're far too young to consort with men your age!"

"Our age!" Ridley had laughed. "Such fossils are we, eh, Willem? All right, then. But I saw how you watched us earlier-would you have a lesson in the sword, perhaps?"

Fern had caught her breath. She knew she should be wary-should just go home, should keep safe. But to learn the art of the blade! To feel for herself the flow and power of sword and body working togetherthat she had so admired earlier! Fern had not been able to bring herself to pa.s.s up such a chance.

That first lesson, there in the street, with a bemused Willem and a horrified Antonia looking on, had merely whet her appet.i.te. As an older and wiser Fern looked back now on the more private lessons that had followed, oh, so long ago, it was all too obvious just how right she had been to be wary. The soldier's motive for the offer had hardly been altruistic.

"Sly b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Fern mused to her horse. "He just wanted to teach me the use of his own 'little sword.'

And what better excuse to wrap his arms around me than to guide my hands on a blade?" She shook her fist at the empty woods around her, "But, by the G.o.ds, I took to both skills like a fish to water, didn't I?

Ha! There's a flow and beauty in each of them, eh?" Fern allowed herself a tight-lipped smile at the thought.

The mastery of the sword had started as simply a personal challenge, she remembered. Her smile widened-then vanished. "I should have made disembowelling that soldier a 'personal challenge,' " she told her mount, "to use me so and then go on his merry way!"

She hadn't, though. That wouldn't have been ladylike, and back then she had cared, at least a little, about what the neighbors thought of her behavior. She'd kept her s.e.xual escapades to herself, and as for her fascination with the sword... ? Again her thoughts went back.

"Honestly, Antonia, how many times have I told you I have no desire to make trouble or spill anyone's blood?" They were out in back of the barn where Antonia, sick of Fern's fruitless efforts to turn her into a half-decent sparring partner, had thrown down her wooden practice sword in disgust and launched into another lecture about how Fern was going to be sorry about all this nonsense.

"I do it for the love of it," Fern insisted. "It's not as if I want to make a career out of swordfighting and run off to be a soldier! It's just a frivolous hobby I indulge in after all my ch.o.r.es are done. I want to marry someone nice, settle down, have children, just as you do. You know that."

"I still don't understand," Antonia sighed as she bent to pick up the discarded sword, "why you think all this dangerous, sweaty work is something to do for fun. But if I'm going to be your best friend I guess I'd better help, and try to protect you from yourself!"

"Think of it as exercise, and a way to work off foul tempers." Fern smiled. "Now again, like this..."

At the time, it had indeed been marriage and children Fern had wanted for a career. "I hadn't the backbone to be a professional fighter back then anyway," she explained to her ever-silent mount. "If I had, I'd have never let myself be bullied into marriage by that morose cobbler!"

The stallions only response to Ferns words was to twitch his ear, dislodging a fly.

She had never really loved Durgan, although she had convinced herself that she did; she wasn't sure she'd evenlikedhim very much. He had been insistent, though, and her parents had thought it was a decent match. She had finally given in and married him.

At the wedding Durgan and his friends were all drunk, shouting at one another about nothing and virtually ignoring her. She still remembered sitting there in her best gown, wondering what she had gotten herself into. She had looked across the room and noticed the village smith, a young man named Jacob who was the only sober male in the place, staring at her. She had forced herself to smile brightly at him when what she had really wanted to do was to stand up and call the whole thing off. Jacob had walked out a moment later, apparently as disgusted by Durgan and his friends as Fern had been. She really wished that she, too, had walked out. But defying her family, telling Durgan to go to h.e.l.l, finding herself work-she hadn't been capable ofanyof that back then. And she had been downright embarra.s.sed about her love of swordsmanship. She had gone on practicing in secret with a few trusted friends she had found who could wield a sword better than dear, now-married Antonia; she had never mentioned it to her husband, and had only practiced when he worked elsewhere.

She hadn't had the courage to speak up about anything.

Once she actually had her own children, however, three children Durgan ignored as much as possible save to complain about the cost of feeding them, she began to take note of some of her own personal strengths, and to view her abilities with a sword in a new light. Where she had always tended to be the go-along-to-get-along type before, now she had something, or rather, three someones, to fight for, and with money tight some of the openings around town for guards or soldiers skilled with a sword looked pretty tempting.

When the famine came, and the war with Karnsland, Durgan didn't work much. Fern still remembered her first open confrontation with him.

"The children haven't eaten in two days!" she had shouted, when she found him sitting outside his shop with a stoop of ale in his hand, swapping lies with Armand the tailor.

"What do you want me to do about it?" he had asked, once he got over his initial astonishment at her unprecedented outburst. "Times are hard. No one's buying shoes. There's no money for food."

"You have money for drink for yourself!"

"I need to keep my strength up, for when the customers come back." He looked sincerely puzzled by her anger.

She hadn't known what to say to that, hadn't been able to think of any arguments that Durgan might listen to; she had fought her temper down and gone home.

Behind her she had heard Durgan chuckle to Armand, "Must be her time." Her anger had simmered anew to be dismissed so lightly, but she had held her tongue and walked away.

That night, though, she had suggested that he try to find some other source of income until business improved.

"What do you want me to do, go for a soldier?" he asked, slapping one hand onto his potbelly and holding the other arm out to display how bony and poorly-muscled it was.

"Soldiers wear boots, don't they?" Fern had asked.

"But they don't buy them here," Durgan had said.