Bride of the Spider God (The Waiting Disaster and Macha)

[Maschinenmensch]

The tavern was full. Men pressed closely together, united by their desire for strong drink and the buxom serving wenches who squeezed their way through the crowds, trays held skilfully high enough not to bump heads or spill watered ale. Tarantia was equally full, every adventurer, treasure-hunter, sword-for-hire and thief within three-hundred miles had flocked to the capital, eager to hear whatever it was that Numedides II was willing to pay a fortune in gold and jewels for.

The summons had come a month earlier, an official decree in every city and town in Aquilonia, the king’s own guard, the Black Dragons, nailing proclamations to the walls of the town halls, taverns, even temples were ordered to carry notices declaring that King Numedides II was recruiting mercenaries, whatever their character, and would pay handsomely for a job well done. The details were sketchy at best, wild rumours flew about the city as to what the work would actually entail and one voice rose above the others in the tavern.

‘Spying,’ said one man, a thick-set Zingaran pirate with a gold tooth and a scar on his left cheek. ‘Why else would the king not use his own guard for the job? Ye can’t trace hired swords as easily.’

‘I reckon we’ve got ourselves a treasure hunt,’ replied a tall Zembabwan, his bare chest glistening in the warmth of the inn like polished ebony, ‘The king is after a jewel or some rare metal. Something that’ll make what we’re getting for the job seem like small change.’

‘You’re wrong,’ grinned a wiry Hyrkanian armed with an unstrung bow, ‘He wants someone done in.’ His grin broadened and he drew his thumb across his throat.

Other voices chimed in and argued, the words fading to a background drone as two figures who had managed to secure themselves a rickety table sat and listened without commenting. One was a large woman, taller than the other women present, and indeed than most of the men. Her shoulders were broad, arms and legs well-muscled without being gross and her bronze skin showed old healed scars from long-ago battles. Her hair was long and black, worn in a series of tangled dreadlocks that hung to her waist and tied with a few bits of carved bone and feathers in a barbaric fashion. The women’s eyes were deep grey and serious, yet laughter lines were prominent around them and her mouth, which carried a silver stud through her lower lip. Resting against the wall by where she sat was a huge battleaxe which, despite the razor sharp edge, looked well-used.

The woman’s gaze was on the room, watching and vaguely listening to the speculation and she shrugged when the individual bits of conversation faded out, lost by the noise of the crowd. ‘What do you think Camae?’ she asked, turning to look at her comrade.

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

Sharp gray eyes surveyed the crowd as those in the mass spoke. Tightly pursed lips sipped at the pitifully watered down drink which he had been surved by a buxom young serving-girl. Deft fingers of the free hand twirled a small, roughly-carved knife of hand-made origins, the tip occasionally heard grazing the wood of the table as it did so. Pausing at the words, the knife was caught halfway through one of it's rotations, with the tip of the blade resting on a thumb visibly scored by the force of a taught bow. A small smirk crossed those same pursed lips that moments before had been sipping at the drink, a soft voice stained with a distinctly foreign accent came across the rim of mug.

"I think --" That grin broadened, "-- I think our king wants to cause trouble for somebody." A chuckle, "Or somebody's giving him the trouble."

It was safe to say that Camae was the polar opposite of his female companion. While she was a tall, masculine goddess wielding what Camae lovingly referred to as her "double-headed decapitator", he was short, more lithe and agiliy inclined, and against his leg rested a well-crafted bpw and sternly strung bow-string. His skin was well-tanned from time spent on the coasts, with hair that was a mix of a rusty brown and a dark blonde, tied back in a long pony-tail that stopped just below his shoulder blades, his slim and pointed jaw-line visibly lacking a recent shave, and being almost heavily clothed compared to many of the patrons: boots adorned with straps and fur within, rusty-colored leather pants, an incredibly baggy gray shirt with sleeves down to the man's elbows, and a recently repaired vambrace on his right arm designed to protect the sensitive veins within his wrist from a bow's harsh wrath. On a simple leather belt he wore was his quiver, with belt aslo sporting an empty slot for the knife he held, and three of it's twins.

So most definitely not like the axe-wielding woman beside him.

"I think we should see what it's about. I hardly think these cut-purses in this place stand much of a chance." His grin remained there as he sat his drink down, "After all, I'm here."

 

[Maschinenmensch]

‘Then Numedides had better count his teeth when we’re though,’ the barbarian said, ‘And his daughters.’

The rest of her muttered words were lost in the depths of the leather cup as she took a long draught of the weak ale. The better inns were well prepared for the influx of fighting men and women, removing the drinking vessels made of metal and ceramic and replacing them with something less lethal. The pewter they usually carried could be used to stove in an enemy’s head, and shards of broken pottery held a keen enough edge to cut through skin. The stitched leather would collapse if used as a bludgeon and the ale was carefully diluted to the point of flavoured water. They hadn’t counted on the relaxed weapons laws and the jugs of imported spirits being sold in less reputable riverside taverns, and despite their efforts, drunken and heavily armed warriors lurched from tavern to brothel and back again.

Macha drained the cup and placed it on the table. A smiling barmaid appeared through the crowds and offered to refill it but the barbarian put her hand over the lip of the cup and shook her head.

‘It may be as weak as cats’ piss but I’d rather hear every word of Numedides’ proposal and not the fuzz in my own head.’

As she spoke there was a sudden scuffle towards the door and the blast of a horn echoed above the noise in the tavern. The drunken adventurers were exiting, pushing their way into the streets as men in the polished black armour of the Black Dragon Legion rode up and began sectioning them into groups to be brought before the king.

Macha pushed back the low stool she was perched on and reached for her labrys. ‘C’mon, we’re being called.’

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

"The fuzz in my head sounds more intersting than some noble speech." Camae replied.

With that, he quickly finished the contents of the cup, and threw it rather lazily down to the table. Rising up, he retrieved his bow, kicked his chair back in with one booted foot, and turned to the door as the other patrons of the establishment began heading out the door to the streets. It was there that he could catch glimpses over the heads in the crowds of that instantly recognizable polished black armor that had been seen all over the place as of recently. He tried to stay near Macha, of course: using the simple appearance of a large, muscular, and axe-wielding woman to make the crowds part as he felt himself get ushered to whatever group it was that the Legionairies felt was appropriate for him. He had his right hand on his bow-string the entire time, keeping the same arme looped through it as he went through the jumbles of people who had yet to be grouped: still sticking close to Macha.

"I feel like cattle." He remarked irritatedly to Macha, speaking just loud enough for her to hear him over the crowd.

 

[Maschinenmensch]

‘Hmm,’ the woman grunted in agreement as they moved towards a knight sat atop a chestnut coloured horse, a plume of scarlet feathers exploding from the crest of his black helm. He jabbed his gauntleted finger at them and about a dozen other adventurers and indicated they should follow him as he wheeled his mount around and sat off at a walk along a wide main road which led up to the palace.

Macha took her time, hanging at the back to give her the opportunity to look about Tarantia as they walked. Tall walls of thick yellowish stone, bleached by the sun to a paler creamy colour encircled the city in several rings with equally thick hardwood doors and iron portcullis for the gateways. Everywhere the presence of the guard could be felt, especially as they entered the palace courtyard. ‘It’s well defended,’ she remarked to Camae, ‘Numedides can’t fear invasion and we’d make a ragtag army of looters and deserters anyway. Must be some kind of sneak job.’

The enclosed inner courtyard was dimmer and cooler than the bright city streets, and Macha heard the running water before they came to the fountains and pleasure gardens. There was no sign of the famed veiled slaves brought in from Koth and Shem and Macha assumed they had been secreted away from the sight of hundreds of lusty men. She cracked a grin at Camae. ‘Numedides’s slaves must be in his harem, better luck next time.’

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

Camae had never been a fan of guards.

If he had been a dog, or perhaps some othe ranimal, his hair would have been standing up on end as the group went down the street, and the closest equivelant was the fact that the archer's head seemed to be on a constant swivvle as they walked. Not taking as much time to enjoy the surroundings as his friend, he still lingered at the back of the group: watching every person who might have been a guard -- which was just about everybody who wasn't either in the cluster of cut-throats and thieves, or staring at it from the windows and doorways of the surrounding homes.

Regardless, he still felt relatively safe from any sword-wielding guardsman who wanted his head put on a pike for all to see. If he couldn't get the man at range, then he had a woman wielding a huge axe if they tried to get close to them. Then again, Macha was the kind of person who would --

He was instantly snapped from his own internal monologue as said ax-wielding barbarian spoke up.

"Aye. He probably wants sell-swords so whoever he wants dead can't find out if we fail." He shrugged, "Or he just doesn't want to spend money on his own fancy guards."

It was then that, he too, noticed the distinct lack of the famed slaves about the garden, "Well, damn. Here I am hoping for a quick swing, too." He chuckled, "Well: it's better this way. Women have a problem with resisting my charms." A small, low chuckle followed.

 

[Maschinenmensch]

Macha grunted again as they were lead through ever more luxurious surroundings, the king clearly enjoyed displaying his wealth and power and she inwardly sneered at the soft comforts. Born in the dark, grey hills of Cimmeria, the woman had grown up amongst a stern and laconic people who disdained soft easy living. Even their deity wouldn’t help them. He breathed life into each Cimmerian at their birth and that was all Crom ever did for his people.

A pair of double doors were thrown open to reveal a throne room, a long chamber with six high, arching windows along the west wall, sending in thin wintery sunlight. Two long, low tables ran the length of the room, usually full of people waiting for an audience with Numedides. The chamber was free of petitioners however, and Macha counted thirty guards watching the batch of mercenaries warily.

Two men looked down the length of the room, up on a raised dais. One in a large ornate chair gilded with gold leaf. He sat heavily, his long beard grey, his robe of state unkempt, and a circlet of gold set on his brow. The other was a well-dressed younger man in a dark doublet and breeches and as Macha approached, she could see the resemblance between the two men.

‘Numedides has aged terribly,’ she remarked to Camae in a low voice. ‘Years in a matter of months, perhaps he’s been cursed.’

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

A man of money and wonder-lust, Camae was hardly as disdainful of the king's arrogant displays of wealth, and this combined with his wonder-lust to make him look upon the tapestries and other fineries within the walls of the king's home with a sense of jealous envy. Always a man who fancied fine drinks, delicious food, and believed himself to be quite a charming man when it came to dealing with the opposite sex: he had always pined for every way to show his wealth (of which he had little) and fame (of which he also seemed to have little, these days). However, he still felt a sort of resentment nestled somewhere deep in his belly. Not inspired by the diety-driven emotions of his partner (seeing as he did not see all that was around him in the world as the intelligent design of an as of yet absentee mother or father figure). Instead, his was rather driven by a mixture of greed, and the obvious displeasure that his Cimmerian friend clearly felt at all of the -- pleasantries around them.

"I really wish the king would be more willing to share some of his treasures." Camae remarked irritabely, "At least for those of us who actually work."

It was at that moment they entered the throne room. It was illuminated by the rather dim-looking light shining through winter clouds over-head, the tables sitting empty where once the angry and disatisfied locals would have sat on any other day, and with the mercenaries standing at the walls to observe the group as they entered. To be honest, the entire situation seemed rather unreal. It was the royal throne room, absent of activity, almost entirely silent save for quite murmerings and foot-falls on the ground, and in front of the king himself was the most scruffy-looking group of sell-swords and cut-purses to ever stand within sight of the walls of this royal estate. A lesser man might even go so far as to say the whole scene was a touch comical, in fact. However, Camae was much stronger than that -- not.

"Damned hilarious, this is." He remarked to Macha, following behind her like a shadow of lethal support, as the archer always had, "I take little stock in 'curses' and 'magic'." He chuckled, "I think maybe he ate a bit of bad beef. Wants the butcher killed for negligence." Another chuckle, with a hand over his mouth to stifle it for the sake of the serious-looking guards nearby, "What say you, Macha?"

 

[Maschinenmensch]

Any response was cut short by a shout for silence and the tall, grim-faced woman merely arched a brow at Camae as the king raised his head and looked down the length of the hall, as if noticing the assembled gang of warriors for the first time.

He had been a handsome man in his youth, the smooth good looks now passed on to his son who watched the mercenaries with undisguised superiority, and even in his more advanced years the king had retained an air of easy charm and well-groomed satisfaction which Macha had seen in him only months earlier, as she remarked to her companion. The lines etched into Numedides’s faced made him look ghastly, his skin ashen, he was more like a corpse than a man, and Macha was hit with an insight that the king was grieving.

‘You,’ the king snapped, his voice was strong despite his appearance and carried down the hall. ‘You are some of worst thieves, murderers and bandits that have ever plagued my lands.’ There was a low sound of shuffling feet, his words couldn’t be denied and the sense that this was some kind of ploy to get the hireswords together and butcher them was slowly dawning on some of those assembled.

‘Some of you have defied me and my laws for years, stealing my gold, ravishing my concubines and vanishing into the night.’

‘He’s heard of you,’ Macha whispered to Camae. ‘What an honour.’

‘You are here, because of those very deeds. Because of your daring, your arrogance, your nefarious skills. I have need of them.’

There was a low murmur of voices. Clearly the king’s speech was rehearsed but now he seemed to break the icy shell of his demeanour and slump a little in his chair.

‘My daughter, my youngest child, my beloved,’ Numedides’s voice cracked and he swallowed down a sob.

‘What the king is trying to say, is that the Princess Aurelia has been kidnapped,’ interjected the young man beside Numedides, the king’s son which would make him Aurelia’s brother. His grief at the loss of his sister didn’t seem quite as deep.

‘That bastard spider-haunted cult in Zamora have her!’ roared the king.

Fevered whispers echoed through the hall and Macha glanced at Camae as a few warriors began winding their way to the back of the chamber and slipped out. ‘Aha, so now we have it. A rescue mission into Zamora. No wonder Numedides recruited so many of us. So few will dare to go.’

 

[The Waiting Disaster]

"Aye." Camae chuckled, "I feel bloody honored."

The king had never really come across as a man who hesitated in the face of a group like the one that stood before him now. After all, if it weren't for his charm and straight-forwardness (though his father being king before him did help): he probably wouldn't have been able to make it as the king of the land. Yet there he was before them, looking more aged and vunerable than anybody had ever seen him, and (unlike his prick of a son) was on the verge of tears as he attempted to tell the mercenaries what it was they were needed for. It was obvious, even if he had yet to actually say it. He wanted them to head in to Zamora, find "that bastard spider-haunted cult", and get his daughter back. Or, if she was dead, then he would most likely want the cult and all of it's members to follow suit. However, the reaction of many of those in the room showed their lack of courage.

Never one for such pitiful cowardice: Camae stepped forward. As some of those amongst them drifted for the back of the room, he actually called out to the nobleman.

"Aye, King!" He shouted to get the attention of the king and his son, "You have my bow!"