Grischa hacked the fence post with her sickle until it splintered with a sharp crack. The gate was open, but she wanted the wood to know who was in charge.
“This village looks… reasonable,” Beldam said, using a splinter to pick her teeth.
“Very debatable,” Grischa smirked, eyes too wide.
They walked into Dvorets right down the middle of the street. A man was tending his garden – neat rows of cabbage, perfectly aligned. Beldam stepped over the low stone wall and crushed one. Then another. Squelch. Squelch.
“Hey!” the man shouted, standing up with a trowel. “That’s my property.”
“That’s debatable,” Beldam said. She grabbed the man’s arm – Pop. The scream drew the village. A young man in a leather apron stepped forward and threw a stone. It hit Beldam in the forehead. She stumbled back. She snarled, her hand going to the hilt of her blade. The crowd surged forward, pitchforks lowering.
“Stop!” The Elder pushed through the line, standing between the devils and the angry mob. “Put the stones down,” the Elder ordered his people. “We are better than this. If we attack them, we justify their violence.”
The young man lowered his arm, confused. “But they broke Ivan’s arm…”
“And we will seek justice,” the Elder said, turning to Beldam. “I see you are powerful. But we are a hub of trade. If it is resources you want, we can negotiate a tariff for peace.”
Beldam smiled. “Aah, tariffs,” she mused. “The most beautiful word.” She walked over to the village well where an old woman stood trembling. She picked her up effortlessly, holding her above the well. “Here’s our counter-offer.”
“Wait!” The Elder raised a hand. “Take the harvest. Take the silver in the church. Just put her down. That’s a fair exchange.”
“Oh yes,” Beldam said. “That’s fair.”
The splash echoed up from the dark. The Elder stared, mouth open.
“I thought we had a deal – I offered you the silver!”
“And we’ll take it, thanks!” Grischa said.
“Animals! You act like animals!” the Elder cried, his pragmatism shattering.
Grischa corrected him. “Lesser evils.”
The Elder blinked.
“We’re lesser evils. Like devils without the ‘D’.”
“Grischa, just burn the church, I’m bored,” Beldam said. Grischa snapped her fingers. The roof ignited. The crowd panicked. The young man with the stone vanished, screaming as he darted toward his home, trying to smother sparks before they claimed it. Others scattered in panic, abandoning garden and gate alike, shouting, tripping over each other as smoke curled into the sky. The Elder stood alone, blocking the path to the burning building. “You can’t do this.
There’s order! There are laws!”
“That’s debatable,” Beldam said. She shoved the Elder. The old man fell. He looked up, defiant. “History will judge you. You may win today, but you prove nothing but your own barbarism.” Beldam stopped. She looked at Grischa. “He thinks we want to be… vindicated?”
“Please, Mister Law and Order, don’t write me into your books,” Grischa quipped. She picked up a rock. The same rock the young man had thrown earlier. Crunch. The debate was over.
The church was fully engulfed, the heat pleasant on their backs.
“That was fun,” Beldam said, stretching her neck. “I liked the part where he saved us from the mob.”
“Yeah, useful guy,” Grischa laughed, stepping over debris.
“Where to next?”
“Let’s go west,” Grischa said. “I hear there’s a university town – they’ll love a good debate.”
“Perfect, I’ve been working on my opening statement,” Beldam said, clenching one fist in her palm.
Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His stories can be found in Expat Press, Cryptic Frog, Last Girls’ Club, Weird Daze and Horrific Scribes, as well as in his website, mariosenzale.neocities.org
Leave a Reply