Sacrificial Virgins for Hire
Originally published in Plasma Frequency Magazine (January 2016)
Sacrificial Virgins for Hire
Originally published in Plasma Frequency Magazine (January 2016)
The young knight studied the sign hanging above the shop. The oil painting showed a damsel with golden hair tied to a stake.
He put his shoulder to the door. As it swung open, a woman seated behind a seamstress table looked up. She didn’t appear much older than him, he thought, maybe nineteen. She smiled sweetly. Behind her, finely sewn gowns hung from the wall.
“I need a virgin,” he growled.
“Don’t we all?” She played with a lock of her blonde hair. “What’s your name, sire?”
“Thomas.”
“Our establishment is honored to serve you, Sir Thomas.”
She took out an inkpot and quill, sharpening its tip with a silver pen knife. Then she unrolled a parchment. “May I ask you a few questions?”
He shrugged.
“This virgin: male or female?”
“Pardon?”
She dipped the quill and inscribed an F. “Just one?”
“How much?” he countered.
She gave him a professional smile. “Ten gold pieces in advance. Including time and materials.”
Thomas’s heart sank. He had only two gold pieces, seven silvers and a bag of coppers.
“What materials?” he asked, stalling.
“Torn gown, tourniquets, leeches. It depends on the damage to the virgin. If there’s no damage, you get five gold pieces back.”
“So only five gold pieces, then.”
“Ten gold pieces in advance,” she said firmly, combing her bangs with the feather end of the quill.
He swallowed a lump in his throat and turned to go.
As his hand touched the door, she called, “How much do you have?”
He turned back to her table, carefully laying out all his coins.
She sighed, then picked up one of the gold coins and bit on it. She examined it critically in the light from the shop window.
“Really, Thomas? This is all you have? Two gold pieces?”
“And seven silvers,” he said. “And the coppers.”
She sighed more deeply. “Well, it’s not much. I might be able to find you someone. Might.” She dipped her quill in the inkpot, no longer smiling. “Adversary?”
“What?”
She gave him a look of exaggerated patience. “Troll? Ogre? Dragon? Pack of ensorcelled wolves?”
“Dragon.”
She wrote that down. “Just one?”
“One is quite enough,” he said. “Why do you need to know these things?”
“I have to pair you with the right girl. Some are allergic to wolves, for example. Though for only two gold coins...”
“And seven silvers,” he insisted.
She rolled her eyes. “Purpose of slaying this dragon? To join a Round Table? Win a lady’s scarf?”
“What? No! To save a village!”
“Save... village.” The quill scratched as she wrote. When she finished, she rolled up the parchment. “I’ll see who I can find.”
A quarter hour later, she returned, followed by an older woman. She had dark hair, turning to gray. She appeared at least as old as Thomas’s mother.
“Sir Thomas,” said the blonde. “This is Agnes.”
Agnes held out her wrist. He realized he was supposed to kiss it. When he raised his head from her hand, he stammered, “I thought you’d be...”
“Blonder? Oh, I know: the sign. Real women don’t have hair of gold leaf. Not even princesses.”
She dropped her satchel on the wooden floor with a thud. “Could you carry that for me, Sir Thomas?”
He was already carrying his sword and shield, though he’d been lightened by the weight of the coin purse. The satchel was heavy. He wondered why a virgin needed luggage if she was just marching off to a sacrifice.
“And you’re really a...”
“Virgin?” finished the blonde at the table. “Condition of employment.” She swept all his coins into a chest and slammed the lid.
“Will I be getting any of those–”
“No. Good luck with dragon hunting.”
Thomas led the way on foot out of town. Agnes lifted the hem of her dress as she navigated mud puddles. He noticed that her dress, a rather plain brown, wasn’t nearly as elaborate as the ones on the wall of the shop.
“You haven’t a horse?” she asked.
“No.”
“Nor armor?”
“No.”
“Just as well,” said Agnes. “Frightfully hot near a dragon. Like in a skillet. How many virgins have you rescued?”
“Well, none yet. And you? How many dragon encounters?”
“Countless.”
He had a sinking feeling that his performance would pale in comparison with her knights. But perhaps he could pick up some tips from the experienced virgin. “Is it usually a team effort? You and the knight?”
“Only if you call being tied to a stake a team effort. Oh, and screaming. I can scream like a teenager.”
“And the knight always survives.”
“Oh, no. Often the knight dies.”
“But you’re still...”
“Alive?” That’s what the squire is for. To cut me loose if it goes badly.”
“I don’t have–”
“I noticed.”
They walked in silence for hours after that. Thomas stopped periodically to shift the satchel and shield from one arm to the other. He spent the journey wracking his brain for some cunning way to kill the dragon to save his village. And Agnes. He knew it was traditional that virgins were tied up as bait. But he wasn’t entirely sure why. He wondered if he could cut her ropes partway through. Or perhaps he could use a knot Agnes could untie by pulling on one end with her teeth.
He was still pondering when they reached the mountain near his village, where the dragon lived. A trail led to the crevasse that formed the entrance.
“Gwendolyn said you’re doing this to save a village,” said Agnes.
He nodded.
“Carries off the sheep, I suppose?”
“And goats. Burns down houses. The children are terrified. Someone had to do something.”
“And no virgins in the village?”
Thomas’s jaw dropped. “Of course there are virgins! But I couldn’t simply ask...”
“A friend?”
“Well, no.”
“What’s her name?”
For a hired virgin, Agnes asked some damned personal questions. “Daphne.”
“Does Daphne know you exist?”
“Oh, yes!”
“True love is the mostly knightly of motives.” She sighed longingly.
He looked away.
“You’re not a knight, are you, Thomas?”
“No,” he answered in a small voice.
“Have you used that sword much?”
“Borrowed it from the blacksmith. He gave me some lessons.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Stabbing a dragon just makes it angry.”
They were almost to the entrance to the dragon’s lair. “So I’m going to die?”
She sighed and sat on a fallen log. She straightened her dress and patted the spot beside her. Thomas sat, relieved to set down the satchel.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
“Well, the sword. And I hired a virgin.”
“Ah.” She cleared her throat. “About that. I’m not actually a virgin.”
Thomas felt his plan crumble like tinder. Dragon lore said the only way to distract their blood lust was with a virgin. “But I asked! She said it was a condition of employment!”
Agnes nodded apologetically. “And they made certain when I joined. But there are a lot of knights who can’t keep their armor on.”
Thomas put his head in his hands. “I can’t go back now. I can’t face Daphne. And I borrowed those coins.”
Agnes hoisted the satchel from where it lay by his feet. She opened it and lifted out a large wineskin.
“Do you know what’s in this?”
He shook his head.
“Dragon’s Death Reagent.”
Thomas felt his heart quicken. There was still hope! Except... she wasn’t a virgin.
She unfastened the cord that secured the large stopper. “Taste it.”
“But won’t it...”
“You’re not a dragon, are you Thomas?”
“Well, no.”
“Then taste it.”
He lifted the wineskin and took a cautious sip, ready to spit it out.
“It’s just water,” he said.
Agnes shook her head. “I swear to you that I have seen it slay them, Thomas. The world is built on faith. Dragons fly and breathe fire because we believe they can. Virgins mesmerize dragons because we believe in their virtue and willingness to sacrifice. Knights defeat dragons because we believe in their bravery and chivalry.” She pointed to the wineskin. “This is Dragon’s Death Reagent. Say it.”
“This is Dragon’s Death Reagent.”
She nodded. “And you are Sir Thomas, a knight with a heart of kindness who is the bravest knight this dragon has ever encountered. And I am?”
“A virgin?”
She frowned.
“A virgin,” he repeated. “The fairest, most innocent virgin, whose virtue and willingness to sacrifice shine so bright they bedazzle dragons.”
She gave a little shiver of pleasure. “Hold that thought, Sir Thomas.”
She corked the wineskin and returned it to the satchel. Then she took a tin lantern from it. It took her a long time to ignite the candle within.
Finally she stood. “Time to slay a dragon, knight.”
Light faded as they climbed into the crevasse. The tunnel, wide enough for a dragon, descended into the black heart of the mountain. The air stank of sulfur and decay. Agnes held the tin lantern high. Flickering light from holes punched in the tin illuminated her, but did little to light the tunnel. Darkness crushed against him, and he stumbled over bones littering the passage. Clatter from the kicked bones echoed in the depths. Thomas’s heart hammered against his ribs.
“I’ve seen worse,” Agnes reminisced. “Sometimes you have to descend by ropes. Or ford an underground stream. And you don’t want to know what happens when you encounter a brood of hatchlings.”
Thomas’s mouth was dry as parchment. He gripped the satchel in one hand, shield in the other. His sheathed sword banged uselessly against his thigh. The darkness gnawed away at Agnes’ words of inspiration. He was only a village boy, foolishly venturing into a dragon’s lair.
Agnes stopped, holding the lantern higher, turning around.
“Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed in a large stone gallery.
Thomas’s breath came in shallow gasps. He couldn’t even manage words to shush her. His eyes darted through the darkness, expecting a dragon.
“Look,” said Agnes. “Over there.”
He raised his shield protectively, but Agnes and her lantern were moving toward a post set in a pile of rocks.
“Perfect,” she said. “A virgin’s already been here.” She thumped her hand against the post. “Solid work. The knight did a good job.”
Thomas looked around. “What happened to him?” he croaked.
“Oh, his bones are here somewhere. Satchel, please.”
He set it on the stone floor before her. She handed him the lantern in exchange, then rummaged in the bottom and began pulling out rope, hand over hand. When she had it all, she thrust it at him, then climbed onto the rocks. She turned, back against the post.
“Tie me up.”
“Are you sure?” He swallowed “I don’t know...”
“How to tie knots?”
“Of course! But–”
“Then start tying.”
He set the lantern on the ground and began wrapping rope loosely around Agnes and the post. “I’ll give you my knife. That way, if–”
“Thomas.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Willing sacrifice is key. What good is it if I can just scamper away?”
“But-”
“Tighter,” she insisted.
Reluctantly, he did as she said, but with a bow knot in back, quick to undo if she changed her mind.
“Do you see that ledge?” she said. She gestured with her chin, since her arms were bound.
He finally saw where she indicated.
“Perfect place to ambush a dragon,” she said. “Now set the lantern at my feet to lure the dragon. And take the Dragon’s Death Reagent.”
He picked up the wineskin, unwilling to leave her.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Believe. Now go!”
He felt his way to the other side of the gallery, stumbling over ribcages and skulls in the dark. Reaching the wall, his hand encountered the teeth of a broken jawbone. He jerked the hand back. Rocks jutted out from the wall. He realized he could climb. He dropped his shield and unbuckled his scabbard. With his belt, he fastened the wineskin to his waist.
“Could you hurry it up a bit?” called Agnes.
He took a tentative step onto a rock and felt above him for a good handhold.
Then he heard a sound like dried leather sliding in a chimney. A long rasping wheeze followed.
Urgently, he pulled himself up onto the rocks, grabbing for handholds in the dark. He glanced back to see Agnes tied to the post, illuminated by dancing pinpricks of light from the lantern at her feet.
He paused. Maybe there was still time to untie her and escape. The dragon probably didn’t know they were here yet. They just needed to be perfectly quiet. He could pull on Agnes’ bow knot, and–
She let out a bloodcurdling scream. The sound echoed through the cavern. In response, a deep-throated roar trumpeted from the depths.
Thomas swore and scrambled up rock by rock, scraping and bruising himself in his frenzied climb.
The slithering sounds were replaced by heavy reptilian tromps up the tunnel. Agnes screamed again.
What was her damn hurry? Thomas’s gasping breaths competed with the dragon’s eager wheezing. He couldn’t see the ledge, couldn’t see anything ahead.
Then roaring flames flared from the tunnel below, followed by a hot reek of sulfur.
He saw the ledge and leapt for it. Banging his knee painfully, he sprawled flat on the ledge.
Agnes took a deep breath and screamed again.
Thomas struggled to get the wineskin free from his belt. He jerked it loose, almost dropping it over the edge, when a blast of flame filled the gallery.
Agnes stopped screaming.
By the light of the flames, he saw Agnes tied to the post, helpless before the dragon that towered above her. She held her head high, not looking away. It moved toward her slowly, neck swaying uncertainly. Its jaw hung open, dying flames licking around long sharp teeth. Smoke drifted around Agnes.
In that vision of dragon and virgin, Thomas suddenly believed.
He shouted, voice echoing in the chamber: “For Daphne and the village!”
Flames billowed from the dragon’s mouth as its head jerked around toward him.
He popped the cork, squeezing a spray of Dragon’s Death Reagent down from the ledge. The dragon screamed, scales and flesh melting and steaming where the spray hit. Flames burst from gaping holes in its neck.
Thomas kept squeezing the wineskin till it was empty. By then, the dragon had long since collapsed. Flames sputtered fitfully from open wounds in its corpse.
He clambered down the rocks, then made his way over the dragon to where Agnes was bound to the post.
“Sorry about your singed hair,” he said as he untied her.
“Occupational... hazard.” She was still catching her breath from the screaming.
He put his arm around her shoulders, helping her down from the rocks holding the post. As he did, she kissed him on the cheek.
“I always believed you were a knight.”
Copyright (C) George S. Walker 2016.