Cook, Glen - SS - Severed Heads

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Glen Cook, whose "Severed Heads" is one of the three tales of "rape and revenge" which I mentioned
in the introduction to this volume, has here told an unusual and moving story of this universal
theme. When I began reading for this anthology, I admit to being prejudiced against male authors
writing heroic fantasy; I felt I had read too many mindless stories of the old-style heroic
fiction, and my attitude was quite simply:
"Blood and thunder, guts and gore;
Hero tales are such a bore."
But such writers as Charles Saunders, Charles de Lint, Steve Burns and Robin Bailey—to name only
men represented in this anthology—quickly changed my mind.
When first I read "Severed Heads" I thought Cook a new writer; a query to his agent informed me
that he is an unusually prolific newcomer, having written and sold eleven novels in the last three
or four years, as well as a couple of dozen stories to virtually every magazine in existence,
including F&SF, Asimov's, Whispers, Night Voyages, and many others.
Narriman, perhaps the youngest heroine in this anthology, lives the truth mentioned in the story;
that without our fellow man, we are no more than severed heads which roll alone through the
desert. Can it be that one reason for the mindless bias to uninvolved, blood-and-thunder old-time
sword and sorcery fiction—which gave it such a bad name—was that the early writers, writing only
of their fellow man, fell into the trap of using the women in the story only as narrative devices,
objects, cardboard figures without even such small dimensions of emotional existence as were
granted to the men? Thus the male characters, too, were only "severed heads" rolling around in the
desert of "thud and blunder" fiction, with plenty of blood and guts but no emotional reality. Glen
Cook does not fall into that trap. Not once.—MZB
SEVERED HEADS
by Glen Cook
I
Narriman was ten when the black rider came to Wadi al Hamamah. He rode tall and arrogant upon a
courser as white as his djellaba was black. He looked neither right nor left as he passed among
the tents. Old men spat at his horse's hooves. Old women made warding signs. Children and dogs
whined and fled. Makram's ass set up a horrible braying.
Narriman was not frightened, just confused. Who was this stranger? Why were her people frightened?
Because he wore black? No tribe she knew wore black. Black was the color of ifrits and djinn, of
the Masters of Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni, the high, dark mountains brooding over Wadi al Hamamah
and the holy place of the al Muburak.
Narriman was a bold one. Her elders warned her often, but she would not behave as fit her sex. The
old ones shook their heads and said that brat of Mowfik's would be no good. Mowfik himself was
suspect enough, what with having gone to the great wars of the north. What business were those of
the al Muburak?
Narriman stayed and watched the rider.
He reined in before her father's tent, which stood apart, drew a black rod from his javelin case,
breathed upon it. Its tips glowed. He set that glow against the tent, sketched a symbol, (Symbol)
. The old folks muttered and cursed and told one another they'd known despair would haunt Mowfik's
tent.
Narriman ran after the stranger, who rode down the valley toward the shrine. Old Farida shouted
after her. She pretended not to hear. She dodged from shadow to shadow, rock to rock, to the
hiding place from which she spied on the rites of her elders.
She watched the rider pass through the Circle with arrogance unconquered. He did not glance at
Karkur, let alone make obeisance and offerings. She expected the Great Death to strike him ere he
left the Circle, but he rode on, untouched. She watched him out of sight.
Narriman stared at the god. Was Karkur, too, a frightened antique? She was shaken. Karkur's anger
was a constant. Each task, each pleasure, had to be integrated with his desires. He was an angry
god. But he had sat there like a red stone lump while a heathen defiled his Circle.
The sun was in the west when she returned to camp. Old Farida called for her immediately. She
related what she had seen. The old folks muttered and whispered and made their signs.
"Who was he, Farida? What was he? Why were you afraid?"
Farida spat through the gap in her teeth. "The Evil One's messenger. A shaghun out of the Jebal."
Farida turned her old eyes on the Mountains of A Thousand Sorcerers. She made her magic sign.
"It's a mercy your mother didn't live to see this."
"Why?"
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But just then the guard horn sounded, ending on a triumphant note. The hunters had returned.
Karkur had favored the tribe. Narriman ran to tell her father about the stranger.
II
Mowfik had an antelope behind his saddle, a string of quail, a brace of hares, and even a box
terrapin. "A great hunt, Little Fox. Never was it so fine. Even Shukri took his game." Shukri
could do nothing right. He was, probably, the man Narriman would wed, because she was her mother's
daughter.
Her father was so pleased she did not mention the stranger. The other hunters heard from the old
ones. Dour eyes turned Mowfik's way. Narriman was afraid for him till she sensed that they felt
pity. There was a lot of nodding. The stranger's visit had confirmed their prejudices.
Mowfik stopped outside their tent. "Little Fox, we won't; sleep much tonight. I hope you've
gathered plenty of wood."
She heard the weariness in his voice. He had worked harder than the others. He had no woman to
ride behind and clean game, no woman to help here at home. Only old Farida, his mother's sister,
bothered to offer.
Marriman took the quail and hares, arranged them on a mat. She collected her tools, stoked up the
fire, settled down to work.
The sun settled westward and slightly south. A finger of fire broke between peaks and stabbed into
the wadi, dispelling shadows. Mowfik glanced up.
He turned pale. His mouth opened and closed. Finally, he gurgled, "What?"
She told him about the rider.
He sat with head bent low. "Ah, no. Not my Little Fox." And, in response to an earlier question,
"There are those even Karkur dares not offend. The rider serves one greater than he." Then,
thoughtfully, "But perhaps he's shown the way. There must be a greater reason than a feast when
game runs to the hunter's bow." He rose, walked into the shadows, stared at those dread mountains
that no tribe dared invade. Then he said, "Cook only meat that might spoil before we get it
smoked."
"Tell me what it means, Father."
"I suppose you're old enough. You've been Chosen. The Masters sent him to set their mark, that all
might know. It's been a long time since a shaghun came. The last was in my mother's time."
III
Mowfik had been north and had bathed in alien waters. He could think the unthinkable. He could
consider defying the Masters. He dug into his war booty to buy Makram's ass. He loaded all he
possessed on two animals and walked away. He looked back only once. "I should never have come
back."
They went north over game trails, through the high, rocky places, avoiding other tribes. They
spent twelve days in the hills before descending to a large oasis. For the first time Narriman saw
people who lived in houses. She remained close to Mowfik. They were strange.
"There. In the east. That is el Aswad, the Wahlig's fortress." Narriman saw a great stone tent
crowning a barren hill. "And there, four days' ride, lies Sebil el Selib, the pass to the sea." He
pointed northeast. His arm swung to encompass the west. "Out there lies the great erg called
Hammad al Nakir."
Heat shimmered over the Desert of Death. For a moment she thought she saw the fairy towers of
fallen Ilkazar, but that was imagination bom of stories Mowfik had brought home from his
adventures. Ilkazar had been a ruin for four centuries.
"We'll water here, cross the erg, and settle over there. The shaghun will never find us."
It took eight days, several spent lost, to reach Wadi el Kuf, the only oasis in the erg. It took
fourteen more to finish and find a place to settle.
The new life was bewildering. The people spoke the same language, but their preoccupations were
different. Narriman thought she would go mad before she learned their ways. But learn she
did. She was the bold one, Mowfik's daughter, who could question everything and believe only that
which suited her. She and her father remained outsiders, but less so than among their own people.
Narriman liked the settled people better. She missed only old Farida and Karkur. Mowfik insisted
that Karkur was with them in spirit.
IV
Narriman was twelve when the rider reappeared.
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She was in the fields with her friends Ferial and Feras. It was a stony, tired field. Ferial's
father had bought it cheap, offering Mowfik a quarter interest if he would help prove it up. That
morning, while the children dug stones and piled them into a wall, Mowfik and his partner were
elsewhere. Feras had been malingering all morning, and was the scorn of Narriman and his sister.
He saw the rider first.
He was barely visible against a background of dark rocks and shadow. He was behind a boulder which
masked all but his horse's head. But he was there. Just watching. Narriman shuddered. How had he
found them?
He served the Masters. Their necromancy was great. Mowfik had been foolish to think they could
escape.
"Who is he?" Ferial asked. "Why are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid," Narriman lied. "He's a shaghun." Here in the north some lords had shaghuns of
their own. She had to add, "He rides for the Masters of the Jebal."
Ferial laughed.
Narriman said, "You'd believe if you had lived in the shadow of the Jebal."
Feras said, "The Little Fox is a bigger liar than her namesake."
Narriman spit at his feet. "You're so brave, huh?"
"He doesn't scare me."
"Then come with me to ask what he wants."
Feras looked at Narriman, at Ferial, and at Narriman again. Male pride would not let him back
down.
Narriman had her pride too. I'll go just a little way, she told herself. Just far enough to make
Feras turn tail. I won't go near him.
Her heart fluttered. Feras gasped, ran to catch up. Ferial called, "Come back. Feras. I'll tell
Father."
Feras groaned. Narriman would have laughed had she not been so frightened. Feras was trapped
between pride and punishment.
The certainty of punishment made him stick. He meant to make the whipping worth the trouble. No
girl would outbrave him.
They were seventy yards away when Feras ran. Narriman felt the hard touch of the shaghun's eyes. A
few steps more, just to prove Feras was bested.
She took five long, deliberate steps, stopped, looked up. The shaghun remained immobile. His horse
tossed its head, shaking off flies. A different horse, but the same man. . . . She met his eyes.
Something threw a bridle upon her soul. The shaghun beckoned, a gentle come hither. Her feet
moved. Fifty yards. Twenty-five. Ten. Her fear mounted. The shaghun dismounted, eyes never leaving
hers. He took her arm, drew her into the shadow of the boulder. Gently, he pushed her back against
the rock.
"What do you want?"
He removed the cloth across his face.
He was just a man! A young man, no more than twenty. He wore the ghost of a smile, and was not
unhandsome, but his eyes were cold, without mercy.
His hand came to her, removed the veil she had begun wearing only months ago. She shivered like a
captive bird.
"Yes," he whispered. "As beautiful as they promised." He touched her cheek.
She could not escape his eyes. Gently, gently, he tugged here, untied there, lifted another place,
and she was more naked than at any moment since birth.
In her heart she called to Karkur. Karkur had ears of stone. She shivered as she recalled Mowfik
saying that there were powers before whom Karkur must nod.
The shaghun piled their clothing into a narrow pallet. She gasped when he stood up, and tried to
break his spell by sealing her eyes. It did no good. His hands took her naked flesh and gently
forced her down.
He drove a burning brand into her, punishing her for having dared flee. Despite her determination,
she whimpered, begged him to stop. There was no mercy in him.
The second time there was less pain. She was numb. She ground her eyelids together and endured.
She did not give him the pleasure of begging.
The third time she opened her eyes as he entered her. His gaze caught hers.
The effect was a hundred times what it had been when he had called her. Her soul locked with his.
She became part of him.
Her pleasure was as great, as all-devouring, as her pain the first time. She begged, but not for
mercy.
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Then he rose, snatched his clothing, and she cried again, shame redoubled because he had made her
enjoy what he was doing.
His movements were no longer languid and assured. He dressed hastily and sloppily. There was fear
in his eyes. He leaped onto his mount and dug in his heels.
Narriman rolled into a tight ball of degradation and pain, and wept.
V
Men shouted. Horses whinnied. "He went that way!"
"There he goes! After him!"
Mowfik swung down and cast his cloak over Narriman. She buried her face in his clothing.
The thunder of hooves, the cries of outrage and the clang of weapons on shields, receded. Mowfik
touched her. "Little Fox?"
"Go away. Let me die."
"No. This will pass. This will be forgotten. There's no forgetting death." His voice choked on
rage. "They'll catch him. They'll bring him back. I'll give you my own knife."
"They won't catch him. He has the Power. I couldn't fight him. He made me want him. Go away. Let
me die."
"No." Mowfik had been to the wars in the north. He had seen rape. Women survived. The impact was
more savage when the victim was one of one's own, but that part of him that was Man and not
outraged father knew this was not the end.
"You know what they'll say." Narriman wrapped his cloak about her. "Ferial and Feras will tell
what they saw. People will think I went willingly. They'll call me whore. And what they call me
I'll have to be. What man would have me now?"
Mowfik signed. He heard truth. When the hunters returned, chastened by losing the man in their own
territory, they would seek excuses for failing, would sec in a less righteous light. "Get
dressed."
"Let me die, Father. Let me take my shame off your shoulders."
"Stop that. Get dressed. We have things to do. We'll sell while people are sympathetic. We started
over here. We can start again somewhere else. Up. Into your clothes. Do you want them to see you
like this? Time to make the brave show."
All her life he had said that, whenever people hurt her. "Time to make the brave show."
Tears streaming, she dressed. "Did you say that to Mother, too?" Her mother had been brave, a
northern girl who had come south out of love. She had been more outsider than Mowfik.
"Yes. Many times. And I should've held my tongue. I should've stayed in the north. None of this
would have happened had we stayed with her people."
Mowfik's partner did not try to profit from his distress. He paid generously. Mowfik did not have
to waste war booty to get away.
VI
A Captain Al Jahez, whom Mowfik had served in the wars, gave him a position as huntsman. He and
Narriman had now fled eight hundred miles from Wadi al Hamamah.
Narriman began to suspect the worst soon after their arrival. She remained silent till it became
impossible to fool herself. She went to Mowfik because there was nowhere else to go.
"Father, I'm with child."
He did not react in the traditional way. "Yes. His purpose was to breed another of his kind."
"What will we do?" She was terrified. Her tribe had been unforgiving. The settled peoples were
only slightly less so in these matters.
"There's no need to panic. I discussed mis with Al Jahez when we arrived. He's a hard and
religious man, but from el Aswad originally. He knows what comes out of the Jebal. His goatherd is
old. He'll send us into the hills to replace him. We'll stay away a few years while he stamps your
widowhood into everyone's mind. You'll come back looking young for your age. Men will do battle
for such a widow."
"Why are you so kind? I've been nothing but trouble since that rider came down the wadi."
"You're my family. All I have. I live the way of the Disciple, unlike so many who profess his
creed because it's politic."
"And yet you bow to Karkur."
He smiled. "One shouldn't overlook any possibility. I'll speak with Al Jahez. We'll go within the
week."
Life in the hills, goatherding, was not unpleasant. The land was hard, reminding Narriman of home.
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But this was tamer country. Wolves and lions were few. The kids were not often threatened.
As her belly swelled and the inevitable drew nearer, she grew
ever more frightened. "Father, I'm not old enough for this. I'm going to die. I know it."
"No, you won't." He told her that her mother, too, had grown frightened. That all women were
afraid. He did not try to convince her that her fears were groundless, only that fear was more
dangerous than giving birth. "I'll be with you, I won't let anything happen. And AJ Jahez promises
he'll send his finest midwife."
"Father, I don't understand why you're so good to me. And I'm baffled as to why he's so good to
you. He can't care that much because you rode in his company."
Mowfik shrugged. "Perhaps because I saved his life at the Battle of the Circles. Also, there are
more just men than you believe."
"You never talk about the wars. Except about places you saw."
"Those aren't happy memories, Little Fox. Dying and killing and dying. And in the end, nothing
gained, either for myself or the glory of the Lord. Will you tell the young ones about these days
when you're old? Those days weren't happy, but I saw more than any al Muburak before or since."
He was the only one of a dozen volunteers who survived. And maybe that, instead of the foreign
wife, was why he had become an outcast. The old folks resented him for living when their sons were
dead.
"What will we do with a baby. Father?"
"What? What people always do. Raise him to be a man."
"It'll be a boy, will it?"
"I doubt me not it will, but a girl will be as welcome." He chuckled.
"Will you hate him?"
"Hate him? We are talking about my daughter's child. I can hate the father, but not the infant.
The child is innocent."
"You did travel in strange lands. No wonder the old ones didn't like you."
"Old ones pass on. Ideas are immortal. So says the Disciple."
She felt better afterward, but her fear never evaporated.
VII
"A fine son," the old woman said with a toothless smile. "A fine son. I foretell you now, little
mistress, he'll be a great one. See it here, in his hands." She held the tiny, purplish, wrinkled,
squalling thing high. "And he came forth with the cap. Only the
truly destined, the chosen ones, come forth with that. Aye, you've mothered a mighty one."
Narriman smiled though she heard not a tenth of the babble. She cared only that the struggle was
over, that the pain had receded. There was a great warmth in her for the child, but she hadn't the
strength to express it.
Mowfik ducked into the tent. "Sadhra. Is everything all right?" His face was pale. Dimly, Narriman
realized he had been frightened too.
"Both came through perfectly. Al Jahez has a godson of whom he can be proud." She repeated her
predictions.
"Old Mother, you'd better not tell him that. That smacks of superstition. He's strict about
religious deviation."
"The decrees of men, be they mere men or Chosen of the Lord, can't change natural law. Omens are
omens."
"May be. May be. Shouldn't you give her the child?"
"Aye. So I should. I'm hogging him because one day I'll be able to say I held such a one." She
dropped the infant to Narriman's breast. He took the nipple, but without enthusiasm.
"Don't worry, little mistress. Soon he'll suckle hearty."
"Thank you, Sadhra," Mowfik said. "Al Jahez chose well. I'm in both your debts."
"It was my honor, sir." She left the tent.
"Such a one, eh, Little Fox? Making him the Hammer of God before he draws his first breath."
Narriman stared up at him. He wasn't just tired. He was disturbed. "The rider?"
"He's out there."
"I thought so. I felt him."
"I stalked him, but he eluded me. I didn't dare go far."
"Perhaps tomorrow." As she drifted into sleep, though, she thought, You'll never catch him. He'll
deceive you with the Power. No warrior will catch him. Time or trickery will be his death.
She slept. And she dreamed of the rider and the way it had been for her the third time.
She dreamed that often. It was one thing she kept from Mowfik. He would not understand. She did
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