High King Rising

by Paladin

Prologue • Chapter 1 • Chapter 2

Prologue: Visitations

10 Years Earlier...

King James the IV, the 10th King of House Amarrel, stood in a private study at the top of the highest tower in the palace. From here, he could see all the way to the Mountains of Mist. The room was bitterly cold despite the fire burning in the fireplace. The heat was fleeing out the window and the winter chill rushed in to replace it. The sky was a clear blue and he could smell the snow in the air. The storm clouds were moving in from the mountains.

Even wrapped in layers of heavy ermine robes, King James could feel the chill in his bones. It made his joints ache. He made no move to close the heavy shutters though. His eyes were continuously drawn to those mountains. Somewhere among those peaks, the High King's Keep waited for someone strong enough to claim it.

Four hundred years had passed since the last High King had sat upon the Dragon Throne.

He looked down into the courtyards. The snow blanketed everything and he could see the guards patrolling the inner courtyard. A few liveried servants scurried about and he could see his chief groom leaving the stables. The outer courtyard was empty save for the guards that patrolled the walls and the gate.

The sun had yet to clear the horizon and the dawn air was still and tranquil. Somewhere down in the courtyards, a cock crowed. He pulled his robe more tightly about his body. The winter had been brutal and spring had yet to arrive.

"You should not stand so close to an open window, Sire."

King James flinched despite himself. He had not heard his Court Sorcerer approach.

"You have many enemies and a talented archer could steal your life."

The Court Sorcerer's voice was low and husky from countless incantations. The robed figure walked to his side, the heavy scarlet cloth rustling. The deep cowl was pulled low, obscuring the Sorcerer's face. A slender, long fingered hand reached out and closed the heavy shutters. King James turned away and crossed the room, sinking into a plush chair before the fire. The Sorcerer swished along behind him, standing behind the chair.

"Something troubles you, Sire?"

King James sighed and gaze deeply into the flames. "Something always troubles me," he said wearily. "It is the nature of Kings to be troubled."

"True," the Sorcerer agreed, "but something seems amiss."

"I am getting old," King James admitted.

And it was true. His long dark blonde hair was streaked with iron grey. His skin was leathered from the elements. His joints ached in the winter and he found that his hands shook.

"That is the nature of man," the sorcerer said. "Even Kings."

King James nodded and stroked his silver shot beard. "I fear I have too little time to fulfil my ambitions."

"That too is the nature of man," the Sorcerer said softly.

"I have come to a decision today."

"Indeed, Sire? What have you decided?"

King James was silent for long moments. The room was heating up slowly but his bones still ached. He looked down at his scarred and callused hands. When he spoke, he was disappointed that his voice was not as steady as he had hoped it would be.

"I am sending out the Heralds. I am proclaiming myself High King."

He could feel the shock in the Sorcerer's silence. He understood it well.

"You wish to say that I am being foolish," he said softly.

"Sire, what you speak of...it means war."

"Only two nations are strong enough to oppose me," he said.

"Dalasia and the Kalesian Empire," the Sorcerer supplied.

"I am concluding an alliance with Dalasia today," King James said.

"An alliance," the Sorcerer repeated. "Sire, King Richard is Over King of the Western March. Rumour tells of his ambition for the High King's Throne."

King James smiled a very grim smile. "But he has no sons. In exchange for his loyalty, I will marry Alain into his family."

"Alain 'tis but a child, Sire, barely six summers."

King James nodded. "Yes, but his only daughter is three summers of age. They will be betrothed."

"And King Richard is willing to surrender his ambitions?"

King James laughed. "No...but I have sworn to make him first among equals. He will retain stewardship of Dalasia and the Western Marches, as well as gaining stewardship of Caer Brae."

"You give up your own Kingdom for the Dragon Throne?"

King James laughed. "Only in appearance. Jared will follow me as High King. And Alain will be King of Dalasia, Over King of the Western March, and King of Caer Brae."

He could hear the Sorcerer's robe rustle as she shook her head. "Brilliant, Sire, but the Kalesian Empire is still too strong. Even if you unite the West beneath your rule, the Khan's army is still vastly larger."

"I disagree," King James said. "Their internal strife is growing."

"A foreign war will unite them."

King James stood up and turned to face her. "It is already done. Don't bother trying to talk me out of it."

The Sorcerer nodded gravely, her cowl bobbing. "I see, Sire. Have you informed your Generals?"

"No. I am going to inform everyone at the banquet tonight."

"May I ask what prompted this decision?"

He smiled grimly at her. "My Soothsayer read the Prophesies. They proclaim that the High King will spring from my house."

"Prophesy is very fickle, Your Majesty," she warned, "and ever changing. No path is set in stone."

"He assured me that the time for the High King to assume his throne is now," King James insisted.

"He is a Soothsayer, Your Majesty, not a Prophet." Her voice was low and dangerous. "No one but a Prophet can accurately read the future and even they see only possibilities."

"Even so," he said, "it is done."

"I shall leave you now, Sire," the Sorcerer said. "I must gather my strength."

"I expect to see you at the Banquet," he said softly.

She nodded once and left the study. King James sat in there, staring into the flames for a long time. In their light, he saw many things; a castle in flames, soldiers fighting and dying, and he saw the High King's Banner flying on the highest tower in a long hidden Keep. He did not move until his Captain of the Guard entered his sanctum and informed him that the Court was gathering and the supplicants had arrived.

* * * * *

When she arrived in her private chambers, she found the Crown Prince waiting for her. He was standing before her bed, his arms folded arrogantly. He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed and glittering in the candlelight. He was rarely up before midday and she was surprised to find him in her chambers so soon after the dawn. She stared at him from the depths of her cowl for long seconds before bowing her head.

"Your Highness," she said in a low voice. "I did not expect you."

"You are my tutor, correct," he demanded imperiously.

"One of several," she said.

He waved away the distinction with a negligent hand. "The others are fools."

She walked past him, studying the room, making sure that nothing had been disturbed. The young prince was still whole, that was a good sign.

"Where is my apprentice, Your Highness?"

"I sent her away," he said. His voice trembled with an undercurrent of...fear.

"I see," she said in an emotionless voice. "I assume you wish to discuss something with me?"

"My continuing education," he said and his voice broke.

She turned to face him. His body was held at an awkward angle, attempting to lean casually against the foot of her bed. He had the looks of his mother, the dark hair and even darker eyes. He had the broad shoulders and bulging muscles of the maternal grandfather. His face was hawkish, making him look older than his sixteen summers.

"Which subject troubles you today," she asked.

He began to look around her room, betraying his nervousness. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. He walked over to the vanity, picking up a small silver statue of a griffin in flight.

"You should not touch that," she warned.

He put it down quickly.

"You must obey my commands," he said, his voice unsteady.

"Any command that is not treasonous," she corrected. "I serve the Royal Family but my loyalty is to your father."

"You will serve me tonight," he said.

So this is what he wants, she thought. I should have expected this.

"If you insist," she said.

He crossed the room and threw back her cowl. She did not move. His eyes widened and he stepped back.

"The rumours are true," he whispered.

Her long, flaxen hair spilled about her shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue, almost grey. Her skin was creamy pale and unlined. She had an aquiline nose and thin lips. She looked to be of an age with the Prince yet she had served the Royal family for two score years.

"Do you find me suitable, Your Highness?"

He flushed a deep scarlet and grabbed the front of her robe, tearing it open. She did not flinch. She merely cocked an eyebrow as he bared her breasts. They were roughly the size of large apples, still firm with youth. The chill air stiffened her nipples and he touched them with tentative hands.

He caressed her ineptly; his touch too firm and rough. He squeezed her breasts and pulled on her nipples. He pushed them together and weighed them in his hands. She suffered the indignity in silence.

His breathing grew hoarse and his face flushed. He stripped the remains of her robe from her body. He ripped her silken undergarments to shreds. She stood before him in all her naked glory, her smooth belly, slender hips and shapely legs. She could see the growing erection in his hose.

He pushed her none too gently onto the bed and she went without a struggle. She looked to the side and stifled a yawn as he stripped himself and crawled onto the bed. He positioned himself between her legs and probed her sex, trying to gain entry. He fumbled for a few moments before she reached down and grasped him firmly in her hand. She guided him into her and then released him. She let out a slight grunt as he forced himself into her. But the angle was bad and she felt no need to be accommodating.

He heaved his body on top of hers and she grimaced slightly. It had been long decades since she had lain with a man and she was tight as an untried virgin. The chill air made ice of her flesh and she felt no heat...no passion. Her legs were spread obscenely and he ground his groin against hers when he finally managed a full penetration. Her breathing remained even and slow, while he gasped for air.

He rutted with an animalistic frenzy, often pulling back too far and taking forever to figure out how to put it back in. She soon grew bored and silently recited the Laws of Magic. He had trouble keeping his erection. Finally, he backed away from her, unsatisfied and flushed with shame. She sat up, covering her nudity with the rumpled coverlet.

"Your Highness...don't you find me pleasing," she asked, her voice betraying nothing.

He dressed quickly and in silence. His face was sullen and she knew that his pride had suffered greatly. He spoke once before leaving her chambers.

"Tell no one of this," he commanded, and then he was gone.

She stood and dressed herself in a robe of sable hue, pulling the cowl up and obscuring her face in shadow. She left the torn remnants of the robe and her undergarments where they lay, trusting that her apprentice would dispose of them properly.

* * * * *

The Swordmaster of Molay stood near the fireplace, allowing the heat to soak into his body. The time has come for him to take on apprentices, to begin preparing them for the honour of taking his place. He had come to the castle just a few days ago to observe the many Bastard Princes and Princesses. The King had been a skilled swordsman in his youth and it was possible that his children may have inherited the knack.

He had already taken on two youngsters, the youngest son of a Baron and a girl-child from a merchant family. They were near the same age; the boy being six while the girl was five. They sat silently in the corner of the room.

The boy had brown hair and dark eyes. He was a very homely child, not attractive in the slightest manner. His eyes were beady and his nose crooked, almost as crooked as his teeth. He was short and stocky, with very prominent, lumpy ears and a lantern jaw. He figured the boy for the heavier weapons, two-handed sword and the bastard sword.

The girl was a slender beauty, with glossy black hair and dark eyes. Her mouth was a little pink bow and her complexion was creamy pale. Her wrists and ankles were delicate and she had very small hands and feet. The girl would do well with a lighter blade, perhaps a sabre or longsword.

The door to the chamber opened and a liveried servant led an armoured man into the chamber.

"The King will see you both shortly," the servant said.

He exchanged a grim nod with the armoured man, recognising him immediately for what he was. There were very few Holy Knights of Atna, less than three score on the continent. The Knights armour was burnished to a silvery sheen and covered with a pristine white surcoat. A monstrous two-handed sword was strapped across his back. A young boy followed behind the knight, sleepy eyed and his hair still tousled.

"Greetings," the Holy Knight said, his voice very deep.

"Greetings," the Swordmaster returned, his voice a rough rumble.

The Swordmaster folded his arms across his chest. He had been waiting since dawn's first light. It was nearing midday and the King had been seeing supplicants for several hours. He was a patient man but he was unused to the casual disregard inherent in the way he was being made to wait.

And from the discontent look on the Holy Knight's face, he was unused to such treatment as well.

"Is the boy your apprentice," the Swordmaster inquired.

The Knight smiled grimly. "Not as of yet. I have chosen him to be such but cannot remove the boy without the King's permission. The boy is a servant here."

"I too seek the King's permission to take an apprentice," the Swordmaster said.

The Knight nodded and they spoke not another word until the servant came to lead them before the King.

* * * * *

The Herald rapped the butt of his Standard against the cold stone of the floor. He was dressed in shades of black and grey. The standard he bore was a white flag with a black stag rampant. He looked around the room, his eyes arrogant and his chin held high.

In a ringing voice, he proclaimed, "My Lords and Ladies of the Court, Your Royal Majesty, I present to you Richard, the King of Dalasia and Over King of the Western March."

The ornate double doors were opened and a fierce looking man dressed in furred robes swept into the Hall. He wore a neatly trimmed brown beard and his hair was cropped short. His blue eyes were pale ice. He stopped at the foot of the raised dais and nodded his head once. He was clad in red enamelled chain mail and his blood red Crown was riveted to his helm.

The Herald rapped the butt of the Standard once more.

"I present to you, Princess Anne, the Jewel of Dalasia and future Queen of the Western Marches."

Princess Anne walked into Hall. Her long hair was glossy black and her eyes were dark blue. She wore a gown of ivory lace and blue satin. A diamond tiara crowned her. She walked three steps past her father. Her graceful curtsy ended when her bottom touched the ground and she had no choice but to sit down or fall down. She sat and stuck her little thumb into her mouth. King Richard scowled but the gentle hand that patted the top of his daughter's head showed that the child could do no wrong.

King James smiled.

The girl was quite lovely and would grow into a stunning beauty. Alain would be a very lucky man. For a moment, he was tempted to invoke the ancient rules of hospitality. According to those rules, Richard would lay with Queen Katherine and James would lay with Richard's lovely young Queen, Margaret. But a look at Richard's fierce eyes told him it would be a mistake.

He motioned for his own herald to step forth. The young man spoke in a commanding voice.

"You Majesty," he said, bowing to King Richard. "May I present to you, Prince Alain, younger son of the House of Amarrel, Grandson of the Philosopher King, and Nephew to the Lord of Fire Keep."

The hush that came over the assembled Court pleased King James, as did the look of shock that crossed Richard's visage. Fire Keep was an impenetrable fortress deep in the Mountains of Mist. The Lord was the only ruler to scorn any alliances and Fire Keep guarded the pass that legends foretold led the way to the High King's Keep.

The current Lord of Fire Keep was a member of King James' younger brother. Tradition dictated that the Lord of Fire Keep swear allegiance to no man. And from the day he had left, the current Lord had sent to messages to his brother. For Alain to be announced as his nephew was a declaration of his father's intent to be High King.

And everyone in the Throne Room knew it.

Prince Alain stepped out from a curtained alcove and walked to stand next to his father's throne. His honey blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and his blue eyes were melancholy. He was dressed in silks and satins of the purest white and a small golden dagger was sheathed at his hip.

King Richard stepped forward and spoke, his voice deep and strong. "I offer up my Loyalty to you, paid in Blood."

A hush descended as the ancient formula was spoken. King James spoke, his voice just as strong though not as deep.

"I accept your Loyalty and offer up my Blood as payment."

Alain stepped down to the floor and knelt in front of his future father. Richard knelt down and removed his daughter's thumb from her mouth and helped her kneel in front of Alain. He placed her small hands into those of the Prince. She smiled at him, her two front teeth missing. Despite himself, Alain smiled back.

Richard drew a dagger and removed his gauntlet. King James did likewise. Together, the two Kings sliced open their left palms and then clasped hands, mingling their blood. The Court erupted into joyful cheering.

* * * * *

Queen Katherine glided through the halls of the Keep, her gown flowing about her legs like a living thing. She had dismissed her Ladies in waiting and was unaccompanied, except for her young maid. A heavy ermine robe was draped about her shoulders and her breath steamed in the frigid air.

The West Wing of the Keep was largely deserted, used for storage. Rumours held that the West Wing was haunted. She could hear the fright in her maids every breath. The torch that the maid held flickered as a stiff wind nearly extinguished it. She heard the maid's frightened cry and shushed her furiously.

She descended a flight of stairs, making her maid go first. The damp chill cut through her fur lined cloak, down to the bone. She looked at the slight form in front of her. The poor child must be freezing. She was clad only in a gown of the purest white. The girl looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide with fright. Queen Katherine motioned for her to hurry.

As they went deeper into the bowels of the Keep, Queen Katherine could not help but smirk. Her beloved husband was probably just convening his Court. He would be seeing supplicants for the whole of the day. And while he was busy ruling his Kingdom, she would see to more carnal concerns.

Shortly after her first pregnancy, he had taken a concubine. Over the years, he had taken several and all of them lived here in the Keep. As did his bastard children. Ten years had passed between the births of her first child and the second. Ten years in which he had fathered several bastards. And it had been 3 years since the birth of her third child. Three years in which he had fathered seven bastard children.

It was said that she was still as beautiful as the day he married her. She knew differently. Her figure had grown more womanly over the years. Her breasts were full and well rounded. Her hips and legs were shapely. Her skin was still flawless. Her dark hair was very curly and her eyes were the colour of new turned earth.

Not that he ever noticed. They did not even sleep in the same bedchamber anymore.

They stopped before a heavy, ironbound door. They had to push together to force it open and the rusty hinges squealed shrilly. They tried to push it shut once they had passed through but were unable to do so. The staircase was mouldy and in the faint light provided by the torch, she could see fresh bootprints in the moss.

"Your Majesty," her maid whispered. "Where are we going?"

"Hush," the Queen said sharply. "We're almost there."

As they walked neither of them noticed the shadow that followed behind them.

* * * * *

King James frowned as the Duke presented himself to the Throne. He did not like this Duke. The man was a fop, dressed in silks of scarlet and gold. He held a delicate lace handkerchief to his nose; no doubt it was perfumed. Rumour held that the Duke was a pederast and King James did not like the way the man's eyes seemed to linger on Prince Jared.

"Your Majesty," the Duke said grandly. "I come before you seeking Justice."

King James motioned for the Duke to continue.

"A Minstrel of ill repute has stolen away my youngest son," the Duke said. "I impeach you, send out your soldiers to apprehend that foul wanderer."

"The boy is of age," the Court Sorcerer whispered sibilantly.

"I am afraid I must refuse," King James said.

The Duke recoiled in shock. "But...Your Majesty..."

"Bring forth the next supplicant," King James commanded.

The spluttering Duke was led away.

"Only the Swordmaster of Molay and Sir Markham remain, Sire," the Court Sorcerer whispered.

"I will see Sir Markham first."

"As you wish, Sire."

The Court Sorcerer turned and spoke softly with the Herald.

* * * * *

Sir William reined in his horse as he passed a nondescript building. It was bitterly cold and his horse's flanks were steaming. The snow was falling heavily, a white veil hiding the ugliness of the walled city. He patted the horse's neck and studied the structure before him. The windows were boarded up and the door was thick oak. He turned in his saddle and looked behind him. The streets were empty and poorly lit by the torch he carried. He could feel the eyes on him as he checked to ensure that there was no one on the streets.

He dismounted, his boots crunching in the icy snow. He led his horse to the post and tied it there. Someone would be there to stable him shortly; he had no fear of that. The House was very good about that sort of thing. He strode up to the door and thumped it in a particular pattern. A few moments later, it creaked open. He walked in, the warmth of the place soaking into him. He smiled at the brothel mistress.

"Good evening, madam," he said cheerfully.

She smiled, her deep dimples lighting a fire in his loins. She was an older woman, in her mid-thirties but she was still very beautiful. Her hair was a lustrous brown. Her eyes were a merry hazel. Her figure was generous, almost lush.

"You are most welcome here, Sir Knight," she said in her smooth voice.

He removed his cloak, revealing the mail shirt he wore beneath it. She frowned at the sight of his sword.

"You know we do not allow weapons in this House."

He smiled and removed his sword, handing it to her. She handled it with obvious distaste. Most of the girls in this House were not willing and a weapon could provide them the means of ending their existence. He struggled out of his mail shirt.

"I did not expect you to arrive so quickly," she remarked.

He smiled. "Your messenger told me you had a new girl; one that suited my tastes. I wanted to get here before you whored her to someone else."

The mistress raised an eyebrow. "She is a virgin. She will be expensive."

He handed her a jingling bag of coins. "I came prepared."

The mistress accepted the bag. "She is in the Red Room."

Sir Michael rushed up the stairs. He did not see the melancholy look the mistress directed at his back. When he barged into the Red Room; he beheld his angel. Her dark eyes were wide and full of fear. Her long black hair was braided. She was not older than seven summers. He grinned a fool's grin and advanced on her, already hard.

* * * * *

Queen Katherine led the way down a frigid hall. From beneath one of the doors, a warm light glowed. She motioned for the maid to douse the torch in a bucket of water that sat near the door. With a hiss, the hall was shrouded in darkness. She reached out and opened the door.

Heat washed over them and the stepped into the room, the maid closing the door. The room was lavishly appointed and a fire blazed in the hearth. Queen Katherine shed her cloak and handed it to her maid. The maid folded it neatly over the back of a chair but the Queen only had eyes for the young man standing before the fire.

Lord Nathan was like a blade, slender and deadly. His hair was dark as night, save for the wings of silver at his temples, and his face haunted her every dream. He smiled and held out his arms. She entered his embrace, her breasts flattening against his chest.

"Gods, how I've missed you," she breathed.

"And I, you," he said.

He kissed her, running his hand through her hair. She pushed his open tunic down his arms and savoured the feel of his tightly muscled chest. Before she could go any further, the door banged open. The maid screamed and Lord Nathan pushed her away, turning and rushing to the bedside, grabbing up his sword.

Queen Katherine fell over her trailing skirts and fell with a cry, helpless to do naught but watch. Lord Nathan leaped over her, his blade flashing. Her maid ran deeper into the room; her eyes wide and her mouth open in a silent scream. And everything seemed to slow down.

The intruder lifted his arm from beneath his cowled cloak, a brutal double crossbow held in his gloved hand. She heard the deep twang of the crossbow as Lord Nathan got almost within blade's reach of him. The two quarrels slammed into Nathan, sending him tumbling back. The Queen stared up at the intruder, her eyes wide with fright and her mouth working soundlessly.

Then her maid screamed and that freed her own voice. She screamed too.

The intruder seemed unfazed by it all and merely closed and bolted the door. He tossed the crossbow aside and threw back the cowl of his cloak. He was young, perhaps a year or two past twenty summers. His black hair was cut very short and he wore neither moustache nor beard. His eyes were an icy grey. He was breathtakingly handsome in a very cold, very frightening way.

Her maid's scream died off into frightened sobs and Katherine's own scream died. She rose trembling to her feet and attempted to smooth her rumpled gown.

"How dare you," she seethed. "I will see you hang for this."

"I think not, My Queen," he said in a voice as frigid as the winter air outside. "Your own lovely neck should be your first concern. Even a Queen would be tortured to death for treason."

His words sent a dagger of ice into her spine. Her legs felt weak and she moved backwards, sitting on the bed.

"Treason," she whispered.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said scornfully. "Treason...adultery is a serious crime when your husband is King. Why, it makes the parentage of your children suspect."

She was silent, the prospect of death by torture robbing her of speech. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes pleading. She had finally recognised what he was, a member of the feared Shadow Guard, the Kings secret protectors.

"Please," she begged.

He knelt before her, wiping away her tears with a gloved hand. "Do not cry, My Queen. I will grant you the mercy of a quick death."

"No," she cried. "Please...let me live."

He stood and posted his fists on his hips. The action caused his cloak to open and she could see the hilt of his sword. She stared at it for a moment before tearing her eyes away and looking him in the face.

"Please," she begged. "I swear to be faithful. I swear by the lives of my children."

"You are a whore, Your Majesty," he said softly. "Why should I take you on your word when my eyes see the proof of your infidelity."

She stood, meeting his eyes squarely. "I will ensure you do not regret the decision."

"Are you trying to buy my loyalty," he asked, "my honour?"

She did not flinch from the ice in his voice. "I am."

He laughed and crossed his arms. "You have three tries, Your Majesty. If you fail, I will kill you immediately."

Her breath tried to stick in her throat but she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"I will give you wealth," she said, her voice carrying a hint of the steel it normally did.

He laughed.

She shivered and tried to back away from him but the bed was right behind her. That gave her an idea.

"I will be a whore," she said, her voice catching. "Your whore...for as long as you wish."

She saw his eyes narrow as he considered the idea and she felt a moment of triumph. Her triumph melted into terror when he shook his head. He stepped back from her and drew his blade with a steely rasp. She had almost had him; she was sure of it. She heard her maid sobbing and a desperate idea sprung to mind.

"I will whore my Ladies in Waiting to you," she said quickly, "and the ladies who attend us."

He lifted the blade, tucking the point beneath her chin. She closed her eyes and awaited the cold kiss of the steel. When he spoke, his voice mocking her.

"Too little, My Queen...but together...enough to spare your life."

She opened her eyes.

He sneered at her. "You will grant me one favour, at a time of my choosing, anything I desire. If you agree and whore yourself and your Ladies to me, I will let you live."

"Anything," she sobbed. "Anything you desire."

His frigid smile stole the strength from her legs.

* * * * *

The Court was deathly silent. King James felt the shock reverberating around the Hall. The Swordmaster stood at the foot of the dais, his arms crossed defiantly. He had been forced to leave his sword in an antechamber but an air of quiet menace still cloaked him. For long moments, the Swordmaster's words hung in the air. It was Crown Prince Jared who broke the tense silence.

"No," he cried out. "It's not fair! I'm Firstborn!"

"I have made my decision, young Prince," the Swordmaster said calmly. "I choose Prince Alain as my apprentice."

The Court seemed to hold its breath. King Richard smiled but hid it behind his hand as he stroked his beard. King James stood and descended to stand before the Swordmaster.

"I beg you reconsider," King James said reasonably. "Jared is already a skilled swordsman. He would do well under your tutelage. Alain is but a boy. He has yet to even hold a blade, much less learned to wield one."

The Swordmaster shook his head. "I am afraid, Your Majesty, that Jared knows too much. To teach him to unlearn the bad habits he has acquired would be near impossible. Your son is arrogant and would not listen."

Jared's face flushed in anger and his hand went to the ornamental dagger he wore at his waist. The captain of the King's Guard put a restraining hand on the young Prince's arm. The Swordmaster ignored them, speaking to the King.

"Alain has quick wrists and good balance. He could be a great Swordsman...perhaps even a Swordmaster."

The Swordmaster's blunt manner and casual dismissal of the Crown Prince stunned King James. He also knew that sending Alain would be an insult Jared could not bear. He shook his head sadly and ascended back up to his throne.

"I am afraid I must refuse," he said softly. "You must choose another apprentice."

The collective intake of breath seemed to suck the air from the room. The Swordmaster's eyebrows shot up into his hairline but his face remained calm and stony. He bowed stiffly to King James.

"As your Majesty wishes."

The Swordmaster spun on his heel and strode from the Hall. Doing so was a serious breach of etiquette but King James did not protest.

* * * * *

The fat man waddled out of the Blue Room and opened the door to the Red Room. It was the gurgling screams that had given it all away. The girl clutched a small dagger in her right hand, the blade and her hand dripping crimson. Blood was smeared on her cheeks and spotted her clothes. The knight was thrashing on the ground, clutching at his throat. The girl looked up at him.

"Put the knife away, girl," he grumbled.

The girl lowered the blade.

The fat man waddled over to the critically wounded knight and stepped on his throat, crushing the life out of him.

They left the House and the mistress was not sad to see them leave. Sir William had been a very profitable customer. It was a shame he had chosen the wrong girl for a midnight rape. One did not cross the merchant princes of the East. And raping the favoured granddaughter of the Merchant Prince Tsang Hueng was tantamount to suicide.

On a different day, she might have found it ironic that Sir William had met his death at the hands of a girl-child but, today, she just mourned the loss of the Red Room. Not many of her customers would take their pleasures in that room now. Too many of them were superstitious.

* * * * *

Queen Katherine could not watch as her young maid was raped.

The Shadow Guard had ripped the girl's clothes from her and was skewering her relentlessly. She screamed and thrashed but she was too small to really hurt him. But he could and was hurting her terribly. The girl was not yet ripe but he cared not.

The shrill, hurt cries ripped through Katherine.

It was too much. The girl was suffering for her indiscretions and to save her own life. She had to at least grant the girl the dignity and respect of not turning her face away from her suffering. So she looked and what she saw would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The girl was still gangly with youth, all arms and legs. She had no curves, no breasts, and for a certainty had not flowered. But between her widely spread legs, the Shadow Guard was pumping madly, tearing at the girl and smothering her with sloppy kisses.

The sight was grotesque. The girl looked so small beneath him and her cries were shrill and hurt. Her little heels beat the bed to no avail. The Guard kept raping her without mercy or compassion. But suddenly, the Guard ceased and withdrew from the girl, his lance red with the young girl's blood. He sighed contentedly and glanced over at the Queen.

"I never imagined a child could give me such pleasure. Are all your maids this young?"

She convulsed and looked away. The man's laughter cut through her. The girl was sobbing and choking.

"Watch, my Queen, for this girl would not be here if not for you."

She looked, her eyes filled with hate. He rolled the girl over onto her belly, his hand caressing her tiny little bottom. He placed her ankles together and then took his lance in hand, straddling her hips. Almost gently, he rubbed his lance up and down the shallow valley between her buttocks before setting his lance in place. He jerked his hips, her maid screamed, and Queen Katherine had to look away.

* * * * *

Prince Aiden convulsed and fell to the floor.

His guts were on fire and he felt the bile rise up into his throat. He wretched and sobbed as he felt his insides being shredded. He cried out weakly. His eyes burned almost as much as his throat. He wretched again. He curled into a ball, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth and nose. The pain was too much.

The door opened and the last thing he heard was the gentle swish of heavy robes and a strangely sorrowful voice.

"My poor child Prince... your life will be forever changed..."

* * * * *

The room was cold as ice.

The fire still raged but no earthly fire could banish the ice that had formed in the Queen's chest. The Shadow Guard was dressing himself, not looking at either of them. The pain and memories made her throat thick with bile. She covered her mouth with her hand, choking. He ignored her.

Her maid had stopped sobbing hours ago. The girl was sprawled at the foot of the bed; naked as the day she was born. Blood stained her thighs and the immature flower of her sex, a flower that had been brutally defiled. Blood and semen leaked from her and her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. The Queen looked away from her.

The man was buckling on his swordbelt.

The Queen struggled to her feet, her knees shaking and the pain making her grimace. She had never been taken in that manner and her breath hissed between her teeth. Tears leaked from her eyes and the Guard looked at her finally.

"Stop snivelling. I cannot abide the crying of women."

Then he fastened his cloak around his shoulders. She hobbled over to her maid, lightly touching the girl's face but the girl did not respond. She had been used so terribly and her mind seemed to have fled. Queen Katherine sobbed for her and for herself.

She had saved her own neck but at what cost?

The poor girl had screamed and screamed while the Guard had plundered her backside. But after a while, the screaming had stopped and the girl had gone still. The guard had filled her with his seed, the poor child's bottom overflowing.

Then he had thrown Katherine onto her face and taken her ass as well, jamming his lance into her with all his strength. Twice more after that, he had taken her. Her maid had been ravaged another four times.

She looked at him as he left and had to wonder if death may not have been preferable to life by these terms.

* * * * *

It was the middle of the night when a frantic pounding against his door woke the Swordmaster. He leapt from his bed and had a naked blade in his hand before he was fully awake. His two apprentices were huddled in the corner, well out of sword reach. They had learned quickly the folly of startling him awake. He crossed the room and unbolted the door. He stepped back as it swung open, his sword held ready.

Three robed and hooded figures stood in the hall, two adults and a child. He lowered the blade in stunned confusion.

"What goes on here," he demanded.

"Let us in," a woman's voice whispered. "We cannot be seen here."

He allowed them into the room and barred the door behind them. The removed their cowls and he nearly dropped his sword. He did not recognise the woman but he knew King Richard and the young Prince Alain.

"What...what goes on here," he repeated softly.

"The Prince is in danger," the woman said. "Already, jealousy has turned Jared's hand against him; a subtle poison in Alain's milk. You must take him with you and flee the kingdom tonight."

"But King James said-"

"Alain is marrying into my House," King Richard said grimly. "That makes the boy my ward. Return him to me in ten years time; to be married to my daughter."

"But-"

"Time is short," the woman said. "I have given Alain an amulet that will allow me to track him and to show me that he still lives. You must flee now."

The Swordmaster nodded.

* * * * *

"I will give the amulet's twin to Anne, when she is older," the Sorcerer said as they rode back to the Keep. "It will assure her that her betrothed still lives and will bind them together."

"Anne and I will leave for our own Kingdom in the morning," King Richard said grimly. "I do not trust her safety in the same house as Jared."

They rode in silence for a few blocks, their horses' hooves clip-clopping against the cobblestones of the King's Road. Prince Alain would not be seen in the capitol for years to come, if he returned at all. The life of a common sword was dangerous and uncertain. But should he remain, his death would come on silent wings and by his own brother's hand. And the Sorcerer knew hard truths that had to be spoken.

"She will have to return in a few years time, to live in the house of her Betrothed."

King Richard's voice was as cold as iron and grim as death. "My own sorcerer will be-spell her, to protect her from Jared."

The Court Sorcerer nodded, her hood obscuring her face but her breath steaming in the bitter winter night. Fat flakes of snow fell from the sky lazily for there was no breeze to move them. She turned her hood towards him.

"You might do well to send a sword to guard her as well, Majesty."

King Richard nodded, his voice hard. "I will."

The Court Sorcerer remained silent for the rest of the return journey to the castle, knowing that her treasonous actions tonight could cost her dearly.

Only the Beginning...

Chapter 1: Ignoble Beginnings

A Pair of Rogues

It was too hot.

It was nearing the end of autumn and the lands were gripped by a fierce heat wave. Many of the village's elders foretold an even fiercer winter. Tempers were short and more than one friendship had been ended beneath the hot sun.

It was even worse in the One-Eyed Wolf. The inn was a low-beamed building, intimate and cozy. Now it was just stifling. The inn's cellars were the coolest place in town and they were still serving lukewarm ale.

Eliza dropped the rag back into the bucket and stretched her sore shoulders. She picked up the rag and began to scrub the bar again. It was midday and she was soaked with sweat. Strands of her long brown hair had escaped her braid and were sticking to her face and neck. Her skirt was dragging at her legs and her blouse was clinging to her flesh.

A low moan cut through the heavy silence.

She looked up from her scrubbing and glanced at the stairs. In one of their finest rooms, a young warrior hovered on the brink of death. The town's single healer, a Cleric of Saharis was tending to him but it had been days already. She sighed and got back to work. The young warrior would probably die before too long. She had seen the wound when the mercenaries had arrived.

The young warrior's companions were sitting at the table closest to the fireplace, all five of them in their inky black coats. All of them bore swords and daggers. One of them leaned a halberd against the wall. A heavy, ironbound chest rested beneath their table. She wondered what was in it. She quickly glanced around. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen and none of the other barmaids were in the common room.

A chill ran up her spine.

She was alone with them. She was alone with five mercenaries. The rag fell from nerveless fingers. She was alone. She glanced over her shoulder at them. They were not looking at her; their eyes drawn upward by the sound of their friend's suffering. She skirted the bar, putting it between her and them, seeking the safety of the heavy oak.

They were bedraggled and desperate looking. Their clothes were stained with mud and blood, threadbare from hard use. Crimson-stained bandages bound their wounds. They were scruffy and dark circles ringed their eyes.

Someone coughed.

She looked up. One of them was looking at her. She looked back down at the bar, grabbing the rag. Her heart pounded in her breast and her breathing grew labored. She was alone with them. There was no one to see what could happen. And she knew what was going to happen to her once they realized she was alone.

She was going to be raped...

She knew it. She had heard all the stories from the older barmaids and from the minstrels who sometimes graced their inn. They were going to tear her clothes from her body and violate her. Force themselves into her and brutalize her body, she would lose her maidenhead in a puddle of spilled ale. Or perhaps they would throw her over a chair, or onto a table. Regardless of how they took her, they were going to take her and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Then they would laugh at her tears and screams.

Perhaps more than one of them at a time...

She bit her lower lip, almost drawing blood. One singer had spun bawdy tales in the wee hours of the morn, delighting in their frightened gasps and in the heaving of their bosoms. Until now, she had not considered the implications of those tales but they haunted her now.

The singer had told tales of Princesses captured by mercenaries. And of how they took her one at a time, staining her silken gown with blood and semen. One after the other, until she had serviced the entire company. Half a hundred hard cocks impaling the poor Princess until she could no longer scream for the loss of her voice.

He had sung the song of the Virgin Priestesses and the Horse Lords. Of how that mercenary company had descended on their sacred temple and raped everyone within, from the High Priestess down to the youngest acolyte.

He had whispered the tale of the Barbarian Kings who would cross the borderlands to rape and pillage their way to the sea and back. Of how the greatest of their kings had sat upon the High King's Throne for a fortnight, raping the High King's daughters and granddaughters until he had been thrown down and killed by the High King's young son.

And in all the tales, the mercenaries raped and pillaged wherever they went.

The silence grew heavy...

Another singer had come last spring. He too had spun bawdy tales in the early hours for the barmaids.

He told them of the Kingdoms to the south, where the women were kept in palaces of marble, guarded by eunuchs. He spoke of the fat caliphs and sultans who kept them for sex slaves and of the casual way the women were killed for indiscretions.

He spoke of the Empire across the sea. He spoke of the island of women, where they fought as fiercely as any man and loved one another, only taking men for breeding purposes and never allowing male offspring to live. He spoke of the orgies in the capitol and of the way the noblemen would bed boys and girls alike.

And he spoke of the way some men would take women in the ass, taking them as if they were young boys. She began to shake. Would that be the way it was for her? Would she be thrown face down, a hard cock forced into her ass, ripping and tearing? She began to tremble, almost feeling their hands on her already.

They were plotting. She knew it. Any moment they would rush over and grab her. Her clothes would be torn from her body and then one of them would mount her. And when he had taken his fill of her, the next would mount and then the next. They might even kill her when they finished with her. And then they would move on, raping their way through the town.

A sob choked her.

She dared to look again. They had not moved. One of them seemed to slump in his chair. Another hid his face in his hands and his shoulders began to shake. A third stood and walked slowly to the window, staring pensively out onto the street. The fourth laid his head down onto his folded arms. The fifth just stared at the ceiling.

She eyed them suspiciously. This was a ruse. It had to be. They were warriors and mercenaries. They wouldn't be crying...would they?

She looked at them a little more carefully, ignoring her fears and looking with her eyes and ignoring the voices that had whispered in the early morning hours.

Her pulse slowed.

Not one of them was much older than her sixteen winters. One of them looked younger than her. A broken sob escaped one of them. Not one of them paid her more than just a glance. Most of them ignored her completely. And not one of them was dangerous to her at this moment.

She put down her rag and left the common room, leaving them alone with their grief.

* * * * *

Aiden stood at the window.

It was just past midday and already the heat was soaring. He unclasped the front of his jacket. It was too hot to be wearing it but it was all he had left of the Black Hawks. He fingered the silver pin on his collar, a rampant hawk. Just a few weeks ago, the Captain had pinned it there.

He was a lieutenant...for what it was worth.

There were only five other Hawks left alive and one of them probably would not last through this day. For the hundredth time that day, he wished their war cleric had survived. He would have had them all healed in a matter of hours.

He had only been with the company for two years. By all accounts, he was still a rookie. Now he was the most senior man left. He looked down at the jacket. It was jet black, with onyx clasps. He had been so proud to put it on that first time. Now it was meaningless.

He ran his hand through his short blonde hair.

An unknown mercenary company had decimated the Hawks. The worst part was that they had lost the Banner. He looked back at young Jevin, their standard bearer. He had dropped it during the heat of battle and never recovered it. Jevin looked up and then flinched when he saw Aiden's eyes on him.

Aiden sighed.

No matter where they went from here, Jevin would not be going with them. He had dishonored the Company. Without the Banner, the Hawks were dead. He eyed the chest beneath the table. They had managed to recover some of the Company's funds; enough to get them started again.

He shifted his weight. The bloody bandage around his left thigh was attracting flies. His skin itched beneath it, a sign that the wound was healing. It would probably scar but the cleric here was good for something. It would heal soon. The others were more or less in the same condition, except for Tad.

Tad had taken a spear through the middle. If he had known that the clerics in this town were so weak, Aiden would have put him out of his misery on the battlefield. Another moan cut through the silence. He shook his head.

"Jevin," he called softly. "Come here."

Jevin looked around but no one at the table would meet his eyes. He stood and slowly walked over to Aiden, stopping a pace behind him.

"Yes, sir?" Fear was thick in the younger man's voice.

"You failed the Hawks," Aiden said. "You killed the Company when you lost the Banner."

"Sir, I..."

"I'm not done." Aiden waited a moment to make sure Jevin would remain silent. "I talked with the others last night and we all agreed that it is time for you to leave."

Aiden reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He bounced it in his hand for a moment before handing it to the stricken young man.

"This should be enough to get you back home," Aiden said, "or to wherever you want to go."

Jevin stared at the pouch in his hand. He choked a bit and put the pouch into his belt pouch. He took off the black jacket and laid it on a table. He walked away, looking back over his shoulder several times. Aiden did not look at him again, not even when Jevin left the inn.

Aiden picked up the discarded jacket and stared at it.

It used to mean so much.

He turned and flung it into the fireplace. The others stared at him. He turned back to the window.

* * * * *

It hurt so much.

It never stopped hurting. A sucking sensation assaulted him when he tried to breathe and he could taste blood in the back of his throat. Blurred shapes hovered over him, hurting him. They spoke nonsense words.

He wanted the pain to end. He wanted to tell them but could not speak.

Soft warmth suffused his battered body. It soothed him and made him smile one last time. The hurting had finally stopped.

* * * * *

Eliza threaded her way across the crowded common room.

Hands grabbed at her but she managed to avoid most of them. A few lucky patrons got a happy handful of her bottom. One patron almost grabbed her breasts but she twisted out of the way. She slipped behind the bar and breathed a sigh of relief. She had made it.

The crowd was sullen tonight.

There had been a Bard but he left after only one night, migrating further North to escape the heat. There was no entertainment for them so they amused themselves by groping her and the other girls. Not even the innkeeper's wife escaped the grasping hands. She sighed as she contemplated having to go back out into that sea of watery eyes and grasping hands.

The mercenaries had not returned to the One-Eyed Wolf yet. They had left around mid-afternoon to bury their compatriot. Eliza filled another pitcher full of ale and steeled herself for another trip into the lion's den. The blacksmith and his apprentices were signaling for another round.

She saw the other barmaids wading through the sea of flesh. She prayed that the heat would break soon. The crowd was getting worse every night.

She endured the pinches and pawing as she made her way to their table. The table near the fireplace was empty and she could see the black jacket lying on the kindling and remembered the young mercenary who had left alone the day before. She wondered if they would return at all or if the rest of them would ride away now that their wounded friend was dead. She hoped not but knew it was a foolish hope. Their horses were still stabled and no one had returned to saddle them.

She delivered the tankard with a weary smile and ran the gauntlet back to the bar. The innkeeper was cleaning a mug.

"It's an ugly crowd tonight," he muttered.

Before she could answer, the door banged open. The four remaining mercenaries stalked in and glared at he regulars. The din of conversation died and people looked away. They looked grim as death in their black jackets and the heat in their eyes could burn a man to cinders.

They scythed through the crowd and stopped at the bar. Their leader dropped a handful of coins on the polished oak. Eliza stifled a gasp and the innkeeper's eyes bulged. Five double-weight silver crowns gleamed in the ruddy light of the candles and lanterns.

"The bar is closed," the blonde said harshly. "We're mourning the loss of our comrades."

An angry muttering rippled through the room. Three of the mercenaries spun around and quelled the conversations with poisonous glares and hands on the hilts of their weapons. The blonde dropped a single silver coin next to the others ones.

"One last round on me before they go," he said.

Eliza and the other barmaids got to work, refilling all the mugs one last time. The mercenaries stayed at the bar, watching them drink. It was not until the common room had emptied that they went and sat at their table.

* * * * *

Aiden leaned his chair back against the wall.

The night was cooling quickly but it was still too hot. His shirt was sticking to his back and his coat was hanging open. He stood and walked over to the open window. The breeze was a godsend.

He held a delicate crystal goblet between the third and fourth fingers of his right hand, swirling the wine gently. It was a delicate wine, a little on the fruity side. A plate of roast mutton cooled on the table. He was not normally fond of mutton their cook had added some interesting spices to it that made it bearable. The innkeeper had sought out his bed hours earlier and the common room was very nearly empty. Only his companions and three serving girls remained.

He spent some time examining the serving girls. There were five girls working in this particular inn but only three were worth looking at. Luckily, those three were cleaning up. Well, two of them were cleaning. He amused himself watching them.

There was the little blonde, he did not know her name, but she was not to his taste. She was a waif, with pale blue eyes and a slender body. She was pretty enough but much too young, probably only thirteen or fourteen summers old.

But Nolan seemed taken by the little nymph. Nolan was not much older than she; just barely sixteen. But Nolan was a warrior, born and raised in the Citadel of the Morning. Nolan may not have been good enough to become a Knight of the Dawn but he was a skilled swordsman and archer.

They seemed an unlikely pairing. She was a timid little thing. But they did look good together, he decided. Nolan was from the Southlands, and was tanned by the sun. He wore his dark brown hair short and was clean-shaven. He was bold, both on the battlefield and with his ladies. He was not a tall man, slender as a sword and just as deadly.

The girl was sitting across his lap, laughing at something he had said. When Nolan noticed Aiden's eyes on him, he raised his tankard in a salute. Aiden smiled briefly and turned his attention elsewhere.

Hanna was more to his liking. She was a bold girl, with a sunny smile and a bell-like laugh. Her dark hair was short, almost boyishly short, but it looked good on her. Her eyes were the rich brown of newly turned earth. She was alternately flirtatious and shy. Her breasts were on the small side, well formed though and riding high on her body. She was slender and lithe.

She swept across the room towards him, bearing a crystal carafe full of wine. She looked up at him from beneath lowered brows and smiled invitingly. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them against her lips. He let her fill the goblet and waved her off. She blushed a bright crimson and went back to the bar.

He watched her swish away and felt his blood heat.

He looked away and his eyes found John. John was no longer sobbing but his eyes were red-rimmed and he was very pale. Aiden shook his head sadly. John had been the Captain's aide de camp. He was not a warrior at all, despite the sword at his belt. He had been lucky to survive that last battle. John wanted to be brave and stay with them but Aiden knew they had to send the lad away.

Aiden watched John sip his ale. He was still a boy really. They would send him home in the morning. And if the boy did not want to go, they would apprentice him here in the town. It would be best for him.

"What do we do from here," David asked.

Aiden turned to face him. David was the same age as him, only seventeen summers. But they were polar opposites in appearance. Where Aiden was fair, David was dark, his skin so dark as to be nearly black. Aiden was blonde. David's hair was black and tightly curled. David also massed probably double what Aiden did.

"I don't know," Aiden admitted. "I really don't."

"How much do we have left," David asked.

"Quite a bit, actually," Aiden said. "One hundred silver crescents, two hundred and twenty-three gold crowns, a couple dozen bits of copper, and thirty platinum imperials."

David was silent for a few moments.

"I was going to either send John home or apprentice him to a craftsman here," Aiden said. "He really shouldn't travel with us anymore. He was never really a Hawk, anyway."

"I agree," David said, "but I don't think I will be traveling with you anymore either."

Aiden nodded, not surprised. "You're entitled to a full third of the treasure."

"I don't want it," David said. "Just give me some traveling money and I'll be on my way."

"Where will you go?"

"North," David said. "The Kalasiens are getting bolder. What happened to the Hawks is proof enough."

"We don't know that they were Kalasien," Aiden said.

"They were," David said. "They had a black stallion in the corner of their Banner. I saw it."

"And?"

"That is the Badge of the Imperial Kalasien Army."

Aiden frowned. "So it's war."

"It will be when the High King learns the Kalasiens are sending mercenary companies 'cross the border."

Aiden untied a heavy pouch from his belt. It was full of gold, perhaps twenty pieces, more than enough to get David to the capitol. He handed it over.

"Good luck."

"May the Fates be kind to you," David said.

David saluted him and walked away, going to retrieve his pack and polearm. Aiden turned back to the window, fingering the pin on his collar. It truly was meaningless. The Hawks were dead and could never be reborn.

"Where's David going?"

Aiden turned to face John, momentarily surprised. He had not heard the youngster approach.

"He's leaving, John. He's going north."

"Why?"

Aiden put his hand on John's shoulder. "That's not important right now. I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"You can't come with us when we leave."

John looked away. "I don't want to go home. I won't."

"You don't have to. I put a pouch in your pack. There's enough money in there to buy you into an apprenticeship. You weren't really meant to be a warrior."

Aiden turned his back on him then, not wanting to see the disappointment and pain in the younger boy's eyes. John turned around and slowly walked away, passing David on the stairs. David said a few words to him and John continued up the stairs. Aiden watched David cross the inn and stop before the fireplace. He threw his black coat next to Jevin's and then continued on. David paused at the door, waved a final time, then disappeared into the night.

He looked over at Nolan, meeting his eyes. Nolan whispered a few words to his waif and she fluttered off to the kitchen. Nolan stood and walked over.

"John and David are going," Aiden said.

"I know."

"What are you going to do," Aiden asked.

Nolan laughed. "We joined the Hawks together," he said. "I'm with you to the end."

Aiden smiled. "Go back to your waif. She's getting lonesome."

Nolan grinned, slugging Aiden in the shoulder. Aiden looked up as John came slowly down the stairs, black coat in hand. John did not look at him as he dropped the jacket into the fireplace and walked to the door. Aiden felt a stab of guilt.

"John."

John looked at him, one hand on the latch.

"Remember...you were a Hawk."

A slight smile brightened John's face, and then he too was gone into the night.

* * * * *

Eliza was more than a little disgusted by what she was witnessing.

Joan was sitting in one of the mercenary's laps. The girl was an orphan, taken in by the innkeeper and his wife. She was a flighty little thing but had never behaved so brazenly before. The mercenary was rubbing her thigh and nuzzling her neck.

If the innkeeper could see what was going on beneath his roof, he would heave the two sell-swords into the street and beat Joan to within an inch of her life. The girl was actually enjoying the pawing, giggling and squirming prettily. Snorting in disgust, Eliza went back to her cleaning.

Joan came by, still giggling.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Eliza seethed.

"Whatever do you mean," the girl asked brightly.

Eliza glared daggers at Joan. "You're behaving like a three copper whore."

Joan's eyes widened as if she had been slapped. The girl spluttered but Eliza cut her off.

"You're practically inviting him to mount you. You're acting like a bitch in heat."

"There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing."

Eliza snorted disdainfully. "You're a silly little girl pretending she's a woman. You have no idea what you're getting into."

Joan's eyes narrowed and her cheeks flushed. "Die an old maid if you will," she whispered spitefully, "but I choose to live."

"You're no better than a Kalasien whore," Eliza said hotly.

Joan turned her nose up and swept into the kitchen. Eliza wrung out her rag, imagining it was Joan's neck, and attacked the tabletop with a vengeance.

"Remember," one of the mercenaries called. "You were a Hawk."

Eliza looked up just as the door swung shut. Only two of the mercenaries remained in the common room. She looked around, confused, and saw Hanna stretching behind the bar. She dropped the rag into the bucket of soapy water and went over to her.

"What happened?"

Hanna shrugged. "Who knows? Two of them just walked out with their gear."

"Do you think they'll be back?"

Hanna shook her head. "No, they won't be back."

"How do you know?"

Hanna looked over at the blonde mercenary standing at the window. "Because of the way he watched them leave."

Eliza followed her gaze.

The mercenary had a slump in his shoulders and was leaning against the wall. He shook his head and straightened. She looked back at Hanna.

"Did you see the way Joan was acting?"

Hanna nodded, polishing the bar.

"I can't believe she's doing that."

"Why does it bother you," Hanna asked. "Are you jealous?"

"Of course not," she scoffed.

"Then why do you care?"

Joan swept past them on her way back to her mercenary.

"She's acting like a whore," Eliza sneered.

Hanna shrugged again. "So? Let her. She's not hurting anyone."

"But..."

"She's not your responsibility."

Eliza looked at Hanna incredulously. Hanna had been married once, to a shepherd. But a rabid wolf had gotten her shepherd and the young widow had been forced to seek work in the inn. Eliza had hoped that Hanna would side with her and chastise Joan. Hanna looked up from the bar and put her rag down.

"I think you're jealous," Hanna said.

"I am not. She's too young to be doing that," Eliza said, outraged.

"She's not much younger than us," Hanna pointed out.

Eliza opened her mouth to protest but Hanna would not let her start.

"You should get back to work. We have to get this place cleaned up."

* * * * *

Nolan laughed and his pretty little waif managed to look insulted.

"It's true," she said indignantly. "You need a bath. You stink."

"There are no bathhouses and the river is too cold, little one."

She turned up her nose. "Then I won't let you kiss me anymore," she said loftily.

"I promise to bathe the moment I am able," he said, moving to kiss her again.

She leaned away. "Good. I put a cauldron of water over the kitchen fire. There's a pair of copper tubs in the back room."

Nolan laughed again and she watched him out of the corner of her eyes.

"I have but the clothes on my back," he said.

"Then give them to me and I will wash them for you."

"You win, little one. Show me where those tubs are."

Nolan met Aiden's eyes as he followed her from the common room. Aiden was watching him and Nolan found that he could not meet his friend's blue-eyed stare for long. Nolan looked away and smiled as he watched her slender hips swish beneath her skirt.

"Will you wash my back for me," he asked.

She looked over her shoulder at him, one delicately arched eyebrow raised. "Maybe...if you promise to behave..."

He smiled and let her lead him away.

* * * * *

Aiden stared out the window.

The night was getting old, more than halfway towards the dawn. Hanna and the other serving girl were still cleaning the common room. He ignored them for the most part. They both sorely tempted him, though he preferred Hanna.

But dark thoughts consumed him. The future loomed ahead of him and he did not know where they should go, or what they should do. They could always join another Company, but he did not know if he wanted to do that. It would feel wrong.

The Hawks were like family.

He could faintly hear the sound of water splashing and a high pitched giggle. He sighed and drew his cloak around his body. The heat of the day had finally dissipated and it was getting chilly. Another loud splash was followed by a laughing protest.

At least Nolan is having a good night.

The serving girl whose name he did not know had crossed to the fireplace and paused, staring at the jackets lying on the wood. She bit her lower lip and slowly walked over to him, stopping well out of arms reach.

She's afraid of me.

He chuckled silently. He was a sight to be feared. His clothes were filthy, torn, and stained with blood. He had not shaved in days and he still wore his sword. Another loud splash made him uncomfortably aware of an itch between his shoulder blades. He itched all over. He sighed.

She still had not come any closer and he could practically taste her fear.

"What do you want," he asked softly.

"I was going to start a fire..."

"And?"

"Well...the jackets..."

He shrugged. "Burn them."

"What?"

He unclasped his cloak and draped it over a chair, not once looking at her. He unbuckled his sword belt and very carefully laid his blade on the table. He could hear her breath quicken. He unclasped his jacket and took the pin off the collar.

"What...what are you doing?"

He turned to face her and she flinched away from him. He held out the jacket.

"And burn this one too. I won't be needing it anymore."

She reached out gingerly and took it from him. He turned away from her and wrapped his sword belt around his waist, clasping it with suddenly trembling hands. He picked up his cloak and pulled it around his shoulders.

"You should bathe," she said softly.

"What was that?"

"I said, 'you should bathe'."

He nodded. "I guess I should."

"I'll heat some more water for you."

"Thank you."

He watched her walk away. Her long brown hair hand been pulled back into a ponytail. She had high cheekbones and startlingly green eyes. She was busty enough, without a hint of sag to her bosom. She was very beautiful and he felt a stirring in his loins as he watched her.

He shook his head roughly and turned back to the window. He refused to allow himself to be distracted, no matter how pleasant the diversion. Besides, she was scared to death of him. He had no chance with her. Hanna on the other hand...

Stop it, you fool. You need to figure out what you're going to do.

He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was so tired. He had not slept well since the ambush and it was starting to wear on him. He was fuzzy headed and his knees felt weak. He forced himself to stand straight and flexed his shoulders, trying to ease his sore muscles.

He heard a door open behind him and turned. The waif came laughing into the common room, her dress wet in places and her blouse sticking to her. Her long blonde hair was dripping wet and he cheeks were rosy.

"Bathe yourself, brute," she laughed.

He shook his head and walked into the room. Three copper tubs were arrayed in the center of the room. A bench sat against the far wall and there was a small stool next to each tub. Scrub brushes and cakes of soap were resting on them. A taper of incense burned in a hanging pot.

Nolan was sitting in one of the tubs, freshly scrubbed. His clothes and boots were gone but his sword lay against the wall, within easy reach. The floor was soaking wet.

"Grab a tub," Nolan said. "The bath will do you good. I feel almost human again."

Aiden unclasped his sword belt, leaning the blade against the wall, close to an empty tub.

"Joan is going to launder my clothes," Nolan said. "If you like, I can have her do yours as well."

Aiden nodded and began to unlace his shirt. He sat on the bench and began to pull off his boots.

"I've been thinking."

"It's a dangerous hobby," Nolan said.

"Can you be serious just for a moment?"

"If I have to."

"I don't think we should join another Company."

Nolan nodded. "You're probably right. The Hawks were pretty unique. We had a good Captain."

Aiden stripped the shirt off and stood. "So we can either go north and join the High King's army or we can sell our swords to the highest bidder."

"Neither option sounds good."

"Do you have a better idea," Aiden asked.

"No."

The door opened and the waif reappeared, carrying a bucket of hot water. She set it down on the floor next to one of the empty tubs.

"I'll bring more water," she promised.

"Aren't you gonna finish washing my back," Nolan called as she left.

She smiled mischievously. "I'm too tired to take care of both of you and it wouldn't be fair to ignore your friend."

"Then bring one of your friends," Nolan suggested.

The waif shut the door, her laughter still lingering in the room. Aiden stripped off his breeches and stood in the tub. He picked up the bucket and dumped the water onto himself. He grit his teeth. The water was near scalding hot but it felt good and sluiced the grime off his body. He picked up the brush and began to scrub, ignoring the pain it caused.

The waif reappeared several times, blushing prettily at the sight of their naked bodies, bringing him enough water to finally scrape away the accumulated dirt and blood. Finally clean, he emptied the tub and let her fill it with clean water. He soaked the heat into his bones, letting it soothe his aches.

* * * * *

Nolan looked over and sighed.

Aiden was sleeping in the tub, his chin resting on his chest. He pushed himself too hard, spent too much time worrying about tomorrow. Nolan preferred to just live, to worry about today. Tomorrow could be neither controlled or avoided, so why worry about it.

He stood and wrapped a towel around his waist.

Joan really was a delightful creature. He fully intended for her to warm his sheets tonight. He desperately hoped that she would. He needed her, needed to feel her warm flesh pressed against his, needed to forget the blood and death that had been the last few days.

He stretched and picked up his sword.

He reached out and grabbed Aiden by the shoulder, shaking him. "Wake up."

Aiden woke quickly, thrashing free of his grip and reaching for his sword. Nolan took a prudent step back.

"Calm down. It's just me. You fell asleep."

Aiden relaxed, slumping into the water. "You startled me."

"I didn't mean to."

Aiden stood, stepping out of his tub. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not too long...maybe a quarter of an hour."

Aiden wrapped a towel around his waist and looked around. "Where are my clothes?"

"Joan took them while you were sleeping."

Aiden picked up his sword, swaying slightly. Nolan waited for him and together they walked into the common room. Aiden started for the stairs. Nolan watched him go. Aiden paused at the first step.

"Go on up without me," Nolan said. "I'll meet you up there."

Aiden nodded and staggered up the steps. Nolan smiled and sauntered over to Joan.

* * * * *

Aiden sat on his bed and pulled the sheets over his legs. None of his travelling clothes were clean. He laid the sword on the floor and placed a dagger beneath his pillow. He wanted to lock and bar the door, but had to wait for Nolan.

He fell back. The bed was too soft to be comfortable but sleep tugged at him. The door opened on silent hinges. He sat up.

"Nolan?"

But it wasn't Nolan. The silhouette was wrong. His hand went beneath the pillow and he grabbed the dagger he kept there. The figure stepped into the room, untying its belt. He saw twinkling brown eyes. A robe was opened and fell to the floor.

"He won't be coming back tonight," she whispered.

The dagger dropped from his hand, ringing on the floorboards. The silhouette closed the door and he heard her cross the room, felt her climb onto the bed.

"Hanna?"

A finger pressed against his lips, shushing him. He closed his eyes and leaned back on his hands, propping his body upright. She straddled his thighs.

"I shouldn't be here," she whispered.

"Then why are you here?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

His stomach lurched. "No..."

Her lips brushed his. Her breath was warm on his face.

"I've never known a man like you before," she whispered, "so young and so old at the same time."

She kissed him, more firmly this time. Her tongue played against his lips, seeking entrance. He crushed her against his chest, meeting her tongue with his, her small breasts flattened against his chest. Her nipples raked his flesh as she squirmed against him. His hand slid down her bare body, running along a slender thigh.

She broke the kiss, licking his cheek. His hands moved up her body, cupping her breasts. Her nipples pressed into his palms. He squeezed and kneaded her flesh, marveling at how perfect her breasts were.

They were the size of large oranges, firm and smooth. He pulled her to him, covering her breasts with kisses, sucking and nipping. Her breathing was harsh and loud, the only sound in the room he could hear over his pounding heart. Her hips ground against his and he could feel his erection rubbing against her vagina, the sheet growing damp where their sexes met.

She slid back down his body, licking his chest and stomach. He collapsed back onto the bed, arching against her mouth. Her nipples lightly scraped his chest and belly. She wove a ticklish trail down his torso and he struggled to breathe. Her tongue circled his navel, drawing for a low cry from him. He ran his fingers through her short hair, urging her lower.

She ran her tongue lower and he bunched the sheet in his fists. Her breath was hot against his throbbing cock. Her tongue darted out, lightly licking the very tip of his organ. He gasped and it seemed very loud in the silence of the night. Her tongue met his head again, running around the sensitive edge and teasing him to greater heights of ardor.

"Gods..." he muttered.

Her mouth closed over him and he half-sobbed. So warm...so wet...she sucked lovingly on the head alone and swirled her tongue around it before lowering her head into his lap. He squirmed helplessly as she slowly moved her mouth up and down his shaft. He had heard many tales of the "elfish art" but never had a woman taken him into her mouth.

It was ecstasy incarnate. She suckled and licked him towards the peak, her tongue playing along the underside of his cock. Then she would stop, lightly stroking him until his ardor faded and then she would begin again. It was an exquisite torture.

Never had he been so controlled by a lover. Always before, he had been the aggressor. Her boldness surprised him, inflamed him. His blood raged and he felt light-headed. He could feel his seed churning within his balls. He was going to explode. He needed a release but she refused to let him go.

Her mouth left him and he had to remind himself to breathe.

He pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely. She submitted for a moment before pushing him back down. He looked at her, helpless to resist, even had he wanted to. Her hands pressed against his stomach and she swung her leg over him, straddling his body. Her hand gripped the base of his shaft, firmly yet gently and he felt the lips of her sex kiss the head of his cock.

She lowered her self onto him; her sex gripping his cock tightly as inch after inch was sucked into her body. Her body sheathed his in a volcanic, wet-velvet trap; so tight he wanted to cry. When her hips finally met his, he had arched his back, burying as much of himself into her as he could manage. She rolled her hips in a slow circle, her cries mingling with his.

She rode him, slowly and at her own pace. He held her hips, attempting to control her but she ignored his grip and took her pleasure from his body. She grabbed his hands, moving them to her breasts. Her hips freed, she began to grind herself against him, rising and falling slowly.

Once again, she tempted and teased him towards the peaks of nirvana only to let him fall short. His hands worshipped her breasts, urging her to greater heights of pleasure. Time and time again, she would become still, savoring the feel of him inside of her.

Four times she reached her own orgasms. She would buck and scream and ride him wildly but never did she allow him to climb those peaks with her. Her passage, already tight as a virgin's, clamped down even tighter and he swore he saw stars but still he fell short of total satisfaction.

Somewhere, he heard a girl moaning shrilly in pain. Was it Joan? The thought of that unripe fruit being plucked drove him to higher heights of excitement. He grit his teeth. He felt like his cock was going to be ripped apart by the pressure building in his balls. It hurt him so badly that he wanted to scream. It felt so good that he never wanted her to stop. He needed to cum, needed to fill her body with his seed.

He pulled her down into another kiss and she stole the breath from his lungs. Liquid fire coursed through him. He could be denied no longer. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She bucked and fought him for control. Even in her frenzy, she controlled him, never letting him reach fulfillment. He let her ride him until she began to slow.

He pulled her body against his and began to roll her. She went willingly, wrapping her smooth legs tight about his body. He plunged deeply and she cried out shrilly as he penetrated her deeply. He pounded his cock into her willing flesh. The bed shook beneath them and her body rocked from the force of his uncontrolled thrusts.

She met him, thrust for thrust, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her teeth grazed his neck and he drove himself into her, trying to rip her in half. He forced himself upright and used his newfound leverage to increase the force and depth of his thrusts. Her body twisted and writhed beneath his assault. He pulled her onto him as he plunged again and again.

Too quickly, he reached the peaks she had denied him all night. Too quickly, he lost control and drove himself into her with a wild abandon. Her cries became hoarse and her nails dug into his shoulders. Her passage clamped around him and she arched like a stung bow.

He cried out her name and finally reached his climax. He began to shoot stream after stream of hot, thick cum into her spasming passage. He filled her with his seed to overflowing and beyond. She was sobbing and he found that he had joined her.

She hugged him close, crushing the breath from him. He returned her embrace and her legs locked around him. Her breathing was ragged and uneven. She kissed his shoulder, his neck.

"Sweet Prophets," she whispered. "I've never felt so complete."

He kissed her neck. She clung to him, her body trembling. She was so warm, seeming to radiate heat. Her tears were hot against his neck.

"Why are you crying," he whispered.

She pushed him away slightly, looking him in the eyes. Her eyes seemed very bright in the moonlight. She seemed to be studying his face.

"I love you," she whispered.

He sat up. "You barely know me," he said.

She sat up. "I know more about you than you might think," she whispered.

He looked at her, his blue eyes very bright and dangerous in the pale moonlight. She ignored it. She looked down at the side of the bed, where his sword lay.

"I saw the crest on your sword," she said. "I don't know what it means...but I know you are a Lord of some sort...travelling in disguise."

"I am no Lord."

"So you say..."

He climbed out of the bed and stalked to the window, looking out at the small town. She covered her nakedness with the sheet. She watched him.

"I am no Lord," he repeated. "If it was your plan to seduce a Lord into taking you out of this miserable little town, you wasted your time and charms."

She recoiled as if he had slapped her. He turned to face her once more. His face was hidden in shadows but his eyes were bright. She could not meet that piercing gaze.

"I would still have come up here if you were a peasant," she said softly.

"Liar." His voice was flat.

She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. She climbed out of the bed and retrieved her robe.

"I gave you the most precious gift I could," she said bitterly.

"You were no maiden," he said scornfully.

"No...I am a widow." She looked back at him; her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I gave you my soul. I forsook my vows and my church to be with you tonight."

Before she could take a step, he had her by the arm.

"You know that I will not stay here," he said, his voice hard.

"And I know you won't take me with you," she whispered. "And I know that you are more than you pretend to be. I can see it in your eyes."

His manner was suddenly soft and he stroked her cheek. She pulled him back down onto the bed, her body a willing vessel for his. Sometime near dawn, she fell asleep. He was awake for a while longer, her body hot and sweaty against his. When he finally drifted off to sleep, Hanna was still warm in his arms and forever locked in his heart. Somewhere far away, a rooster crowed its greeting to the rising sun.

* * * * *

Nolan ran his hand down Joan's slender little body.

He smiled as she arched and turned her body into his hand. She was like a kitten, begging to be stroked. Her skin was like clotted cream, so pale and smooth. Her breasts were so small, gently sloping mounds. They were still firm with youth, not fully matured, and her nipples were little pink nubs crowning them.

Her hips were still narrow and only a light fuzz of curls obscured her sex from his view. He placed his hand on her lower stomach and she stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyelids fluttered. His grin widened.

She was a virgin. He had thought she was but it was never a safe bet when dealing with a tavern wench, no matter how young she was. He slid his hand lower and she squeaked. He marched his fingers through the soft hair covering her mound. Her breathing was very loud and he could see her begin to get more than a little frightened. He removed his hand, unwilling to scare her off.

He kissed her. Her mouth tasted of fruits and honey. He played his tongue in her mouth, finding her tongue and engaging it. Her body relaxed and then melted against his. He cupped her firm little ass and pulled her more tightly against him. His "sword" rubbed against her pubic hairs; the fine curls tickling him to a hardness he had never experienced before.

One of the Hawks had craved young girls, the younger the better. Nolan had not understood that particular fetish, but he had to admit that there was something intoxicating about Joan. She was just barely entering into her womanhood. Her body had not yet really begun to mature. He was not only opening her body for the first time; he was taking her innocence.

He rolled her onto her back and straddled her hips. Her eyes were wide and locked on his erect sword. He smiled down at her. He knew the fear she had to be feeling. He was impressively endowed. But he was also very skilled and she would look back fondly on this night for the rest of her life.

He remembered the etiquette instructor who had likened sex play to swordplay. It was not brute strength that counted; you needed skill and a deft touch. The parry and thrust of a rapier duel was more elegant than the bashing of a two-handed sword brawl. And when dueling an untried opponent, the first blood was most important.

He was her first opponent and the first blooding was going to be exquisite for them both.

He kissed her lips, then her chin, before moving lower. He made a slash at her breasts, his tongue circling her left breast. He made a stronger pass, his mouth enveloping the crown, his tongue flicking her nipple.

Her breathy cries urged him on.

He stroked her other breast while he feasted and drove his knee between her thighs. Her defenses were lowered but he continued to toy with her. Only an impatient fool ended a duel before the point was made. He urged her thighs further apart and nestled his body between them. Her downy curls tickled his belly. Her fingers twined in his hair.

His tongue traced a wet path down further and he ravished her belly button, a promise of things yet to come. Her cries had grown faint and whiny. She twisted beneath him. He kissed lower and she shrieked as his lips found her mound.

He made his first foray into the unexplored country between her thighs, tasting her. She mewed and cried, her body taught as a bowstring. Her eyes were unfocused and her cries threatened to wake the dead. He raised his mouth from her and planted a kiss on her inner thigh.

He climbed to his knees, positioning himself between her widely spread thighs. He positioned the tip of his sword against her sex. It was time for this youngster to be blooded. He prodded her sex but her flesh was unwilling and barred his entrance.

He raised her legs, draping them over his hips. He tried once more and her flesh parted for just an instant and a warmth kissed the tip of his sword. He pushed forward and her flesh parted further. A sharp cry escaped her and he breached her gates, the head at last buried within her.

Her vagina clamped around him, almost unbearably tight. His eyes rolled and a low moan escaped him. Nolan drove another inch into her, making her shriek. Her maidenhood sundered, Nolan lunged, burying his sword deeply, just past half his length. Her body convulsed beneath him and she grew even tighter.

He began to withdraw, but her body sucked him deeper as he pulled out. When just the head remained snugly buried, he lunged again. She shrieked and he covered her mouth with his. Her body shook beneath him and she her frenzied pants stole his breath. Her tunnel was too dry, he had moved too quickly.

He kissed her, his hand snaking down between their bodies to tickle her sex. Her pants never slowed but her body flushed. Soon she was responding and a flush of hot wetness enveloped his sword. He withdrew then plunged deep, sheathing all but the last inches of his sword. Her passage was velvety and his way eased.

He stroked in and out of her, building a steady rhythm. He freed her mouth and her breathless moans filled the room. He labored to control himself, lest her unbelievable tightness bring him to climax. He ravaged her mercilessly, making her small breasts bounce and quiver. He poured every ounce of skill he possessed into the taking of this waif.

Soon he had robbed her of speech and even coherent thought as he drove her to orgasm several times. He paused in his plundering and withdrew his sword, stained with her virgin's blood. As delightful as the conquest was, he desired deeper depths.

He raised her legs and hooked her ankles over his shoulders. He positioned himself over her, bending her nearly double. He looked down at her, admiring his new toy. The flower of her sex had been opened and the wet pink flesh beckoned to him. His eyes moved lower, to the puckered bud of her anus.

A Calishite whore had introduced him to the joys of sodomy. Five times he had broken a woman in that manner, but never a woman so young, so tight. He rubbed the tip of his sword against her anus and she moaned deliriously. He was tempted but decided to wait. He moved his sword back to the slit of her sex and lunged, driving his entire length into her on the first stroke.

She screamed and her fingernails raked his back. Again and again, he claimed her body as his own. He bucked his cock into her as hard as he could, crushing the cries from her. He felt his essence rising within his cock and began to fuck her relentlessly. He sheathed his sword a final time, straining against her. He christened her newly opened sex with a flood of semen.

Her legs fell from his shoulders, bouncing on the bed. Her passage still massaged his sword and he was amazed to find his tool still rigid. He felt so drained. By rights, he should have been flaccid. He withdrew his cock from her, wet with blood and semen. He considered taking her yet again but she whimpered when he stroked her flank. He lay beside her and held her close, satiated but still awake.

She sobbed and moaned for a long time and a tiny part of him felt a twinge of guilt for the shattering of her innocence.

* * * * *

Hanna sipped her tea, grimacing at the bitter taste.

The innkeeper's wife had brewed it for her and Joan when they had stumbled downstairs that morning. Her wide smile and the gleam in her eye assured them that they would soon be telling her every sordid detail.

She looked over at Joan. The young blonde's eyes were red rimmed and she sniffled as she sipped her tea. But a smile graced Joan's lips and Hanna shuddered at the thought of what the innkeeper would do if he ever discovered what had happened last night. She looked over at the bar, where Eliza was glaring at them nastily.

She'll never let us live this down. Damn her, why did Joan have to be so loud?

She finished her tea. The innkeeper's wife had assured them that it would prevent a child from quickening. She looked upstairs. Neither mercenary had come downstairs yet. Their laundry would be done soon. She smiled and thought about how young he really looked when he slept.

She looked over at Joan and shuddered again. The girl had tottered like a lame colt this morning. Would she even be able to walk without wincing by this afternoon?

* * * * *

The morning sunlight streamed through the open window and the day was already uncomfortably warm.

Aiden sat up in bed and looked around groggily. He glanced out the window, noting the position of the sun. It was nearing midday and the air was already oppressively hot. He threw off his sheets and walked over to the window, gazing out onto the street. He looked across and his eyes met those of the blacksmith's apprentice. The apprentice looked back at him for a few moments before stalking back into the smithy.

He looked over at the second bed in the room, noting that it has not been slept in. He hoped that Nolan had possessed the foresight to keep his sword with him. Who knew how the innkeeper would react to this? He found his pack and pulled out a pair of worn breeches and pulled them on. He put on his boots.

He picked his sword up by the scabbard. He looked back out the window. When they had first arrived, Nolan had noted that no one in this town bore a weapon of any kind larger than a dagger. Their swords had drawn more than their fair share of stares and fearful glances. He was almost tempted to leave it up here.

He shook his head and chuckled.

He would keep his sword with him. It would keep the towns people at a respectful distance and he felt naked without it. Over the years, it had become an extension of his body and he was loath to leave it anywhere for any reason.

When the door opened without warning, he had the blade half-drawn before he realized it was just Nolan. Nolan eyed the half-drawn blade and smirked.

"Was your performance so pitiful you fear the lady's retribution?"

Aiden laughed and re-sheathed the blade. "No...your performance was so noisy, I fear the Innkeeper's retribution."

Nolan shrugged and collapsed on his bed. "Gods, I'm exhausted."

Aiden shook his head and closed the door.

Nolan propped himself up on his elbows. "When are we leaving?"

"As soon as the weather breaks," Aiden said, pulling a threadbare doublet on.

"Good. I hate small towns. Nothing to do."

Nolan's voice trickled off and is breathing evened. Aiden shook his head and quietly left the room so as not to wake his sleeping partner.

* * * * *

The blonde mercenary was standing at the top of the stairs.

Eliza tried to ignore him but she found that her eyes were drawn to him as he slowly walked down the stairs. He was bare to the waist and his pants were threadbare. His boots were unlaced and his hair was still sleep-tousled. She looked away as he passed her. He walked past Hanna without a word and out the door. The innkeeper's wife watched him go with a gleam in her eyes.

Eliza snorted.

She was as bad as Hanna and Joan. Eliza shook her head as she reconsidered. The old woman was worse. She was encouraging the two of them. Eliza tossed her rag into the bucket and opened the windows. The mercenary was walking down the street, holding his sword by its scabbard.

"Barbarian," she muttered.

She turned around and began to pull chairs off of the tables. She scowled at Joan and Hanna. They had not helped at all this morning and she was more than sick of doing all the work herself. She stomped up to the three cackling whores and posted her fists on her hips. She glared at Hanna and then at Joan.

"Are you two going to help me this morning," she demanded.

The innkeeper's wife smiled, her chins mirroring the expression. "Calm down, dearie. They had a rough night."

Eliza tossed her hair and stomped away.

"Whores," she snarled.

Hanna paled as if she had been slapped and Joan frowned sullenly. Eliza smiled nastily to herself as she went back to work. Conversation at the table stopped. A few moments later, out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Hanna begin to pull chairs off of a table at the far end of the room.

* * * * *

Nolan pulled on his boots and stood up. It felt wonderful to be wearing clean clothes again. He left his shirt unlaced and wrapped his sword belt around his waist. He tucked a dagger into his boot and opened the door. Aiden had been gone when he had woken and he was more than a little upset about it. They were far from home and the Hawks were dead. They had to watch each other's backs.

He strode down the stairs and stopped dead in his tracks at the bottom.

Aiden was standing at the window but he looked different and it was more than just the new clothes. Nolan approached him slowly. Aiden was wearing jet-black breeches and his boots were polished. His bell-sleeved tunic was made of fine linen and was excellently crafted. His sword was freshly oiled and the hilt shone. A dark blue coat with gold scrollwork on the cuffs was slung over the back of a nearby chair. A crystal wineglass was held carelessly between the third and fourth fingers of his right hand.

He looked like a Lord.

There had been a lot of rumors flowing through the Hawks about Aiden. He had appeared one night, cloaked and hooded, bearing a scroll for the Captain of the Hawks. Nolan remembered the jealousy he had felt. He had been forced to prove himself in the Trials. Aiden had handed the scroll to the Captain and had immediately been a Hawk. He wondered which of the rumors, if any of them, were true. He approached but stopped well out of sword's reach.

"Nice clothes," he said softly.

Aiden nodded, not turning around. "They were in my saddlebags."

Nolan walked over to stand next to him. "I noticed the blacksmith's apprentice eyeing you earlier."

"I saw him."

Nolan nodded and sighed. "He might cause trouble."

"Nothing I can't deal with."

Nolan crossed his arms and stared out the window. The wind was blowing lightly but the dust was still being kicked up outside. He shook his head. The apprentice would probably not try anything but the heat made people act funny. Who knew what anyone was capable of in this kind of heat?

"We'll be stuck here for a while," Aiden said. "We can't travel far in this heat."

Nolan nodded. "Any ideas on where we'll go?"

"North," Aiden said. "We have to go north."

"Why north?"

Aiden finally turned to face him and his blue eyes were like ice. "My past and my future are waiting for me."

Nolan looked over his shoulder and saw Hanna standing a few short feet behind them and her heart was in her eyes.

The Assassin

Count Dorian dabbed at his face with a silken kerchief and tugged the collar of his fine coat open. It was dreadfully hot and the small room seemed to absorb the heat. The room itself was claustrophobic, a small bed, a single bedside table and a chair. The single window was open but no breeze stirred in the streets of the capitol. The foul stench of old garbage drifted upwards from the alley the window faced. It was sickening even on the second floor.

Sweat dripped from the tip of his pointed goatee and his mustachios were drooping. He cast a disapproving glare at his burly captain of the guard.

"If this does not bear fruit, I'll have your head on a pig pole," he threatened. He had been sitting in this room the whole of the day.

The burly captain did not even blink.

"I have it on good authority that this is how one contacts the assassin. I contacted the innkeeper of the Raven's Rook and..."

Count Dorian silenced him with a wave of his hand. "You do not need to bore me with yet another recounting this horrid business."

The burly captain remained silent and Count Dorian pulled a small fan from his sleeve. He snapped it open and began to fan himself. The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door and he straightened. Then he heard the coarse laughter of one of the whores and the drunken mumbling of her companion. He deflated back into the chair.

"It's too hot," an effeminate voice whined. "Can't we just go home?"

Count Dorian smiled indulgently at the young man that was lounging on the small bed. Valencio was the son of a minor merchant and absolutely beautiful. His dark hair was artfully curled and oiled. A hint of rouge colored his pale cheeks and his dark eyes were sullen. He was dressed in a scarlet tunic and yellow hose. The look he directed at the count was suggestive and plaintive at the same time.

He glanced at his captain. "Perhaps you would wait outside, Captain?"

The Captain did a very good job of hiding his disgust. "I was given very thorough instructions, milord."

Count Dorian scowled and fanned himself. Valencio flounced back on the bed and sighed dramatically. Count Dorian glanced out the window and instantly regretted it. A filthy mercenary and an even filthier whore were fornicating in the alley, amidst the garbage. He covered his mouth and nose with a scented kerchief. The whole situation was beyond unbearable.

He scowled.

"I still do not understand why you could not arrange matters yourself," he groused.

The captain was impassive. "You wanted the best. This is how he operates."

Count Dorian glanced at Valencio out of the corner of his eyes. He felt a familiar stirring and looked away. He could not afford a distraction. Perhaps it would have been smarter to leave Valencio at the manor. He scowled at the thought of the beautiful young man alone with the brainless butterflies that seemed to flock around him. No, he would not leave Valencio with those young men.

The door opened without a sound, startling everyone in the room. The captain had his sword half-drawn before sliding it carefully back into its scabbard. A cloaked and hooded figure closed the door and waited. Count Dorian felt the bile rising in his throat as he stared at the slight figure.

Blade.

It was a name that sent ripples of fear wherever it was spoken. The most feared assassin in the realm, Blade killed Kings, peasants, and everyone in between. No one knew who he was or where he had come from. More than a few had claimed Blade was demon-spawn, the offspring of a vile fiend and an unfortunate Priestess.

Count Dorian cringed when the hood turned to face him.

"Who do you want killed?"

The assassin's voice was rich and smooth, like smoke blown over ice. His fear melted away and he leaned forward, studying the slight figure. The cloak was concealing but now that he looked more closely, he could see that the slight figure before him was female. He cast a baleful glare upon his guard captain.

"What game are you playing," he demanded. "I told you to contact Blade."

The cloaked woman spoke. "I am Blade."

He began to laugh. The notion was absurd. Blade could not be a woman. It was not possible. He heard Valencio's bell-like laugh. He ignored his guard captain's whispered warning. He stabbed an accusatory finger at the shrouded woman.

"Did Blade send you," he demanded, "or are you playing some foolish game?"

The shrouded woman was silent and that silence grew heavy...oppressive...

"Tell your master that I refuse to deal with flunkies," the Count said.

He waved her away with a negligent gesture. She did not move.

"Are you deaf, wench," he snarled.

"It is a very dangerous game that you play," the shrouded woman warned. "Do not mock me or it will be your own death that you find in this room."

The Count laughed and waved a hand at her.

"Kill her," he commanded his guard captain.

The shrouded woman exploded into motion. She crossed the room faster than he believed possible. Valencio screamed and jumped to his feet. The guard captain began drawing his sword. The shrouded woman was among them. She leapt into the air and planted a small foot into the captain's chest.

They fell together to the floor. The captain landed flat on his back. She landed on her feet, crouching on his chest and blasting the air from his body. A dagger appeared in her left hand and she sent it spinning across the room. Valencio's scream was cut off as the blade pounded into his back. He slammed into the door and slid to the ground. The woman stood. He could see the small knife buried in his captain's chest.

The silence was brittle.

Her hood had fallen back during the very brief violence. Her hair was shorn at shoulder length and very black. Her dark brown eyes were almost luminous in the fading daylight. With the setting sun at her back, she looked like a deadly but beautiful Angel of Death. She advanced to within three paces of him and he cringed back from her.

"Your life is hovering on the edge of oblivion," she said softly. "You have but one final chance to stay my hand."

"Anything," he sobbed. "I'll do anything."

"Tell me who you want killed."

He cringed away from her and fell back onto the bed.

"No one," he sobbed.

Her eyes narrowed and a stiletto appeared in her right hand.

"No," he screamed. "I need you to find my son!"

She paused.

"He ran away," Dorian sobbed. "You're the only one who can help me."

She cast a scathing glance at Valencio's body. "And if he hires me to kill you?"

The Count felt her contempt like a sword wound to the gut. "No...it's not like that," he blubbered. "He's sickly...he ran away with a bard..."

The assassin was silent so he continued.

"It was his mother...she encouraged him to pursue music..."

He choked.

"He met a bard at the last festival...the fool boy got it into his head that he could become a minstrel..."

"Hire yourself a wizard," the assassin said contemptuously.

She turned to leave and he lunged forward, grabbing her sleeve.

"Wait!"

Her cold eyes bored into his and he released her arm, falling away from her onto the bed.

"Please," he begged. "Please help me. I cannot go to the Sorcerer's Guild. My family..."

She turned to leave.

"I'll pay triple your fee."

She stopped dead in her tracks and looked over her shoulder at him.

"What is the Bard's name."

"Frederick Light-Fingers."

The assassin knelt beside Valencio and pulled her knife free of him, wiping the blade on his velvet doublet. "I know who he is. He had a lovely voice."

"Bring my son home."

She walked over to the captain's body and wrenched her knife free from his chest. She wiped the blade clean on his cloak.

"Do you want me to kill the Bard," she asked.

"Yes."

She stood and her eyes bored into his soul. "Do you want him to...linger..."

He nodded. She crossed to the door.

"Have the money ready by sunrise tomorrow. Someone will come for it."

She opened the door.

"Speak of me to anyone and your flame will be extinguished within the hour."

Then she was gone. He trembled as he crept over to Valencio. His beautiful young lover was already cold and his face was locked in a grimace of pain and fear. Count Dorian cradled the dead young man and began to weep.

* * * * *

Inside the Raven's Rook, no one could hear the hidden door open. The noise of the crowd covered even the normal buzz of conversation and the latch on the hidden door was oiled to near silence. But the fat man knew that the door had been opened and that his finest assassin had returned. He guzzled back his ale and watched the kitchen door. He was not disappointed.

The lovely young woman who entered the common room looked like any other barmaid in the Rook. She was prettier and moved with a very subtle grace but there was nothing extraordinary about her. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her dark brown eyes were weary. She balanced a tray above her head and swept across the room to deliver a fresh drink to him.

The fat man smiled.

"How did it go," he asked.

She took his empty mug.

"It's an unusual job," she said. "He wants me to kill a bard and bring his runaway son home."

The fat man grimaced. "What is he paying?"

"Triple my normal fee."

The fat man whistled. "When do you leave?"

"In the morning. I need to talk to Samuel."

The fat man grimaced again. "I'll have a good horse waiting for you."

The girl nodded and returned to the kitchen. He watched her the rest of the night. She was not a very good barmaid. She was violent with customers who tried to take liberties with her. She was rude to those who propositioned her.

He sighed.

She was a difficult one; the most difficult that he had ever trained. She was the best though. That was why he put up with her foolishness. All of his other assassins worked as brothel whores. It was a pity really; she was more than beautiful enough to be a royal courtesan but she refused to lay with any man.

As the Rook closed, he heaved himself up to his feet and waddled upstairs.

* * * * *

Blade walked up the stairs after the Rook had closed. The real barmaids were cleaning. She paused at a nondescript door and knocked once. She waited until she heard a reedy voice reply.

"Enter."

She opened the door and then closed it behind her. She felt her mouth twisting into a sneer and did nothing to curb it. Samuel was lounging on his bed. His red robes were undone to the waist, revealing his skinny chest. Two immature whores lay with him, one on either side. They were stoking his pale flesh and giggling.

They were scantily clad and paraded their unripe charms as they continued to cavort. The brunette had bruises on her back and the blonde had a runny nose. Blade waited until Samuel met her eyes.

"I need your help," she said.

He laughed. "I'm busy. Come back tomorrow."

Her eyes narrowed. "I am chasing Frederick Light-Fingers. I need you to scrye his location."

Samuel giggled. "Tomorrow."

She placed a hand on the hilt of one of her daggers. "Now."

He held her gaze for a few moments before shrugging. "Come back in a half a glass."

Blade left the room, and he was giggling before she had the door closed.

* * * * *

Samuel poured the quicksilver into the brass bowl, dribbling powdered sulfur and chalk into the liquid silver. He began to chant sonorously and the candles in the room flared. The quicksilver began to churn and a picture appeared.

A distinguished looking Minstrel was playing in a grand ballroom.

He sprinkled a few petals into the bowl and the picture became hazy. When it cleared, he could see more of the ballroom; a king and a lovely young queen dressed in robes of deep green. He dropped a small ball of guano into the mix and the view shifted. He smiled when he saw the inlaid tiles on the ballroom floor. He recognized the pattern.

He banished the image with a wave of his hand but did not dispel the enchantment. He whispered a name and a new image appeared. He smiled as it grew in clearer. Blade stood next to a copper tub, brushing out her hair. His breath quickened.

She stripped off her cloak and tunic. He leaned forward. Her undershirt was white cotton and her nipples showed through the damp cloth. He checked to ensure his door was securely bolted. He turned his eyes back to the image in his bowl. Blade was unlacing her boots and pulling them off. He cursed impatiently as the effort of maintaining the spell began to tax his strength.

Blade pulled her shirt over her head but turned as she did so and he cursed. He did not have enough components left to shift the image. He stared at the smooth lines of her back. He silently commanded her to turn but she did not. She began to unlace her breeches and let them slip down her legs. He bit his lip. Her legs were smooth and gracefully curved. He tasted blood when she pulled her undergarment off. Her ass was firm and narrow, showing her lifetime of physical exertion. Then she turned and he crowed in excitement.

Her breasts were small but well shaped. They were delicate looking mounds of flesh, capped by darker nipples. He reached out longingly as he watched her slip into the tub. Then the spell collapsed and he fell limp into his chair. He breathed in great gulps as the strain made his whole body ache. He glanced at the heavy tome resting on his small table. One day soon, he would have the strength and skill to cast the spell he longed for, the spell that would make her his slave.

* * * * *

The horse was saddled when she strode into the stables the next morning. It was a black stallion, a trained heavy-war horse. She smiled as he nuzzled her hand. Of all the horses the Guild owned; he was her favorite. She stroked his nose.

"We'll be travelling together for a while, Shadow," she said softly.

The horse nickered and she pulled herself into the saddle. She put her heels to his flanks and he sprung into motion, cantering down the cobbled streets. The bard was playing in the palace of the sea-faring nation of Neece. It was a long journey overland and she did not want to go by sea. She hated sea travel.

The Swordsman

Brock surveyed the carnage from the hill.

Vultures flocked in droves, covering the field in a moving carpet of black feathers. His beady eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. He prodded his horse with his spurs and rode down the hill at a leisurely pace. The vultures stared at him with greedy eyes and he frowned. He pulled his bow from its hook and then drew a special arrow from his quiver. He fired it over the battlefield and the notched head screamed shrilly.

The vultures took flight in a panicked flock.

He rode down the hill, towards the carnage, wrapping a kerchief around his mouth and nose. The stench was sickening but he had to be sure. He dismounted and let his horse wander away. He knew the roan stallion would not stray too far. He began to turn bodies over, looking for a particular sword. At least he had narrowed it down to the mercenary company his prey had joined. He would not have to search every body. He snarled as he turned over a corpse without a face.

He let it drop.

He stood and wiped the sweat off his brow. He would have to burn his clothes when this was over; a hot bath for him and his horse would probably be a good idea too. He did not want to catch a plague from these rotting corpses. He stood and moved over to the next body. When he turned it over, entrails spilled from the gaping belly wound. He let it drop back down.

I hope you did not meet your death on this field, Alain.

He stood and threw a bloody helmet at a vulture that was venturing too close.

It would disappoint me.

He turned over a body with tufts of blonde hair still clinging to the bloody scalp. It was not him.

I want to kill you.

The sun rose higher in the air as he searched the dead. The heat began to beat down on him and the stench worsened. He cursed as he turned over a body, only to find that it had rotted worse than the others had. He stood and stared at himself in disgust. His leathers were slicked with blood and gore. He looked up and instinctively reached for his sword.

A figure on horseback waited on the hill, watching him. He could see no details, the sun was at the figure's back, but he knew who it was. He grinned. She had just saved him the trouble of hunting her down. He released the hilt of his sword and renewed his search.

* * * * *

The sun had set hours ago and the river was cold as ice but Brock just grit his teeth and continued to bathe. He scrubbed and scrubbed with the grainy soap from his saddlebag, wrinkling his nose the harsh smell of the lather. It was a far sight better than the stench that had haunted him all day.

It had taken several hours to scrub away that stench. His clothes were currently burning in bonfire. He heard a noise in the bushes. He dropped the soap and reached out. His hand found the hilt of his monstrous two-handed sword and he unsheathed it, leaving the sheath in the soft mud of the shore.

"I know you're there," he growled.

"You always did have good ears," a soft, girlish voice said.

"Show yourself," he demanded, readying his sword.

He heard the rasp of fine steel against the metal ring that held a blade steady within a scabbard. "Did you really want to fight me with your pants down?"

He snarled. "Where are you?"

"Too close for your comfort I would imagine," she replied. "But I am not here to kill you. If I were, you would have caught an arrow between your shoulder blades."

"Why are you here, witch?"

She laughed a vibrant laugh that he remembered so well. "The same reason you are here. I seek out the Vagabond Prince, Alain. The time has come for one of us to ascend."

He smiled and slipped a little deeper into the river. "Then come, I await you."

She laughed again. "I do not wish to be the Swordmaster of Blue River. That is not a title befitting me."

He narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you here."

"Not for the reason you would wish," she said scornfully. "I propose an alliance...a truce..."

"To what end?"

She chuckled. "Finding Alain. Once we find him, it is every sword for itself."

He chuckled. "And how do we seal this bargain?"

Her laughter was scornful. "I give you my word, Brock. You will get nothing else from me while I live."

He smiled an evil grin. "After I kill you then, I will enjoy the pleasures of your flesh before you grow too cold."

"Only you would derive pleasure from a corpse," she said scornfully. "I'm almost tempted not to tell you what I know."

He tightened his grip on his sword. "What do you know, wench!"

"Alain did not die in this skirmish. He survived and moved south with the remains of the company."

He snarled. "Why did you not inform me of this before I spent the whole day mucking through guts and gore!"

"Because I hate you, Brock."

He heard the bushes rustle and he knew that she was gone.

* * * * *

Brock crouched next to the fire, putting another log on.

He was clad only in a loincloth and still his skin shone with a slick coating of sweat. It was far too hot; already the minstrels and heralds were referring to this season as the Burning Summer. He would have gone without the fire but he needed to cook his dinner. He hated raw rabbit. He turned the spit and leaned away from the flames.

"I know you are out there," he called. "Come join me by the fire."

Silence answered him. He laughed.

"I know you're there," he said conversationally. "You might as well come out."

The bushes rustle and a slender figure appeared just beyond the edge of the firelight. "You never cease to amaze me, Brock. How did you know?"

He grinned. "I could smell you. You shouldn't wear perfume when you are stalking someone."

She laughed. "I'm not wearing perfume, Brock."

He frowned. He could smell her perfume, a hint of northern orchids on the heavy air. His nose never lied. Then he saw a second shadow coalesce behind her.

"Who's your friend," he asked pleasantly.

"No one you want to know, Brock."

He stood up and stretched, giving them a good show. He had worked with heavy blades his whole life and it showed in his powerful arms and shoulders. His chest was sheathed in layers of hard muscle and his waist was deceptively slender when compared to the rest of him. Heavy muscles defined his legs.

"No need to preen, Brock. We aren't impressed."

He relaxed and reached out. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword and he lifted the massive blade. He grounded the point and rested his hands on the crossguard.

"Why are you here?"

"Just checking on you," she said. "And once again, I find you with your pants down."

"All in hopes of you joining me," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"Hades would freeze over first, Brock," she said. "I prefer my men to be prettier."

Brock glared at her, feeling his blood begin to boil. He lowered his head, raising his eyes, a bull about to charge. He had been sensitive about his looks his whole life, for good reason, too. He was an ugly man, grown from an ugly child. His teeth were crooked and his nose had started as an ugly lump; made more so by countless breaks from countless brawls. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.

He heard the rasp of steel and a slender blade appeared in her hand.

"Careful, Brock. You don't know what you are getting into."

The ice in her voice froze him in place and he saw the second shadow step out from behind her. The second form was aiming a crossbow at him.

"Sleep well, Brock. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Then they were gone. He snarled and drove his blade deep into the earth.

"I'll have you," he vowed. "One way or another, you'll be mine."

He returned to his fire only to find that his rabbit needed to be turned again.

* * * * *