Diadem of Arrows (closed for hzilfiger & Cate_Archer)

[Cate_Archer]

Map


Lady Sione Rall cursed, using a few choice words that were more likely to be in the vocabulary of a sailor than a noble lady from one of the oldest Houses of Ivalon. Standing behind her, Captain Idran raised an eyebrow in surprise at the shapely backside in front of him. He had served House Rall all his life and had known Sione since she was a child and had been the head of her guard for most of Sione’s adult life. He had never heard her curse. Captain Idran had seen her angry before, but it was usually a cold and directed anger, not an emotional outburst like now.

Sione crumpled the letter in her hand and almost flung it away before she caught herself. She took a deep breath and turned to face her Captain, the fading sunlight catching her golden hair. Her green eyes still flashed with anger, but she calmed herself and spoke softly. “Captain Idran, how soon can you get me to Farennor?”

Another surprise. Idran blinked, a bit startled. “Farennor, my lady?” It bodes ill for House Rall if Lady Sione thought of leaving the capital city and returning home to Farennor. The last few days were the worst he had seen in his long service. And while he was only a mere soldier, he had been around nobles and politics long enough to know that Lady Sione and House Rall’s position in the court was precarious.

It had all started when Sione introduced a new tax law for debate in the council. The law called for increasing the taxes on merchants and traders, which would raise two legions dedicated to defending the northern borders and the eastern ports from raids from Deowan. While new taxes would always make the merchants protest, they too would benefit from the protection the new legion would offer. Already they were paying exorbitant amounts of coin to mercenaries from protection or in bribes to the raiders. Sione found it funny that most of the time, the mercenaries hired to protect the ships and caravans from Deowanian raiders turned out to be from Deowan too. It would be much better to spend that coin on beating back the raiders. And as one of the oldest Houses in Ivalon, and being based in the north, House Rall would have the task of raising the legions. And some of the coin would flow into House Rall’s coffer and bolster its dwindling fortune.

Sione had expected opposition to the law. Some minor southern lords were still very much involved in the mercantile business, and the new taxes would bite into their wealth. Of the major Houses, Beddow and Istol would oppose her out of principle. They were the oldest and the most enduring of House Rall’s opponents. But the smaller Houses that supported them would be swayed. And she only needed the support of the other major Houses to get enough votes to pass the law in the council. Even before she formally introduced the law, Sione had sounded out several of the lords. Lord Penry Lunos had gladly thrown his backing behind her – House Lunos was House Rall’s oldest supporters, though they now had little influence. Then Sione had sounded out Kyfin Lauret too, though she did not get a definitive answer from him. She had a feeling that he was still smarting over her latest rejection of his marriage proposal. But she was confident that once Kyfin’s did his numbers, he would back the law. After all, the weapons and armaments for the new legions would come out of his mines, forges and shipyards. Not only that, a few days after Sione had sent over the proposed law for Kyfin to study, a large number of recruiters looking for men to work in the mines and shipyards had descended upon the southern cities.

With confidence the law had enough backing to pass, Sione had formally introduced the law in the council. As expected, Lord Glyn of House Istol and his lackey Lord Calcas of House Beddow stood in opposition. What was unexpected was the crowds. It was customary for crowds to gather in the forum outside the council house to hear the debates and discussions. It was especially true for a tax law. But the size of the crowd was surprising. Some of the old-timers, frequenting the forum, said they had never seen such a crowd. Except for the execution of some noble. The crowd seemed to consist of people who were opposed to the law.

On the second day of debate, a group had pelted Sione’s carriage with rotten vegetables. Then they followed her carriage to her mansion on the other end of the city. They had stayed outside the walls, chanting their opposition to the law. That had made Captain Idran wary. He had sent a few of his men disguised as ordinary folk into the city to discover why there was such vehement opposition. It was not hard to find out why – in several inns and taverns all across the city, there were men paying folk to go out and swell the crowds opposing the law. While Idran could not determine who was backing these men or why, the situation reeked of noble intrigue. He was sure that Istol or Beddow was funding these men, though both of them working together was more likely. When Idran reported his findings to Sione, she delved into her diminishing funds and had his men go out and recruit supporters for her side.

On the third day, the crowds were even larger. Parts spilt out of the forum and into the surrounding streets. Even before the council members arrived, there were a few violent scuffles. At the start of the council meeting, Caradoc Rees announced that there would be no more debate, and the law would be immediately put to the vote, for there were fears that the longer the debate went on, it might lead to violence. None of the lords disputed it, though Sione almost did when she saw the smug looks on the faces of Glyn and Calcas. But she was confident the law would pass and voiced no dissent.

The council assembled, and Caradoc Rees called for the vote. As per tradition, the northern Houses voted first. Sione and Lord Penry were called upon and voted for the law. Then the nobles from the minor Houses attached to Rall and Lunos. Then Rees called upon eastern nobles – Istol and Beddow, along with their allies, voted against the law, though several of the other nobles voted for it. Then the western nobles were called upon, and Sione allowed herself a small smile. It was a common trend in the council – House Rall and its allies would vote for one side. Istol and Beddow and their lackeys would oppose them. Then House Lauret would break the deadlock, and the remaining Houses would follow Lauret’s lead as most of the remaining western and southern lords were indebted to House Lauret, and Kyfin Lauret could always call upon them for favours.

Kyfin Lauret stood up in the hall, his voice deep and resonant. “Nay.”

There were a few loud gasps behind her. Across the hall, Glyn and Calcas cheered. As Sione stared at Kyfin Lauret dumbfounded, he gave her a sardonic smile and sat back down. Caradoc called for order and resumed calling the vote. It went as it did – the other Houses followed Lauret and voted “Nay.” The forum old-timers called it a drubbing for House Rall. When the voting was done, more than two-thirds of the council had voted against the law.

Sione would have gone to confront Kyfin. But as she moved across the hall, shouts and screams erupted from outside the council house. Later on, no one was sure how the fracas in the square started. In the chaos that followed in the council chamber, Captain Idran had escorted Sione out through the back entrance. As the vote went on, he had gotten nervous as he observed the crowds, and his instincts told him to secure an escape route for her. The Captain had taken her to the docks on the southside of the city. He had secured an inn and a dozen guardsmen as Sione’s bodyguards.

The fighting had begun in the forum shortly after the end of the vote. Then the violence had spilt over to the streets. A fire had started in one of the market squares nearby, followed by a mob ransacking a merchant guildhall. A few more fires followed as the mobs moved through the city. House Rall’s holdings in the city were targeted – Sione’s mansion was among those ransacked and burned.

For the past week, they had been hidden away in the inn near the docks of Tovale. While the mobs had been dispersed by the Royal Guard; supporters of House Rall had been attacked in the street. Since the first day, Sione had been trying to rally what remained of her supporters, but most had fled the city. Then came the rumours from the palace that the Queen held Sione responsible for the violence in the city. Even though it was only the Queen’s private feelings and there was no public declaration, it was a blow to her. The news had spread among the nobles, and more of them broke their alliances with House Rall. Then came the letter from Elgan Sabet.

When Sione had left Farennor, she had left lord of House Sabet to rule Farennor while she was in Tovale. The news of the debacle had reached Farennor – no doubt carried by swift messengers hired by House Beddow. A few of the minor houses in Farennor still had some allegiances to House Beddow. They had started to agitate, for they believed that the influence of House Rall was waning. Elgan wrote that while he was certain that if the situation descended into violence, he could deal with it. But if Sione were to return to Farennor, her presence would deter most except the stringiest of the agitators. It would not do to be here in Tovale, trying to hold together her vanishing support while her city fell to her enemies. It was time, Sione thought, to make a strategic retreat.

“Yes, Captain, Farennor.” Sione held up the crumpled letter. “Lord Sabet writes. It seems that House Beddow is making a move on Farennor, given what has happened here. Lord Sabet thinks my being in Farennor will serve House Rall much better. And I agree with him. So, Captain, how soon?”

Captain Idran nodded. “Yes, my lady.” He thought for a moment. “It would take only a day by sea. But only if we don’t get intercepted near Zralo or at Zeka, I am sure they would have already received orders to delay you.”

Sione raised a questioning eyebrow at her Captain. “You sound very certain about that, Captain.”

Idran gave a small smile. “I am quite good at my job, my lady. There are watchers on the street, keeping a close eye on the inn. At least two of them are known to be in House Beddow’s pay.”

Sione grimaced. “I imagine that would make leaving the city difficult.”

“Yes, but we can deal with that. The overland route will be the best with a small escort on horses. We can be in Farennor in two days.”

“Good, Captain. Please see to it. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

***

Captain Idran spent the night making arrangements for departure, hiring horses and a carriage. Lady Sione boarded the carriage at dawn and headed towards the northern city gate escorted by eight guardsmen. The watchers stationed around the inn followed.

When Captain Idran was certain the last of the watchers had left the street near the inn, he, along with a guardsman, escorted Lady Sione out of the backdoor of the inn. They headed down the street to the stables. She was dressed in plain clothes – a woollen gown with a hood hiding face and golden hair. Her usual clothes had been used to dress the maid who boarded the carriage. Her bodyguards were too dressed in plain clothes instead of armour. Only their swords stood out, though, since the riots, there were men armed with swords in the street, and no one paid them much notice.

At the stables, two more guardsmen were waiting – they were plainly dressed too. The group headed to the east gate; the Captain planned to go east then cut through the forest to head north to fool anyone following. However, he felt that the distraction provided by the carriage would be enough. The carriage was to make a circuit around the city and return. By then, Lady Sione would be long gone.

They left the city without incident and went through the forest as planned. The journey north was uneventful. They only made brief stops to rest the horses and meal at midday. The weather was good for riding, and they made good time. That night they stopped near the watchtower, the Gwenael River. Captain Idran decided it would be best to cross mixed in with the day’s crowds in the morning. House Istol held the crossing, and the guards would question anyone who attempted to cross the bridge at night. It wouldn’t do for Lady Sione to be spotted.

They crossed the river without hassle, though Idran thought he saw a flash of a spyglass at the top of the watchtower following them as they passed north. But no riders came out of the tower to chase after them. They crossed the second bridge shortly before noon and headed for the main road leading to Farennor.

This was going to be Captain Idran’s least favourite part of the journey. The northern forests were a wild and treacherous place for travellers even in the best of times. Brigands and bandits roamed the forests despite patrols. And every now and then, a band of Deowanian raiders sneaked over the northern mountains to raid the villages around Farennor. Idran hoped that the group was small enough to avoid any unwanted trouble on the road. They didn’t look like wealthy travellers, though the horses might prove tempting targets. But luckily, most bandits preferred to waylay those carrying gold and jewels. Lady Sione wore none of her jewellery – all of it was packed away in a saddlebag along with all the coin they had.

The road through the forest was rough. Sione was not used to riding on such tracks. And the saddle was harder and more uncomfortable than what she was used to riding. After reaching Farennor, Sione had no plans to ride a horse again any time soon. Once they got to the city and the immediate business was done, she would have a proper bath and sleep in a proper bed. Though she had a feeling that sleeping would be the second thing she did once she was alone in bed with Elgan. She missed his company while in Tovale, and she had to make it up to him for not bringing him along. He had ambitions of rising high among the nobility and felt that he might not get that chance by leaving him to rule Farennor. And now, he would be tainted by his association with her. She had a lot to make up to Elgan.

Lost in her thoughts about Elgan, she barely noticed the tree trunk across the road as they turned a corner. Sione had scarcely the time to react, pulling the rein. Her horse almost threw her off, but she managed to stop it before they ran into the trunk. Her escort, too, barely managed to stop.

Sione turned towards Captain Idran, just in time to see an arrow sink to the fletching in his chest. There was another flash of white that sped past her and buried next to the first one in her Captain’s chest. Captain Idran slowly toppled off his horse. Then she heard a yell, and Sione saw a man rise from behind the trunk and scramble over it. He jumped towards her, reaching for her reins. Sione veered her horse to the side. The mare stumbled as the man into its side. Sione lost the reins and slipped sideways off her saddle.

Now Sione could hear the shouts and yells coming from the forest around them, and more arrows whizzed through the air. One of her guardsmen ran to her, his sword drawn. He stabbed the man who tried to grab her horse, helped Sione up, and pushed her towards the forest. The other two guardsmen were still on their horses, trying to cover them from the archers. Then one of them cried out and fell off his horse, an arrow in his neck, and the animal bolted.

The second guardsmen leapt off his horse and joined the man with Sione, and both of them turned to face the dark figures coming out of the forest from the left, steel glinting in their hands.

As the bandits approached, Sione heard the sound of snapping twigs behind her. Sione gasped as pain shot through her scalp. A firm hand grabbed her by her hair, pulling her head back. She felt cold steel against her throat as the man holding her pulled her against him.

“Boys, I suggest you drop your sword.” Said the man holding her in a genial voice. “Or this lady might get her throat cut.”

 

[hzilfiger]

Tighran, leader of the Black Hand, waited. He felt, as always in situations of extreme prejudice, as if he occupied some other body. His senses seemed amplified as if he had just taken a vial of khat.

The scratch-scratch of branches overhead as they moved in the breeze. The crunch of earth underfoot. The play of filtered light on the bare steel. The moans of dying men. Even the scent of the guards left alive, rank with fear.

He waited. And, as he did so, he became aware of the woman clutched to his chest. Even through the wool of her gown and the leather of his armour, she seemed to radiate heat. Her breath, hotter still, played fast and strong over the hand that held the dagger to her neck. He could feel the throb of her pulse through the blade. Her hair against his cheek smelled of violets but the moist heat of her body rising up to his nostrils carried the tang of sweat, like a mare after a gallop.

Tighran drank it all in. And waited.

Narek was first to step out of the undergrowth, face masked, brow furrowed, the short-bow drawn to full stretch, arrow aimed straight at the nearest guardsman. Three more of The Hand followed suit, sweeping across the broken earth, two with bared blades, the third with a crossbow raised to the shoulder. The Black Hand formed a half-circle with Tighran, the woman and the guards at their centre.

The guards' gaze flicked back and forth, from the bandits surrounding them to each other, to Tighran and his captive. One guard, blonde and young and slight, shook his head at the other. The other, forty if he was a day and bearing a scar on one cheek, urged something in a growl.

"Don't be stupid," Tighran said. He pressed the edge of the blade against the woman's throat. She let out a small gasp, almost stopped breathing. "Think of the lady."

The young guard let his sword fall and raised his hands. The other spun towards Tighran, sword swinging back. The guard took one step before his head jerked back and the blade thumped to earth. The guard slumped to his knees. The crossbow bolt had taken him in the back of the neck - its point bobbed up and down above the man's Adam's apple as the guard tried to scream. Blood spurted forth in arcs as the guard fell onto his face.

Tighran side-stepped neatly, pulling the woman closer to him. He escaped most of the splatter but felt something warm and liquid splash across his knife hand.

It was over. And it was about time.

Of all the jobs The Black Hand had done over the years, this one had been the most tedious in the making. The bird bearing the summons had arrived three weeks ago. It had taken a week to assemble The Hand, another to make the trek from Deowan.They had barely made it in time for the first meeting in The Mermaid's Cunny, a dive at the northern end of the port that only the hardest or lowest ever chose as their destination. The proprietor had done no more than make eye contact with Tighran as he entered then indicated with the merest flicker the furthest corner, half in shadow from the kegs stacked by the bar.

The emissary had stood out like a sore thumb from the moment he entered. Not only was he too well-dressed, he was unarmed. And he still had all his teeth in his head. The man clutched his cloak to him as he almost ran from the bar to where Tighran waited. As the man sat down, Tighran cast around. Five pairs of eyes met his from the other tables around the room.

The emissary was sweating freely though the proprietor had barely stoked the large central hearth into flame a half-hour ago and the sea wind still cut through the gaps in the woodwork. The man was fifty and well-fed, his boots calfskin and his cloak lined with purple silk. His hands were fat and soft and every other finger bore a ring. Very fine fingers. Very fine rings.

The talking hadn't taken long. The emissary had done much of it, tripping over himself, first with apologies, then with flatterings. Tighran listened to it all without blinking.

"Get to it," he said. "It's getting dark. And you need to get home. The darker it gets, the less likely you'll make it back with all your fingers."

The man gulped, his double-chin wobbling. "I've got guards," he said. "Two. Outside."

"Even with two," Tighran replied, "your odds aren't that much better."

The bones of the thing sounded firm. They agreed to meet the next evening.

"But not here," Tighran said as the man rose to leave. "There's a warehouse off Mercantile Street, the east end. It bears the crest of a seahorse and a kraken. Know what that is? A kraken?"

The emissary nodded. "Yes."

"The alley around the back. There's a door. It'll be unlocked. Two hours past dusk. Leave your guards in the street. And I'll expect half of the fee. In coin. Sovereigns. And I need a portrait of your target. Something small that can be rolled up. Don't bring it framed with a picture hook. Can you arrange that?"

The man looked troubled. "The money, yes, but the portrait-"

"You look like a man of means. Just see to it."

When the man had left, Tighran caught the proprietor's eye again and nodded. The proprietor nodded back. The urchins the proprietor had hired returned an hour later. Tighran ordered soup and bread for them. They chattered to him as they ate. It was a messy business, their eating, but their tale was neater and for that each received a coin.

When the emissary reappeared the next evening, he had dressed better. His clothing was still too rich but gone was the velvet and purple. Instead, he wore hunting leathers, edged with fur. And he had a dagger at his belt. He'd walked in confidently enough but stopped in his tracks once his eyes had adjusted to the bare light cast by the single torch. Even in the shadows, the forms of the Black Hand, scattered about the expanse of the warehouse floor, on crates and behind them, were unmistakable.

The emissary sat gingerly on the crate Tighran gestured to, dusting it off first with a handkerchief. Silk. Tighran spat, then waited.

"I have the money," the man began. "And the portrait." He slipped the satchel off his shoulder and laid it on the table between them.

"Excellent," Tighran replied. "Except there's a problem. The fee's gone up. About three times."

"What?" The emissary's eyes bulged. "But, but that's unacceptable! It's high enough as it is. Far above what we were told was the rate for such a thing. Three times more is-"

"Is the correct rate," Tighran said. He leaned forward, eyes glinting. The emissary slid back, wincing as a splinter embedded itself in his left buttock. "The correct rate when the customer is a member of a noble house. And not the advertised second wife of a rich merchant wanting rid of an inconvenient step-daughter."

The emissary's jaw dropped. He said nothing. He glanced to the left then the right as the rest of The Black Hand got to their feet.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Tighran said. His grin had disappeared.

It was not. The rest of the money arrived by noon the next day, delivered this time by a brace of men at arms, soldiers clearly, despite their attire. The captain's lip had curled as he handed the satchels over.

"Make sure you do a good job," the captain had said. "I was told to tell you that. Make sure."

Tighran had nodded. "Count on it. But tell your master he needs to do his bit. As agreed. We will wait at the agreed place. For one week from the agreed date. There will be no change of date, no postponement, no adjournment. Your master needs to make things happen here, at the right time, for his coin to earn him his due."

The Hand had left the city the very next hour, each taking their own route and crossing the Gwaenel separately. They convened at Huntsman's Rise, a wooded hillock that rose out of the forest, a spot they had used before. There had been a hunting lodge there once but now all that remained were ruins, the roof having blown off in a gale years before and the timbers racked with mould. The clearing was studded with young saplings, rooted from the oaks and chestnuts that ringed the it.

They had taken the time to prepare, scouting out the best spot for an ambush. They had made half the necessary cuts into the trunk of the tree they had chosen. Once the rider arrived with notice that their target was en route, it was a matter of moments to topple the tree and take their stations.

"Alive." Tighran's final word just before they dispersed to their stations. "I need the girl alive. Make sure of that." The Black Hand had simply nodded then disappeared into the undergrowth.

And now the thing was done. Tighran lowered the blade from the woman's neck, sheathed it then spun her round by her shoulders.

Pretty, he thought. No, more than pretty. Pretty's a word for a whore who looks better than the two crowns you paid her to suck your cock. The word for this one is beautiful.

It was her. That much was clear, even if the portrait had not done her justice. The painting was a fair rendition but had been hastily done, the strokes broad and unflattering. It did not capture the glimmer of green in the now-wide eyes, the lush fullness of the now-quivering lips, the opalescent sheen of the now-sweat streaked skin. Her hair in the painting had been the colour of egg yolk; in life it was the colour of flax. He reached out with a hand and tugged the bindings off. She gasped as her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

His glance slid lower. There was a streak of blood across the base of her neck, between the collarbones. The dead guard's throat blood, trailing down between the swell of her breasts in rivulets. Her nipples, he saw, were erect, tenting the fabric. Her chest heaved. Her breath was hot on his face. Sweet and hot.

Without thinking, his right hand reached for the neck of the gown. His index finger indented her skin and swiped the blood stain off. He wiped his finger clean on the gown, just above her left nipple. Her flesh was firm under his touch, yielding only ever so slightly.

"There," he said, with the hint of a smile. "That's much more ladylike."

 

[Cate_Archer]

For Sione, it felt as if hours passed as the man held cold steel against her neck. Her two guardsmen were outnumbered, yet for a moment, Sione thought they might still have a chance. After all, these were trained soldiers facing off against bandits. But then the younger guardsman dropped his sword to the ground and raised his hands. The other man moved, trying to slash with his sword at the man holding her. Sione heard a sound – a sharp twang, followed by a meaty thud. The spray of dark red blood seemed to swirl in the air in front of her slowly. Warm, wet droplets splashed across her neck. The guardsman seemed to be looking straight into her eyes as he fell forward into the mud.

Before Sione could get her thoughts in order, a rough hand grasped her shoulder and spun her around. The grim-looking man facing Sione was a head taller than her with blue markings across his head and face. Sione was too shocked to react as he reached forward and grabbed at the tie holding back her golden hair. Her hair flowed over her shoulders as he studied her face. The man reached lower, running a finger through the blood on her neck. Sione took a deep breath as wiped his fingers almost over her breasts.

“There. That's much more ladylike.” The man smirked at her. Sione only stared at him.

It took a moment for Sione to register what he had said to her. Ladylike. This bandit knew who she was. Or had he guessed from her looks? That seemed unlikely; Sione was dressed in plain woollen clothes, the same any ordinary village woman might wear, though if you looked closely, you would see that the wool was of a much higher quality. But she doubted a bandit could tell the difference. And she wore no jewellery or had on her person anything that would identify her. All her jewels were packed away in her saddlebags. Either the man was very astute, or he had some knowledge of her. That thought frightened and disturbed her.

Sione pulled away from his touch. “Who are you?” Sione finally managed to say. She was quite proud of herself for keeping any stammering or fright out of her voice. “What do you want?”

 

[hzilfiger]

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Tighran shook his head. Always the same questions.

"There'll be time enough for questions and answers later," he replied. Over his shoulder, he called to Narek. "See to her."

Sione and the surviving guardsman were gagged and bound, hand and foot. Their boots were removed to make flight on foot difficult. Within the space of a half-hour, The Black Hand had cleared up the residues of the skirmish. They used ropes and the guardsmen's horses to haul the tree off the path. Others moved across the path, picking up arrows and kicking dust over spilt blood. Once done, the corpses were lashed to their horses. As they moved off, Tighran looked over their work.

It was good enough, he thought. A ranger or a stalker would pick up the signs but he wasn't expecting anyone to follow quite so soon. And the air smelled of rain. That would wash away much of what they couldn't.

It was dusk by the time the group picked their way through the wooded slopes to Hunstman's Rise. Markhan, the Hand's cook and supplymaster, already had a fire going in the ruins of the old lodge, in the single corner that still had a roof over it. The horses were tethered out of sight then the bandits and their captives made their way to warmth. And food. A light rain had already started to fall, rattling off the ancient tiles. The light filtering through the gaps in the brickwork was grey.

Sione was placed on the floor in one corner, the young guardsman across the fire from her. Their gags were removed but their hands remained bound. The saddlebags were thrown in a heap.

The cook placed a bowl in their hands. The aroma was rich.

"Eat," said the cook, a short, round man with a salt-and-pepper beard. "Salt ham and split peas. It's been boiling for hours. Family recipe. Spiced with marrowroot and anise. It'll warm you up."

Once they had eaten, and drunk spring water from the leather flasks, Tighran sent the remaining men out to their stations, wrapped up in sealskin cloaks against the wet.

"Eyes open," he said as they headed out. "Just one more night and we're home free. Don't slacken up. Set three watches. Those not on the first watch, strip the corpses. Divide up anything of value. Bury the rest. And if you find anything I should see, bring it to me."

The cook tossed another log onto the fire then gathered the bowls and disappeared into the wet. Now, it was just the four of them, Sione, the young guard, Tighran and Narek, his right-hand man.

"What's your name, boy?" This from Narek. The brigand was older than his master by a decade. His beard was streaked with grey and one eye, the left, was a milky white. He wore leather armour that had seen much use, adorned by a neckpiece fashioned from the fur of a white wolf cub. He prodded the guard with a booted foot.

The guard blinked. He had large grey eyes and features that were so fine they must have come from his mother. "Soltan," he replied. "My name is Soltan." There was a quiver in his voice.

Narek grunted. "Grand name. Name of a king! How old are you?"

"I don't know," Soltan replied. "Twenty, I think. My mother never told me when I was born."

Narek nodded. "At least you know your mother's name. Who do you work for?"

Soltan glanced across the fire at Sione then dropped his eyes. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I was just hired by the Captain to form an escort. Me and the other two. I don't know who the Captain worked for. He didn't say. We didn't ask."

Narek glanced at his boss, shrugged.

Tighran turned to Sione.

"Now, madam," Tighran said. "Now is the time for questions. You asked who I am. Consider me an entrepreneur, a man whose chosen to take his own destiny in his hands. As have these, my compatriots. As to what I want, well, at the moment, I want the truth. The questions are simple enough. Who are you? What is your name? Where are you going? Where have you come from? Why are you travelling through the wilderness with four armed men?"

He leaned in, grasped her chin in one hand and turned her face to his. He could smell her breath again. Firelight flickered in the green of her irises.

"Remember this, though," he said. "Your answers will decide what happens. To you." He pointed across the fire. "And to him. If you don't answer, or if you lie, then I might have to ask him for the truth. But not as nicely. Understand?"

He didn't wait for her answer.

He released her chin and leaned back. "Remember. The truth in your answers decides your fate."

 

[Cate_Archer]

Sione glowered at the bandit leader as he ignored her questions, ordering one of his men to ‘see to her’. That involved getting her hand and foot bound with rough ropes. The rough-looking bandit with a grey forked beard, and one eye shoved a wad of cloth into her mouth, cutting off Sione’s protestations. Then he removed her shoes, leaving her wondering why he had done so. When the bandit shoved her forward, one step on the rough around along the road was enough to convince her that running away barefoot was not an option. Sione had to admit it was a clever way to hobble any prisoners with minimal effort.

The bandit deposited her on the ground next to her surviving guardsman – who was also bound similarly. The young man hung his head low, hiding his gaze from Sione. Sione did not recall his name – he was one of the new men hired by Captain Idran. As the one-eyed bandit moved away, Sione noticed that he was carrying a bow. A glance at the other bandits near the road confirmed it. He was the only man with a bow; the rest carried crossbows or only swords. This man was the one who killed her Captain. Sione glared at the retreating back with anger. No matter what happened, when she got out of this predicament, that man will pay for it.

Sione watched other bandits began clearing the signs of fighting from all over the road. They pulled the felled tree off to the side of the road and carried off the corpses of her dead guardsmen on the horses. She frowned through her gag at the sight. She was not well-informed on how Deowanian bandits – they were Deowanian, Sione ascertained that from their accents – operated, but it made no sense to her that they were hiding the bodies and the aftermath of the fighting. Surely their aim must be to rob what they could and escape into the woods before a patrol from a nearby garrison arrived. But these bandits were taking their time to hide their actions. And so far, none of them had made any moves to search for any valuables they might be carrying. And as far as Sione could tell, they had not even searched the saddlebags of her horse. Sione had a large pack of jewellery hidden in her bags. Which, if discovered, would have elicited some form of excitement among the bandits. Whoever these men were, they were not just ordinary bandits hoping for a quick payday. Something else was going on here; Sione was sure of it.

When the bandits finished hiding their tracks, a bandit came over and lifted her roughly by her arm. He pulled her along to where the remaining bandits were gathered, collecting their packs. As they waited for the other bandits to begin moving through the forest, the bandit reached down with a brutish hand squeezed her buttocks. Sione jumped. She cursed through her gag unintelligibly and tried to pull away. But the bandit held close, laughing. Then someone called over and the bandit let go of her and moved away.

A shortwhile later the group started moving. Sione was bundled along in the middle of the group. Two bandits flanked her on either side to prevent any attempt of escape. Her bound guardsman was escorted along too behind her. As the bandits marched northwest, tracing a path through the forest. They set a fast pace and Sione stumbled along barely able to keep up. Every time she slowed down, one of the men alongside her would roughly pull her along. The trail slowly became steeper as they reached the hills. They were heading towards the mountains and the Ruins of Deldun if Sione had her sense of direction right. They were going away from the border with Deowan, which seemed curious to Sione. Though, Sione had little idea of what lay past Deldun. Perhaps there were mountain paths that led back to Deowan. If not, Sione had no idea what to expect. Very little traffic came from the north to Ivalon since the destruction of Deldun. A few travelling merchants brought stories of barbarians that made the Deowanian look civilised and of great beasts that roamed the desert lands.

The sun was just above the horizon when they finally reached what looked like an abandoned estate. The lodge was a ruin; the roof had fallen through, the walls crumbling. There were signs that the bandits frequented it. Either this group or others that came over the mountains. A few men who had not taken part in the raid sat around the ruined building. Smoke drifted up into the dark and greying skies from a fire.

As Sione and her guardsman entered the lodge, the first drizzles of rain fell. A man was stirring over a pot on the fire. The smells rising from the pot made Sione’s stomach growl. She had not had a bite to eat since morning. The bandits placed Sione and her guardsman on either corner of the room and removed their gags. The man at the fire brought bowls of steaming stew, even handing a bowl to Sione and her guardsman. The bandits ignored their prisoners as they ate. Sione too ignored the surroundings; she was too famished.

As Sione scrapped the last of her meal from the bowl, the bandit leader called his men together. Sione could not overhear what he said to them. The men dispersed out when he finished talking, leaving only the two prisoners, the bandit leader and the one-eyed bandit inside the lodge.

The one-eyed bandit moved over near her guardsman. Sione pricked up her ears as the two of them spoke. Her guardsman just glanced over at her before he answered the man’s questions. Sione grimaced. It seemed apt that the only one of her guardsmen to survive was named Soltan – though he had failed to display even a smidge of the bravery his namesake King was famous for, but not that Sione really blamed the man. Or rather the boy. As Soltan finished speaking, the one-eyed man glanced over at the bandit leader.

The bandit leader stirred from his position and faced Sione.

“Now, madam, now is the time for questions. You asked who I am. Consider me an entrepreneur, a man who’s chosen to take his own destiny in his hands. As have these, my compatriots. As to what I want, well, at the moment, I want the truth. The questions are simple enough. Who are you? What is your name? Where are you going? Where have you come from? Why are you travelling through the wilderness with four armed men?”

The bandit leader leaned forward. His calloused fingers grabbed Sione by the chin roughly and dragged her so that she faced him. “Remember this, though, your answers will decide what happens. To you. And to him. If you don't answer, or if you lie, then I might have to ask him for the truth. But not as nicely. Understand?” He let go of her and sat back down. “Remember. The truth in your answers decides your fate.”

Sione considered what she was hearing as the bandit leader spoke. He did not seem to know who she was – that was an advantage for her. He had an inclination that she was a noble, despite her disguise. So that meant he had some information beforehand or gleaned that from her guards, again despite the fact they too had been in disguise. Had been lying in wait for her? Something did not add up. However, all this confirmed for her was that these were not just any ordinary bandits. Taking prisoners, not robbing them, and now being interrogated did not seem like that normal course of action for bandits.

If Sione had to speculate, these bandits had been lying in wait for someone, a noble heading towards Farennor. Perhaps to rob them or capture them for ransom. The latter seemed more and more likely to Sione. There had been incidents of Deowanian bandits kidnapping merchants for ransom, but never a noble. If they found out that she was the Lady of House Rall, the ransom would be considerable. And something the coffers of House Rall could ill afford. She could lie to these men; the only danger was her surviving guardsman. If Soltan kept quiet after she talked, Sione felt confident she could wiggle her way out of this situation.

“I am Lady Meriel of House Olazana.” Sione said calmly with a cold imperious lilt to her voice. “I was travelling from Tovale and heading to Farennor with my escort before you waylaid me and killed my men.”

Sione arched a derisive eyebrow at the men and looked pointedly at her remaining guardsman before turning back to the bandit leader. “You are going to ask that man – no, that boy if I am telling the truth? Look at him; he’s already terrified. He would say anything to save his skin. If you ask him loud enough, I am sure he would confess to leading the charge against King Fyran.” The guardsman’s namesake king had driven back a famous incursion by the Deowanians.

“I suppose you would want a ransom for me? And something for him too?” Sione continued before any of the men could respond. “You would need someone to deliver a letter from me to Farennor to arrange for your payment. How much do you normally take for a noble?”

 

[hzilfiger]

Tighran was impressed. The woman's demeanour and tone of voice spoke more about her station than any intelligence he had gleaned in Tovale. This was certainly no merchant's step-daughter but someone used to being heard - and obeyed. Were she a commoner, she would be wailing and wringing her hands. This one raised her eyebrow at him, as if he were a footman.

“I suppose you would want a ransom for me? And something for him too? You would need someone to deliver a letter from me to Farennor to arrange for your payment. How much do you normally take for a noble?”

Tighran allowed himself a slight smile.

"We don't normally take nobles, madam. At the moment, you are chattel of unknown provenance. Your future depends on your value. I am unconvinced of your value. Because your story does not make sense."

He got to his feet in one swift movement and turned so he was looming over her. His brow furrowed. He stroked his chin, staring down at her.

"You say you are a Lady of a Great House. This is a curious mode of travel for someone of your stature. Noblewomen travel on safe roads, in carriages, clad in silk, with maids and courtiers, things to make them look beautiful, people to make them feel important, surrounded by dozens of armed guards. Yet you wear plain wool, travel on horseback on a forest track, accompanied by a mere handful of men, all unarmoured. The Captain of your modest retinue apparently chooses to recruit all his men from common mercenaries at the point of embarkation. Surely, a competent Captain would have his own hand-picked men rather than rely on men of unknown calibre. Would your father or husband hire such an incompetent? Has House Olazana fallen so low?"

He turned to face Soltan, speaking loud enough so his voice carried to the soldier.

"Regrettably, the Lady's economy with the truth means we will have to put this young one to the test. Unless," he paused, "Soltan, named for the Despoiler of Deowan, has something further to add? Hmm?"

Soltan's gaze was on the fire, searching for something he could not find. Narek kicked the young soldier in the shin. "Answer!" Narek growled.

Soltan winced and jerked away from the studded boot. He glanced up at Narek. "It is as I said." He lowered his head and studied his feet.

"So be it," Tighran replied. "Though the boy quivers, he has nothing more to say." He swung back to Sione. "As do you."

He nodded slowly then turned his head and spoke to Narek in another tongue. "DZerrk’ ber Morthak."

Narek scowled, pulled himself upright and stepped over Soltan before disappearing into the mist.

Tighran circled the fire so he was between the two captives. He looked from one to the other. The Lady's eyes glimmered at him. The guardsman did not look up, his head now between his knees, shoulders shaking, making no sound except the soft whimper of weeping.

Tighran raised his voice so both could hear. "You will soon make the acquaintance of Morthak. You have but a little time to change your story. To spur your tongues to speech, permit me to explain who you are about to meet."

Soltan was staring at him now, mouth half-open, lips aquiver. Tighran continued.

"Morthak's mother was snatched away by Urukh raiders and despoiled which is how Morthak came into this world. He was told she died in the birthing, so large was he. The mixing of such bloods is a troubled thing at best. In Morthak's case, it resulted in a half-breed that fits in neither world, with all the very worst traits of both."

"Morthak was a brutal fighter, one of our best, until our last encounter. Three blows to the head with a mace. He is still dangerous but he has to be kept calm with callowroot tincture. We reduce the dose a day before battle so that his rage can bubble up. It is a delicate business. When ripe, Morthak has to be pointed at the target, rather like an arrow. Except, unlike an arrow, there is little that can stop him once in motion. Which is why you did not make his acquaintance earlier. You would both have been dead."

Tighran folded his arms.

"Morthak's needs are as simple as his thinking. They are the needs of a beast: thirst, hunger, warmth. And a fourth. Seeing to the first three keeps the fourth at bay, especially with the tincture. But we have reduced the dose and it is that fourth need that our young friend here will now need to satisfy."

"Morthak has been banned from every whorehouse in our land. He tends to use teeth. And nails. As a result, he has had to develop a taste for men." Tighran looked to Soltan. "Especially pretty, young men." Tighran grinned. "Men weep more. Perhaps that's the reason why." He shrugged. "We indulge him when we can."

Soltan's face was ashen.

Tighran continued. "It would be inconsiderate of me not to mention that Morthak has contracted Black Chancre, probably from one whore or the other. The disease eats away at the mind and the body. As you will see." He pointed at Soltan. "Even if you survive his taking you, know that you too will be infected. And die in pieces."

Tighran looked from one to the other, his voice urgent. "Quickly now. There is little time. Who wishes to tell me the truth?"

 

[Cate_Archer]

Sione looked on in shock at the bandit leader’s words. These Deowanians were barbaric, more like vicious and cruel beasts than men, threatening such a thing on the boy. Sione had heard of such depravities committed by the Deowanians, but she had always thought they were exaggerations by the men telling the stories. It seemed the stories were true after all. And this bandit leader was too smart for his own good.

Sione spoke up before Soltan said something to save his hide. “You speak as someone who does not know what has happened in Tovale recently. You have not heard of the unrest in the city, have you? There have been riots in the city. One supposes that the news might have reached Farennor by now, but it’s not surprising that it has not gone as far as Deowan. And I don’t suppose you stopped in Farennor when you came over the mountains, did you?” Sione did not let her voice betray any disquiet she felt. She chose her words carefully. “As much as I hate to admit it, you are right in assuming that the House Olazana has fallen low. Since the death of my father, my uncle has led House Olazana. The first of many bad decisions made by my House in recent times. My uncle allied our House with House Lunos in a recent political disagreement. He picked the losing side. And to make amends, he was planning to marry me off to some minor fop from House Lauret. As if I was – as you said – chattel.”

Sione looked to make sure the bandit leader was listening. “I was not agreeable to that. The Captain was willing to help me. For a price. Obviously, he could not use men from my House. He hired these men – there are always plenty of merchant guards looking for an easy job in the city. The Captain felt it best to spirit me out of the city in disguise. That is why I am wearing these clothes. He had made arrangements to send my baggage by sea to Farennor. I told the truth; I am travelling to Farennor. I am assured safety by Lord Sabet. I understand he rules the city on behalf of House Rall. It is to him that I have to write to; he would be willing to pay your ransom. There is no need to inflict any – unpleasantness on the boy.”

There was a sound from outside the lodge. Either a heavy sack falling on the ground. Or the footsteps of a large man. Soltan raised his head, looking towards the door and started to scoot back against the back wall. Sione spoke quickly. “Speak, boy. Confirm that I am telling the truth.” She hoped that he was not lying and that he knew nothing about her. Or at the least would not suddenly find his spine and give light to her lies.

 

[hzilfiger]

Soltan seemed not to have heard Sione's words. The boy had his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, his bound arms raised as if to ward off a blow. Though his head was turned away, his eyes were fixed on the shape that loomed out of the darkness. His face was etched with abject horror.

It was as well that there was no doorway for Morthak would not have fitted through it. He was fully seven feet tall and seemed almost as wide. His skin glistened an oily green, slick with rainfall. His bare chest rippled with muscle as he shambled forward. He wore a heavy ochre kilt secured with a wrought leather belt. There were iron shackles on both wrists but the great hands were unrestrained - the chain linking the shackles had been removed. The great hands flexed and bunched into fists. His head seemed a block of granite, the ears misshapen from blows as was the forehead which bore an indentation under a great scar. Two incisors, almost wolf-like, stuck out of the slobbering mouth. Only his eyes were invisible for they had been covered with a leather blindfold.

Morthak stepped under the remains of the roof. The floorboards underfoot creaked. Morthak waited, restless, head turning this way and that, listening. As he did so, they heard a clinking - the movement of the chain that they could only now see. It was fastened to an iron collar that barely encompassed Morthak's neck.

Another figure emerged from the shadows. It was Narek, holding the free end of the chain.

"Na anhangist e," said Narek, a trace of a worry in his voice. "He's restless."

Tighran turned to face his captives.

"So," he said, addressing Soltan, "your answer?"

The boy's head was tucked deep within his arms. He had rolled himself into a ball.

"It's true!" Soltan wailed. "What the lady said! It's true! I- I don't know any more! Please! Please!" Then, sobbing.

Tighran nodded. "So."

He turned to the lady. "It is as you say. You are Lady Meriel, of House Olazana. Fallen on hard times. Fleeing so you can be something other than - what was the word? Chattel? Fleeing to secure your destiny. Admirable. Almost Deowanian." He sketched a half-bow. "My Lady. I am honoured."

Behind him, Morthak's head swivelled this way and that. The creature let out a low groan, shook his shoulders. The chain grew taut, rattled. Narek took a step forward to ease the tension on it.

"Aveli lav e nran het verts’nem," said Narek, in as close to a whisper as he could manage. "I'd better take him back. I might not be able to calm him again."

Tighran spoke a single word over his shoulder. "Spasel. Wait."

He took a step towards Sione. He extracted something from under his sleeve.

"There's just one remaining question," he said to the lady. "You see, I was actually in Farennor some days ago. A town in great uproar. Over politics. And taxes. The usual Ivalonian shit. I wasn't there for the learned discourse, though. I was there to see someone. Someone who wanted a particular problem dealt with. This," he raised his fist, "is the problem he wanted fixed."

Tighran's hand held a piece of parchment. Carefully, he unrolled it and turned it towards Sione so she could see. It was the portrait.

"Not a good likeness, I'm sure you'll agree," he continued, smiling now, "but good enough. Before I left, I took time to ask around. You know how it works - or perhaps you don't? You find a few people in the know, show them a picture, ask a few questions, pay a few coins."

He took another step towards her. Morthak groaned again, stamped his feet. There was a crack as floorboards splintered. They heard running feet. The cook appeared with another bandit at his shoulder. Both held chains in their hands. Their faces semed drawn.

"Shef-" Narek said.

Tighran raised a hand. Narek said no more as Tighran continued speaking.

"My questions gave me a name. A name for this poor rendering of rare beauty. But that name was not Meriel."

Tighran flung the parchment at her feet.

"Here's your final question, my lady." Tighran paused. "What was the name? What is your name?"

 

[Cate_Archer]

Morthak was every bit as unpleasant as the bandit leader promised he would be – though unpleasant did not reasonably describe the thing that walked into the lodge. But Sione had a more important problem than the beast-man. The bandit leader knew who she was, and more importantly, he had a portrait of her. That made no sense. Unless, as she thought before, these were not ordinary bandits.

The scenario ran through her mind in a flash. Someone had hired these bandits. Someone in Farennor, unless the bandit leader had been there just to reconnoitre. But why would one go to Farennor? Sione had spent most of the past few years in Tovale at the court. She had few enemies in Farennor; some Houses with connections to House Beddow still did try to advance their cause in Farennor. But they were of little concern. Could one of those Houses have hired these bandits? To what end? Kidnap her? Kill her? The second option seemed unlikely. No matter how bad things got, the noble Houses of Ivalon did not stoop to killing each other unless it was in battle. Assassinations and other forms of skulduggery were considered the preserve of other nations. However, all that was a secondary concern right now.

Two more bandits had arrived with chains; perhaps Morthak was not entirely in their control. Sione wondered if he would attack the bandits if he were let loose. The bandit leader raised a hand to quiet his men.

Sione turned away from the sight at the end of the lodge as the bandit leader spoke. He threw the parchment at her. It drifted gently before falling onto the floor.

“My questions gave me a name. A name for this poor rendering of rare beauty. But that name was not Meriel. Here's your final question, my lady. What was the name? What is your name?”

Sione gave the bandit leader a tight smile. It was not easy to look dignified while trussed up and sitting on a dirty floor. “It seems I am found out. As you said, you are a man who has chosen to take his destiny into his hands. I, too, believe in that. You must forgive me for the attempt at subterfuge to make the odds more favourable to me. And you said you are an entrepreneur? In that case, I have a proposition for you. Let me go, and I will pay you double of whatever you were paid or will be paid. I doubt you have been fully paid for the job.”

 

[hzilfiger]

As Sione spoke, Morthak became still. The creature hunched forward, neck craning towards her, head swivelling, listening intently. She had just finished speaking when Morthak growled.

"Porrrnikk." The word slithered out of the creature. "Porrnikk."

Morthak's chest heaved. He took a step towards Sione. The chain went taught and Narek, holding onto the free end, was nearly hauled off his feet. Narek let out an involuntary yelp and held on with both hands. The other two rushed in to help.

"Take him out," Tighran said to Narek. "The rain will cool him. Take him out."

With the aid of the cook and the other bandit, with much cooing and coaxing, they managed to turn Morthak around and drag him out into the darkness. The last sight Sione had of Morthak was of that great head cocked over his shoulder in her direction, jaws working.

"Pornik is Deowanian for whore," Tighran explained. "To Morthak, all women are whores." He shrugged. "What can I say? He's had a limited existence."

It took a few minutes for Narek to return. The other bandit was at his side, one Sione recognised from the attack. Narek called him Kepci. Kepci was the shortest of all the bandits and paler skinned, his forearms tattooed in unfamiliar symbols. He wore paired daggers.

Kepci said "He's calmer now. Cook gave him a joint to chew on."

Tighran nodded. He pointed at Soltan. "Prepare the boy."

Soltan, who had thought himself forgotten, jerked into life. His bound feet scrabbled at the floor. His body wiggled this way and that. He had almost made it onto his feet when Narek stepped in and kicked his feet out from under him. Soltan crashed to earth. Narek hauled him up by his bonds and spun him around so Soltan faced the wall. Narek unsheathed a long, dark blade.

"Hold still, boy," Narek growled. "Hold still unless you want to be cut."

Soltan continued to struggle until Narek inserted the tip of the blade between Soltan's legs. Soltan became very still.

"Intact," Tighran called. "Clothes intact."

Together, Kepci and Narek undid Soltan's bonds then, with an ease born of much practice, stripped him of his clothes until he stood, quivering, in nothing but his own skin.

"Skin like a baby," Kepci said, with something like affection. He reached out and squeezed Soltan's left buttock. "Mmm. Firm too."

Soltan spun round, lashing out. Kepci avoided the blow easily. Narek kicked the boy in the knee and Soltan crashed to earth again. Kepci leapt onto Soltan's chest. The air whooshed out of the guardsman in a harsh cough. Soon, they had him restrained.

Narek unspooled a coil of rope and tossed it over a beam. He tied a knot then gave it a tug. "Should hold," he said to himself.

The two bandits hauled Soltan to his feet. Soltan screamed. His left knee was swollen a blotchy red. He hopped onto his right.

"Don't you worry, pretty, pretty boy," Kepci sang into Soltan's ear. "You won't have to stand for long."

Tighran spoke next, addressing Sione. "The lady seems to think she's in a position to negotiate but she's not. We were very well paid for this job, in full, and I intend to see it done. The brief was to make the problem go away. And it will. We're certainly not hanging around for a round of negotiation by missive."

He squatted down in front of her, so close that she could not see around him to what the bandits were doing to Soltan. "So. Dispel all thoughts of freedom. You need to learn that you are chattel now. A slave. A commodity. And you must learn to answer when asked a question. I asked you your name. You replied with a proposal. Wrong answer. On this occasion, you escape punishment. Instead, the boy will endure. Or not. On your behalf."

"No!" Soltan wailed. "No! I'll tell you! I will! Take her! Let me go! Her name! I know her name! It's S-"

Soltan's words ended in a gurgle as Narek stuffed a rag in his mouth. "Enough, Soltan, Despoiler of Deowan. Enough talk. The time for talking is past. Now is the time for despoiling. Except now it's Deowan's turn."

Kepci produced more rope and the two bandits went to work. Tighran spoke softly to Sione as they did so.

"Before Narek chose a more honourable line of work, he used to be overseer in a Pleasure Palace in our homeland. It's called The House of Thorns. You will not have had the privilege but imagine it to be a very well appointed whorehouse, populated by captured slaves, catering to those clients with particular tastes. It is very popular. Even Ivalonian lords make the trek across the mountains, disguised, of course."

"Narek's specialty was the Art of The Rope. For a price, your chosen slave, or slaves, would be restrained in artful and novel ways so that you may enjoy them, in whatever way you chose."

A gurgle sounded from behind Tighran. Soltan. Then, grunts from the bandits as they tugged at the ropes. A figure rose into the air in the far corner, ascending in jerks as the bandits hauled at the ropes. It was Soltan. Naked, hands bound above his head, legs tied open and apart. His body was lean and strong, the lines of muscle clear even in the flickering light. He was hairless except for a blonde thatch at the base of his belly. He had an erection.

"Oh," Kepci grunted in between tugs at the rope. "He's - enjoying - it! Got - a - fucking - cockstand!"

"You fucking idiot," Narek growled at Kepci. "He's not aroused. It's panic. Stress. Ever seen a man just after he's hanged? No? Well, you'll see a cockstand. You think a corpse gets horny? Shut the fuck up and pull."

Tighran spun round so Sione could see. "Behold," he said. "Behold your doing."

 

[hzilfiger]

Just before dawn, The Black Hand was ready to move on. Tighran watched them make their final preparations from the ruined lodge. He glanced over to the corner where the lady slept, on her side, arms and legs bound.

There had been no moving her. Even the threat of the despoiling of the young guardsman by Morthak had produced no more information. She still claimed the name Meriel, a name he was sure was fiction, but he had no way to verify it. Contrary to what he had told her the night before, he had never been to Farennor nor had he had time to make enquiries as to the identity of the figure in the portrait. He had hoped his bluff would work; when it did not, the threat of violence to her guard was invoked. To no avail. The Lady Meriel was made of stern stuff.

Morthak had been brought back in and shackled to the beams with long chains. They had all removed themselves from the lodge before Kepci removed Morthak's blindfold and ran. Despite the rain lashing down on the canvas of their makeshift shelters outside against the walls of the Lodge, the roars of the beast and the screams of his victim were unmistakeable. Tighran had watched the lady's face closely throughout; if she felt anything, her face did not show it.

When it was over, and Morthak was sated, it had been an easy matter to give the creature the tincture but this time eight times the normal dose. Within an hour, Morthal was unrousable. A simpler matter yet to pierce Morthak's heart with a blade. Morthak barely moved. He was dead in minutes.

The boy, Soltan, was already dead, his neck broken by Morthak in the creature's assault. They untied Soltan's ropes and lay him in the creature's blood. The blade that had pierced Morthak's heart was placed in Soltan's limp hand.

"I understand now," Narek had said when it was done. "When the chasers come, they will find this boy and that creature. They will assume Morthak killed the lady as well. And there will be bodies in the woods. The other guardsmen."

Tighran had nodded. "It may be enough. If nothing else, it might delay any pursuit for a few days. They won't find her body so they may cast about looking for her. We should be long gone by then. Pity about Morthak. He was a good fighter. But he was becoming too dangerous to keep. This way, at least, he has been of some use to us one final time."

Sione had been stripped to her undergarments and dressed in Soltan's clothes. Her flowing locks had been shorn to man's length with a few passes of Narek's dagger.

"Good," Tighran had said after Narek had finished. "The lady now looks like a pretty boy. That should do. So long as she keeps her mouth shut. If not, her tongue can be removed as easily."

With the first rays of the sun, The Black Hand was ready to disperse.

"We will see you in Deowan," Tighran called to his men. "Once Narek and I have delivered this cargo to its destination. Remember, to take separate roads. And wait for the message to meet. At the usual spot. Where we will divide up the spoils. And plan our retirement. There should be no need for any of us to work again after this."

Narek and Sione were already mounted, the lady's wrists bound together, her legs secured, the one to the other, under the horse's belly. The reins of her horse were tethered to the pommel of Narek's saddle.

With a final salute, Tighran swung into his saddle. His last sight of Hunstman's Rise was of Kepci tossing a torch into the ruins. He didn't wait for the flames to rise before spurring his mount on.