by E M White
Their tongues were out now. Each tempting the other to come out farther, to explore, to feel.
Her knees were shuddering. They were running out of time.
It could be so quick. And so good.
His strong hands rubbed her sides.
His fingers caressed the sides of her breasts. Not gently. Not that the wildness in his eyes would ever be satisfied with just a caress.
Onäs pulled her in, pressed himself against her. Along her bare tummy, she felt his long, thick cock through the material of his pants. It felt like it was on fire.
The drums in her ears, those which only she could hear, began their slow crescendo.
Grab it.
Grab it now!
A chorus of distant female barbarians began their chant—somewhere in her heart. Urging her on. Demanding it.
She said, “No.”
Onäs whispered. “What?”
“Wait,” she said.
Sarina tucked her arms into his chest. And stole another kiss.
His breath betrayed the tremors in his own body. He said, “No…what?”
She was so sensitive right then—body mind and soul. She felt inexplicable tears building behind her eyes.
“This can’t be a rush,” she said through short breaths.
Onäs exhaled tremendously.
“I find myself thinking about you all the time,” she whispered. Her voice was thin and choppy. Unlike her. “I bore Akimi to death with thoughts about you. I find myself wishing you here, next to me, all the time. Even when it doesn’t make sense. I don’t want this time, our first time, to be…” She nodded to the dark silhouettes of Markus and Zacharius, who were about six minutes now from being in earshot.
Onäs grinned. Of course he would grin. He said, “I wasn’t even thinking we would. Right here anyway.”
“You weren’t?”
“Are you serious?”
Sarina forced herself into some semblance of composure.
“I…I mean…It crossed my mind.” She smiled up to him, sliding her hands again around his back. “Your kiss is like magic upon me, Onäs.”
He hummed and touched her hair, pulling it back again from her eyes.
“It would seem the sensation is mutual.” He smiled and looked down, toward the significant bulge under his belt.
She looked too. Maybe for a moment too long.
“Tomorrow we go into battle together.”
“For the first time.”
“I need you to do something for me.”
Onäs straightened up. “Anything. I am your servant.”
Sarina stepped back from Onäs and adjusted her garments, though they didn’t cover much to begin with. Nor was there much light anymore to be seen in. Faint shapes and shadows. Barely impressions of each other to behold now in the growing shadows.
She said, “I’m embedding you in Captain Vadric’s company.”
There was a long pause in the darkness.
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I just said it wasn’t up for discussion.” She saw him step back farther, as though to try to better see her in the meager, final wisps of the evening’s light. She took a deep breath. “So there.”
Now her heart was racing again, but for a different reason.
She said, “Because I need you to know what it means to fight on a team. To be part of a crowd. This is the military, Onäs.”
Onäs groaned in the darkness, like a wave of disappointment was quietly drowning him. But he didn’t say anything.
This was a decisive moment for him too. Would he, the soul-searching individualist, be able to take an unusual order from his mistress? Even if he didn’t understand it?
Sarina could hear Markus and Zacharius treading through the dry grass now. They could definitely hear them.
“Captain Vadric will be waiting for you when you get back down. He’ll assign you to a unit. Which one is up to him, understand?”
She could barely make out his silhouette, just the crown of his head and his two long ears rising above the jet-black forms of the hills behind him.
“If you want that, then…” He could barely find the words.
“Trust me on this, Onäs.”
“Was this Captain Markus’ idea? I’ll kill him.”
Hopefully, that was humor.
A big deep voice cut through the darkness, “Was what Captain Markus’ idea?”
Sarina put her hands on her wide hips. Not that anyone could see. “I just let Onäs know he’ll be fighting alongside Captain Vadric tomorrow.”
“Now? You just told him now?” Big Markus found this a good reason to laugh out loud. “No, champion, it wasn’t my idea. Won’t be the worst thing though, I promise. Vadric knows how to get things done.”
At this moment, Zacharius tapped his staff to the hill, and the stone at its top began to glow ever so slightly.
The four of them were suddenly able to see each other, albeit each was entirely green to behold.
Onäs turned away.
He flicked up his scabbard with his boot, and without wasting a moment, began to descend the long hill back to the army’s new location for the night, hidden out in the blackness, away from the citizens of Tias that would, no matter how urgent their preparations, only get in the way of Sarina’s plans.
Sarina couldn’t read the brief appearance of Onäs’ expression. Usually she could read anybody.
But it didn’t matter. Orders were orders. Both she and he knew it.
Markus called out to the elf’s back, “You okay there, Onäs? You can share what you’re thinking. That’s part of the deal.”
Onäs grunted and turned uphill to them. He didn’t look entirely miserable, though in that dim magic light, it was difficult to tell. His eyes reflected the green glow like an animal’s, floating pinpoints of light in the dark.
“I don’t think, Captain Markus. I feel.” And with that, he was out of Zacharius’ circle of green light and gone into the night.
Big Markus leaned in toward Sarina, whispering, a chuckle lingering just behind his words, “Not exactly something worth bragging about, if you ask me.”
“He should be fine. By the way, Markus, I like the way he feels.” She smiled to herself. “I kissed him. Just now.”
“Ah!” Markus seemed to think about it for a moment. “Indeed. I thought he looked excessively flustered.” He looked at Zacharius, then back at Sarina.
In a heartbeat, his face grew uncharacteristically serious. He took a tremendous breath and slowly exhaled. Suddenly he looked like laughter was farthest from his thoughts.
He said, “Magnus has made camp for the night. The twins are reporting campfires.”
Sarina looked at Zacharius, who nodded in agreement.
The wind finally picked up. On fucking cue.
The three of them drew nearer to the green glow of the staff. Her hair blew about their faces.
Then Zacharius added, his long face full of concern, “Hundreds of campfires, Your Highness. There are hundreds of them.”
Markus grumbled, “Wish we’d known this before this evening. That Imperial fuck Gracus set us up.”
Sarina glanced to Zacharius, who dipped his chin. “Hang on to your balls, Markus.”
He raised his eyebrows in the dim green light. The long braids of his beard beat upon his big chest.
She met his stare. And held it. She said, “I have a plan.”
15
Sarina Begins The Battle For Tias
In the earliest show of morning light, with barely more than birds aroused at such an hour, Sarina rode her horse slowly across the uneven plateau.
She rode out front, the sharp tip of the black beak.
Behind her, three units of warriors spread out in a defensive formation, two units of heavy armored swordsmen and one unit of spears. Together, they were two hundred strong, one hundred and eighty men and twenty women—women brawny enough and rare enough to plant a s
pear against the rush of horse and beast.
These were her short reserves. In essence, her bodyguard. Some of the fiercest. Their steps were light and fresh. Their armor was an audible medley of metal and stride.
Alongside her, some on foot, some on ponies, were a line of runners, messengers to carry her orders if, for whatever reason, her primary flagman riding next to Akimi couldn’t do his job.
For once it hadn’t rained the night before. But the sky was a miserable gray anyways. For the sun was still far below the horizon. When it would come, Sarina predicted, there would be no sight of it today, only a smear of silver behind the thick layer of clouds. There’d be only heat and gray. And the oppressive weight of moisture everywhere.
From the plateau, even in the dim light, Sarina had visibility of almost ten leagues to the north. Past the gnarled formations of the valleys and glens below her. Past the sprawling bivouac of Magnus Sinn. Which seemed barely to stir in the pre-dawn stretch of muted anticipation.
Akimi whispered from her steed, “He must be riding them hard. Barely a watchfire down there.”
Sarina raised a finger. She nodded, a small smile at the corner of her lips. These were the moments, the early hours before battle, when Sarina discovered she had no patience for talk.
Her heartbeat was varying with almost every thought. She took a deep breath now and then to settle it, but the rattle and bustle of her guard behind her sent lightning flashes of excitement through her veins. The opening vista of the enemy below swirled the humors of her gut and made her fingertips tingle. Much like when she kissed Onäs.
Out of sight, Big Markus and Vadric were moving their units into formation.
Markus and the swiftest cavalry from both companies were sliding under the very plateau she was now crossing. Mounted skirmishers mostly. Not armored. Just fast. Armed with barely more than javelins—and a short sword if the worst should occur.
Vadric was currently lining up units from his company at intervals along the narrow valley far off the east cliffs of the plateau, a quarter league away.
The narrow valley that Vadric’s warriors were maneuvering through, tightening as it wound southeast, was going to be the cauldron. Vadric was going to be the fuel and fire. Big Markus was going to be the spark. She would test the mettle of Magnus’ forces in the pot.
She would see what ferocious madness they possessed. For if these savages, a multitude of brutal races beaten into a rage by Magnus’ will—and outnumbering Sarina’s army three to one—were as aggressive as everyone supposed…
…then Sarina would use that aggression against them.
She heard her flagman lean forward in his saddle before she heard him speak. He whispered, “Flag-sign from Captain Markus’ riders, Highness. They’re in position below.”
Sarina glanced toward the runner far to the east, the man relaying flag-sign from the valley below, from both Markus and Vadric. The distant runner was barely more than a tiny smudge in that oppressive grayness.
It would be inconceivable to teach a civilian the complexities of battle. The distance between flanks that soldiers got lost within. The turmoil—dust and blood and the cries of men—that fouled messages of command. The constant flux of aggression and dismay. The anticipation of these things kept trying to knock her from the blanket upon her horse’s back.
Sarina herself would not—could not—throw herself into battle. Markus had taught her the importance of that long before. She hated it. But understood it. She could not hope to survive a clash of swords against a formation, four men deep, of enemy swordsmen—or worse axemen whose arms made her thighs look puny.
Instead, she embraced the role of central command.
She rode as a symbol of her army’s might and intent. Long bare legs, better to feel her mount with, she wore the polished steel of a hand-etched gorget upon her neck, once her mother’s, spaulders clinking down her shoulders, and a heavy mail hauberk that left her arms free for the endless tasks of leading men and women to fight or die. A long black cape draped her back, covering the soft skin of her hips where her tunic fell short. Atop it all, adorning her temples, she wore the black headpiece of raven wings. Her eyes were painted heavily with black kohl, intentionally smeared to her temples. She was to her soldiers a flash of skin and steel upon the battlefield, a gorgeous woman to serve, a tremendous voice, a black winged conflagration of unstoppable, immutable will.
That was her role now that the planning in her command tent was done and the well-studied maps were rolled and stowed on Akimi’s saddle. Today her role was to know the terrain better than Magnus. And that she’d done. It was her one true advantage.
Silver streaks of low clouds began to rise from the eastern horizon. A forewarning of the sunrise that would barely show itself this morning.
She must begin their assault in the next minutes. Or it would fail. And they, her soldiers and every scared, feeble-bodied soul in Tias, would die.
Many of them were already going to die. That was a cold fact. Sarina knew many of her soldiers would never see a sunrise again. She placed a fist to her throat as that notion once again flooded her already overtaxed heart with disorienting pangs.
Before the dread spread farther, she said to Akimi, loud enough for many of those nearby to hear, “We know Magnus Sinn keeps a tight rein on his savages. Let’s test that grip. Let’s turn it against him. Let’s watch his savages squirt from between his fingers.”
Akimi wore her elven-made armor, a dark plate about her breast and thighs. Her black fur mantle rustled in the growing breeze. Her own two swords hung from her saddle.
Sarina halted her horse. Akimi did too. All the men and women at their backs came to a standstill.
Akimi was looking up at her with a mix of emotions Sarina couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it was the bad odds of this battle plaguing her tent maiden. Perhaps it was the unknown variables of their foe.
“You okay, Akimi?”
“I am with you, Your Highness. I am always ready.”
They nodded once more in the last of the silence.
In Sarina’s mind the beat of drums began to pound, the shudder and thrash of a rising rhythm surging in her ears, the crash of trumpet, the cry of a thousand valkyries in heaven calling for her to begin the violence. A smile she had no control over spread across her lips. She pointed to her flagman as the surging symphony of sound within her felt like it was about to explode outward from her mind. “Pass the sign to Captain Markus. Send him in.”
16
Big Markus Begins His Ride
Markus saw the flag-sign from high above him, barely more than a swinging silhouette in that gloomy gray sky.
But there it was. No doubt.
He took a tremendous breath and squeezed his reins as tight as he could, Gods save us. Then, he bellowed, “For the princess!”
His horse ripped to a canter in the time of a heartbeat. Two hundred cavalrymen took up the chase behind him. They whistled and called and taunted each other. When Markus knew they were all on the move, a thunderous mass of man and steed, he heeled his horse into a full gallop. And the rest followed his lead.
By the gods, what a sound!
There was to be no secret to their approach.
Within a minute they were booming and rumbling at Magnus’ outer perimeter guards. Two thick, frog-mouthed bullywogs who heard them coming found themselves with no alternative but to call the alarm and stand their ground.
Markus barely veered his horse around them. No thought of slowing the charge.
Let them scream for the others to hear.
He peeked back over his bear pelt to see three riders still at breakneck speeds skewer them with javelins. Others trampled over their green, splotchy bodies before they were dead.
A low, dark cloud of dust rose behind them, announcing them even further.
In front of him, Markus saw the rim of the camp begin taking to its feet, begin shouting and croaking and barking—the place suddenly making all sorts of squeals of ala
rm. He was close enough to see some of the humans and other two-armed creatures pointing. Markus found himself laughing and hollering at his men with a stupendous amount of energy. He was practically mad with joy.
Get close.
Get as close as possible.
Those had been Sarina’s orders.
Two hundred riders charged directly at an army camp that must’ve been—who knew really?—at least seven thousand deep. Tears of joy and disbelief were streaming into his temples as he galloped on.
At a hundred paces—no more—from the clunkily assembling line, a mix of sword and shield and spear waving about in the air, Markus started his turn.
He hadn’t looked to see how many of his riders were brave enough to come this close. He had to hope they trusted him. Trusted her.
If not for the rumble of hooves, the wheeze of flaring nostrils, the absolute insanity of it would have of sent him into delirium.
Now they were galloping parallel to the edge of Magnus’ camp.
They were beating a path so quickly they were coming upon foes that barely had time to get to their feet to see what this ruckus could be about. Markus laughed at them, the braids of his wide beard flying. He pointed at them and spat.
It was when he did glance back to see how many riders had stayed with him, pressing this madness far beyond its limit, that he saw the streaking arcs of arrows cut across his rear. One rider took an arrow through the neck and went down. Two riders, then three, had their horses crumple beneath them, rolling and skidding in roaring pileups of dirt and dust.
Damn.
Enough.
He turned his mount and began one damn hasty retreat. And almost every one of the men was there, right on his tail.
But all hell was about to escape and give chase.
He looked up to the rise of land where Sarina would be watching. He thrilled at implementing her orders, no matter how ludicrous they sounded last night in her command tent. He thrilled to think of her looking down at his ride, thinking what damn good execution!
This type of assignment, this mad rush of emotion, it was a thing meant more for Vadric. But Sarina insisted he do it. To touch the madness. To gulp the raw emotion of it. To tap the impulses you always bury, Markus.