by Paul Freeman
“Lords, ladies, and all others assembled here today!” the announcer bellowed, his resonant voice silenced the crowd as his words carried to every part of the circular arena. “Salute the men who will die for you this day!” The arena shook with the noise. With a sharp nod of his head towards the combatants he scuttled away and disappeared from sight.
The two warriors circled each other warily, tension and excitement rippled through the crowd. The Nortman was tall and broad, his upper body heavily muscled, the Summalian taller again, but lighter. Rolfgot struck first, hefting the great-sword with both hands. He spun on his heel, the blade swinging through the air in an arc. The dark-skinned fighter snarled, a flash of white teeth contrasting against his complexion, he deftly blocked the sword with his shield and stabbed out with the spear, catching the paler-skinned man in the side. The crowd erupted at the first sight of blood. Both men stepped back from each other.
“First blood to me.” Lorian grinned at his companion, who did not answer.
The Nortman lunged again, leading with the point of his blade this time. Again the taller warrior sidestepped and smashed his shield into his opponent’s face. Rolfgot staggered back and spat out a mouthful of blood. The Summalian lunged with his spear, catching the swordsman in the shoulder, another wound opened. Bordron openly grinned now.
“Oh, he’s toying with him, this will be over soon and I will be considerably richer.” Lorian beamed and gulped back his wine, the red liquid dribbling down his chin, drops pooled on the wooden floor at his feet.
Both spear wounds bled visibly on the white skin of the Nortman. His face too had a crimson smear across his mouth. The crowd urged the tall Summalian to finish him off. Those few who had backed the Nortman with their gold turned away in disgust, as once again the spear point found soft yielding flesh. The Nortman dropped to one knee, and the crowd erupted in a wall of noise. Spurred on by the adulation of the crowd, the dark-skinned Summalian advanced, drawing back his spear. Rolfgot leapt up, apparently not so injured as he at first appeared, driving his sword under the ribs of his opponent and wrenching it up with a grunt. Bordron’s eyes opened wide. The big Nortman pulled his sword free and spat a mouthful of blood at the falling body of his opponent. The crowd was stunned into silence, their favourite, the three times arena champion, the undefeated Summalian, Bordron crashed to the dust, dead.
Lorian scowled at his grinning companion as Rolfgot spun around raising his sword as he did so and brought the blade down on the neck of Bordron, severing his head. The gods themselves could not but have heard the thunderous noise coming from the arena moments later.
Duke Normand: Besieging the walls of Eorotia
Duke Erik Normand glanced up from the parchment stretched out on the table in front of him. Fanned out before him were his chosen men, a collection of knights and advisors. Rain drummed a steady beat on the canvas tent which had been his home and central command for the past weeks. “Are the engines in place?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” a young warrior answered. Duke Normand regarded him coldly before turning away in silence. He traced out, with a finger, the dark lines scratched onto the parchment, a map of the Duchies, and the lands beyond its borders. Spidery script marked his own small segment of the kingdom, the duchy of Lenstir, a tract of boggy and mountainous territory gifted to his ancestor by the then king for his loyalty and bravery in battle. He had grand aspirations to increase its size and with it his standing at court.
He dismissed his momentary lack in concentration and snarled at his knights, “Well get to it then!” A chorus of, ‘Yes, my lord,’ followed, as the men filed from the tent in a rattle of swords and armour. He poured a rich amber liquid into a silver goblet. He grimaced as the strong brandy burnt all the way down, before turning his attention to the only remaining occupant of the tent. A man with shoulder length grey hair and thick, wiry beard sat in a chair in the corner. He wore a simple, hooded woollen robe. If there had once been any colour to the free flowing garment, the dye had long since washed out, leaving it a dull brownie grey. Duke Normand rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and refilled the goblet.
“You should sleep, my lord. I can see the weariness in you,” the grey-beard said, as he stood up.
“Sleep? Are you jesting with me? Here of all places, under the walls of the Thieves Citadel?”
“You need to trust me, my lord. The priestesses will not enter your dreams while I protect you.”
“So you say, Mage. Did you see the fear on the faces of my men? They all know the legends, they have grown up with the stories…” He half drained the goblet again without finishing the sentence. Worry lines creased his forehead. He could hear the sounds of a mobilising army just beyond the entrance to his command tent – barked orders from officers and sergeants, the rattle of bridles and snorts of horses. Beyond his lines lay the fortified city of Eorotia or, as it was more commonly known, the Thieves Citadel. A thorn in the side of every Duke of Lenstir since his family had been granted the duchy. The city was a den of brigands, assassins and pirates, yet successive generations of dukes had allowed it to flourish on their doorstep. Until now. The reason: the city was sanctuary to the Priestesses of Eor, some called them the Shadow Sisters, others the Dream Cult, for they possessed the power to enter a man’s dreams and kill him while he slept. There was no defence against them, no wall could stop them, no barred gate or armoured sentries would deter them.
“You have nothing to fear from the Shadow Sisters. They will not penetrate my wards,” the mage answered.
“For centuries Eorotia has been an embarrassment, a festering wound to the honour of my family. Our rivals have mocked us, called us impotent and worse. Yet, not even the king would move against the citadel while the Priestesses of Eor claimed sanctuary there and ownership of the surrounding mountains. They are all that stands in the way of its destruction. The collection of rogues and pirates behind those walls are not an army, most of them have probably fled already.” He drained the goblet again and refilled it one more time.
“Getting drunk will help no one,” the older man said.
“It will help me,” the duke growled. “I have put my faith in you, Mage. See that I am not disappointed. Six of my men failed to wake this morning. There isn’t a man among them who doesn’t fear to fall asleep.”
“You have over a thousand men, if you take an entire city with your losses in single figures, I would call that a good day’s work,” the mage answered. Normand glared at him coldly, before ducking his head and walking from the tent.
Rain fell in a hazy mist over an open plain in front of the citadel. Beyond the walled city a dark mountain rose steeply towards a grey sky, its peaks shrouded in cloud. Huge, wooden war engines stood in silent rows arrayed before the crenellated walls. A dark, iron studded door stood firmly closed before them. It is not too late to turn around and march your army off the mountain, a stray thought crept into his mind like a thief in the night. He dismissed it with a nod towards one of his sergeants, who in turn raised an arm. Barked orders echoed in the air. Huge wooden arms crept ponderously upwards in unison, before releasing a barrage of heavy rock towards the walls and beyond. So it begins.
Duke Normand had been present at many sieges, but none where such a poorly defended city would cause such terror in the men assaulting it. Eorotia had no standing army, other than bands of brigands who used it as a base to plunder the local countryside. His countryside. He felt secure moving his siege engines almost up to the wall without fear of them coming under any sort of organised attack. He stifled a yawn, reminding him of the sting the city of thieves was armed with.
“What are your orders regarding the aftermath of the assault, my lord?” one of his warriors asked. The man stood stiff-backed in a shiny breast-plate and open-faced, peeked helm. His red cloak rippled in the breeze, signifying him as a member of Lenstir’s elite Dragon Knights.
“It is a city of thieves and cutthroats, the women are either whores or assassins. Once
those walls are down and the gate breached, unleash the men. Allow them to plunder as they will, this is my gift to them. If there is not a man or woman left alive, or one brick left stacked upon another by the day’s end, it will make no matter to me.”
“My lord.” The knight bowed stiffly and turned to go.
“One thing,” the duke’s words immediately halted the man. “Bring me the high priestess. There are thirty-three priestesses in all, see that they are all accounted for. Let none escape.” The man swallowed, failing to conceal the flash of fear in his eyes.
“A wise move, my lord. It would be most unfortunate if any of the Shadow Sisters were to escape,” the mage said.
“Gods curse them,” Normand grumbled.
A roar went up from the besiegers as the first missiles hit home. Huge rocks struck the walls with mighty crashes, while flaming barrels filled with tar rained fire down on top of the defenders. Normand imagined the panic the barrage would cause inside the citadel.
“For how long will you assault the city thus?” the mage asked.
“For as long as it takes,” the duke answered as he turned back towards his tent.
“Where are you going now, my lord?”
“To do as you suggested,” Normand answered before ducking low inside the tent. “To get some sleep. Wake me when the walls have been breached.”
“Sleep well, my lord.” The mage bowed low.
***
The boatman stood anxiously on the quayside. He licked his lips as he scanned the empty dock. A thick mist had risen suddenly, obscuring the light of the silver moon. It was an unusual assignment to be called out so late at night. The river was a treacherous stretch of water in the middle of the day, he was not happy having to navigate it in the inky black of night. His heart beat rapidly as he heard boots clicking off the cobblestones. His breath caught in his throat when a hooded figure emerged from the mist. His natural inclination was to tip his head in deference. He swallowed hard as the stranger brushed past him. He caught the scent of jasmine in the air.
Afraid to make eye contact or even look in the direction of the black-cloaked passenger, the boatman dipped his oars into the slow-moving water and began to row. His instructions were to collect one passenger and return to the castle. That was it, see nothing, say nothing. The sound of the oars gently pushing the water brought some sense of peace to his anxious mind.
Normand paced the empty hall, his steps echoing from the flagstones. In the hearth a fire blazed. Above it, pinned to the stone wall, his banner rippled in the heat, a red dragon on a green background. It never ceased to invigorate him, to remind him of the glory he had earned leading his Dragon Knights into battle. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.
A serving girl approached, her eyes to the floor. He arched an eyebrow. A pretty wench, he thought. “Come here girl!” he barked.
Nervously she approached. He smiled at the sight of her heaving chest. He could feel his blood rising at the power he held over this girl.
“Yes, s-s-sir,” she said. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling the prickle of his whiskers on his skin.
“You are a pretty little thing.” He leered. He was the king of the castle, he could do whatever he liked. He reached out and took a blonde curl in his hand, wrapped it around his finger as he pulled her towards him. She whimpered, but did not struggle. She knew her place. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of skirt as he pushed her against a wall.
Looking her in the eye, he could see tears glisten.
“My lord, the barge has arrived,” a male voice said from behind him.
Normand snapped his attention around and released the serving girl. “Excellent.” He beamed, before marching into his bedchamber. It was a fitting place for a duke to slumber. Weapons and banners adorned the walls, animal furs were sprawled about the floor, a fire blazed, casting an orange glow about the room. Normand waited impatiently.
“My lord, your… guest,” a servant announced. The duke’s lip curled into a sneer, as the man led a figure concealed by a dark hooded-cloak into his bedchamber. “The High Priestess Elandrial.”
He could hardly contain himself. Elandrial herself was here, his prize, his spoils of war. He took a step towards her and pushed back her hood.
The Thieves Citadel had fallen, their small army vanquished, their treasuries plundered. Only one thing saved them from utter destruction. They had only one thing left to offer to save themselves from annihilation.
Her green eyes shone in the firelight. He could not help but gasp at her beauty, her skin, so pale and soft, her hair jet black, her lips so full. She was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. He was almost afraid to touch her lest she would be revealed as an apparition and would disappear… almost.
Lust raged like a wildfire through him. He yanked the cloak down from her shoulders. His eyes opened wide in surprise, she was naked. He drank in the sight of her body, her heavy, round breasts and pink nipples, the curve of her hip and neatly trimmed triangle of dark hair. Her eyes met his. His blazed with lust and passion, hers were blank and unreadable. Without a word or even a sign she dropped to her knees. He closed his eyes and gasped.
No, stop, he thought, this is too quick. He wanted to savour the moment, to savour her. With an enormous strength of will he pulled back and lifted her to her feet. Then he guided her onto the bed. She complied without objection. You’re enjoying this, he thought to himself, genuinely surprised at her reaction. His eyes travelled up the length of her, along her flat belly lingering on her breasts and hard nipples, to her face, creased in rapture. Her body tensed, and a gasp escaped her lips when he ran his hand up her bare leg. He could control himself no longer. She started to groan, pushing her hands against the back wall and wrapping her legs around his hips as his passion grew in intensity.
At first he didn’t notice her eyes glow, so busy was he wrapped in her warm embrace. He felt a sharp pain in his back, saw her face transform into a hideous mask of terror, all the while he drove into her. She rolled him over and straddled him as her teeth became fangs, her fingers ending in claws. Yet he could not stop, as he built to a crescendo. The mouth that had given him so much pleasure moments before was now a grotesque ruin of needle sharp teeth reaching for his throat. The priestess growled and hissed as she tore at his soft flesh, her face awash in his blood.
Suddenly she stiffened, and then wailed an ear-piercing shriek of pain. Standing over them both was the mage. In two hands he held a glowing spear which he drove into the priestess’s back. His mouth was moving, but Normand could not hear or understand the words at first.
“Wake up, my lord. Wake up!”
***
With a gasp and a shudder the duke was awake. He gulped down ragged breaths as he sat up straight. He swallowed hard, as he took in his surroundings, the small cot he used as a bed while campaigning, the canvas tent all around him. The mage. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming, my lord,” the older man answered.
“The Shadow Sisters?”
“Yes,” the mage confirmed.
Normand swung from the cot and stood up, looming over the mage. “I trusted you to protect me from those witches!” he bellowed. “You were to be my protector.”
“You yet live, my lord,” the unbowed mage answered, before turning his back on the duke and walking away.
Tomas: Woodvale Village
Moonlight poured through the open window, bathing the entwined couple in its silvery glow. A cool breeze caressed the glistening skin of the lovers, as two bodies and minds became one. Tomas gazed at his wife’s face, marvelling at her beauty. Her eyes were closed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, as he gently pinned her beneath him, clasping both of her slender wrists in his, much larger, hands; rough, calloused hands of a worker. She stretched her neck back, as she slid her legs over his hips. Blonde curls fanned out behind her, like waves on a sea of gold. She opened her eyes then; liquid sapphires looked into his own. He clam
ped his mouth to hers as an urgency built inside him, an unconquerable desire to possess, totally, the woman he loved, to give her his soul, even as she opened herself up to him. But, as their lovemaking built to a crescendo, a loud bang on the front door shook them from the moment. Whoever it was rapped again, urgently.
“The All Father curse whatever whoreson is banging on that door,” Tomas grumbled in a deep, cracking voice.
Aliss inhaled deep breaths as he rolled off her making the wooden-framed cot creak. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight when he stood on them. As he dragged a linen shirt over his head, he caught sight of her watching him, appraising his hard, muscular body.
“See who it is and come back to me, my love,” she said in a breathy voice, a smile twitched at the corner of full lips. A mouth to savour, a wicked thought slid into his head.
“Don’t move,” he said, pulling on coarse woollen breeches.
“I’ll be right here.” She grinned back.
The banging continued, the stout wooden door shaking under the onslaught. “Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he shouted back, becoming increasingly annoyed at the incessant knocking. Not to mention, concerned, at what could be so urgent at such an hour. He was the village blacksmith, who would need a batch of nails made, or a horse shod, in the depths of night? He paused and pulled down a crossbow hanging above the door and loaded a short arrow. Then he opened the door a crack. “Who is it?”
“Tomas, come quick!” He heard a familiar voice, although out of breath, and with an edge of panic to it.
“What is it, Comal?” he asked, recognising one of the young men of the village. The baker’s son if he remembered rightly.
“You need to come. Marjeri’s baby has been taken.”