Woes and Hose

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The damn hill just wouldn’t crest.

  But then it did, and Challe was in front of them. Like most small Ostland towns, its houses huddled close for protection and sported steep, dark shingle roofs, so they wouldn’t cave in from too much snow. There were golden lights in a few windows, inviting, beckoning. Torches marked the little stone bridge and the pathways around and through the village. The smell of pigs was unmistakable.

  The air was hazy with mist and chill, and color was rapidly bleeding away from the deepening gloom, making the distance hard to guess. Dick stared at bales of hay, half eaten through by the animals and pressed down by shaggy tarps, and the narrow riverstone-and-timber houses, all so much alike in the murky twilight.

  Close by, Challe looked less intimidating, but it did not look promising. Discarded tack, empty barrels, tools and wagon wheels hanging from walls, beaten garden plots. The sight of every village at the end of the winter. No sign of a cheerful brothel selling its services to weary travelers. Where would the whores be?

  “We should scout the town, Your Highness,” one of the guards said.

  Dick hadn’t told the soldiers where they were headed, because he didn’t want anyone in the castle to know, or worse, accidentally report his little caper to Old Fart. But now, they obviously knew what their destination was. Somehow, he was certain they had visited before.

  “It’s too cold and I need to get laid.” Dick frowned. He realized he didn’t really know where he was going. He inclined his head, and silently, Kief took the lead.

  Besides, this way, if there were any stray arrows from an angry local or a chance brigand, they ought to hit the bastard first.

  With Kief trailblazing toward salvation, Dick nudged his horse around a torch post, mindful of the animal’s fidgety character and the sputtering flames. The yellow glob quickly faded behind him, leaving him blinded for a moment. They followed a snaky path veering sharply left, and suddenly there, among the tightly huddled buildings, there was an inn with a dozen red lanterns hanging in front of its window panes. The wall paint was peeling, but it was shiny and yellow. Dick could hear music and smell roasted meat.

  I’m home!

  “Your Royal Highness, I present to you The Cherry,” Kief said with feigned formality.

  The three guards chuckled nervously. They obviously did not see the advantage of being here tonight, poor, misguided souls.

  Dick slid out of the saddle. The horse bucked, and Dick quickly retreated. “Don’t worry lads. You will get your share.”

  “We shouldn’t be here, Your Highness,” one of them whispered. Probably the same one as before.

  Dick brushed muck and dust off his trousers. “And why not?”

  “The countryside is not safe in the spring.”

  Dick looked at his cousin.

  The bastard was raking his hair. He shrugged. “There is some truth to that. But I’ve never had any incidents.”

  But you had no objections taking me out of the safety of the castle, you illegitimate whelping. Dick clapped. “You see? No incidents.”

  Another guard—Mathis, wasn’t it? Dick tried to remember—huffed loudly, wreathing his face in steam. He looked decidedly unconvinced.

  Only the Saint may stop me now, Dick thought. “Inside. All of you. It’s a royal order. You shall all get laid.”

  The Cherry was everything Dick had hoped for.

  It smelled of sickly sweet perfume and exotic fruit, of drinking and smoke and fornication, of silver and gold and lesser metals, of desperation, passion, and merciless business.

  It was nothing as grand as some of the finer establishments he had visited in bigger cities, but it was mighty impressive for a dank little hamlet three hours ride from Ostfort. The fact it had survived last year’s war also spoke volumes.

  As Dick expected, a figure moved to intercept them. A short, stocky man with a mustache and coal smears around his eyes. He was smiling the all-knowing smile of a perpetual profiteer. “Lord Kief. It is so good to see you again!”

  Lord Kief? The bastard was sure taking liberties. Dick said nothing. He offered a tight-lipped smirk at the proprietor. Girls were flocking close, helping disarm the guards of their cloaks and hesitation. The heat, the naked bodies, and the promise of ample food and sex quickly swayed their minds. The spring time worries about countryside banditry quickly dissipated inside the hazy anteroom.

  “I have brought some honored guests. Friends from afar. You will take good care of them.”

  The short man folded his arms and bowed reverently. “Most certainly, My Lord. I am Sheloya Flitz. At your service, Gentlemen.”

  Dick frowned. He couldn’t really place the man’s name, accent or looks. Probably from Belgoria or somewhere far to the southeast. Volkard might know. “The twins for me, please.”

  Sheloya looked mildly surprised at Dick’s request. “My lord does not wish to explore?”

  “My lord wishes to get laid.” The guards chuckled. Kief was grinning in a curious way. “Attend to it.”

  “It will only be a moment. Meanwhile, enjoy the company and the food.” Bowing again, the proprietor sauntered away.

  Dick quickly forgot the man as he was surrounded by beauties bearing trays of hot wine, dried figs and goat’s cheese. He immersed himself in a delightfully soft chair and nibbled from a girl’s hand. He admired their looks and cocked his ear at their strange dialects. A few of them spoke passable Richs, but then, they didn’t really need to. Master Volkard would surely be interested in learning more how The Cherry came to be—and more importantly—how it conducted its business. Coming through a war unscathed was an admirable skill.

  They spirited two of the guards right away. Kief lingered for a while longer, and then he was taken into a red-lit corridor. Finally, the proprietor came back. He wagged a stubby finger at Dietrich. “Follow me, My Lord.”

  Dick swallowed the last of the wine, pushed himself off the chair, and went into another corridor. The brothel was masterfully designed and decorated. It didn’t have the luxury or size of big houses, but every little cranny served a purpose. There were almost a dozen guests in the common room and twice as many women, and yet, it didn’t feel crowded.

  “Lord Kief speaks highly of you, My Lord. The twins are yours for the night. I am sure you will be delighted.”

  “I’d better be,” Dick murmured, handing a silver rod over. The man’s hands were cold, despite the heat. Forget him, the twins are waiting.

  Dietrich waited for Sheloya to walk away before he opened the door to the chamber. A finely carved wood, it bore the etched image of two identical figures holding hands. The smell was promising. Foreign flowers and fruits. The lighting was rosy, and he could see two shapes sprawled on a big bed inside.

  He stepped into the room.

  A moment later, he stepped out of the room.

  He blinked hard.

  Then he went searching after Sheloya Flitz.

  The proprietor was chatting to another patron, a broad-shouldered Nurflander by the looks of him, his face deeply scarred and menacing. Dietrich waited for a few moments before interrupting. “Where is my cou…Lord Kief?”

  Sheloya frowned, and his eyes vanished inside those charcoal rings. “Master? Already? What? Is something the matter?

  Dick flexed his fists a couple of times, trying to contain his anger. “Yes, something is the matter. The twins!”

  Sheloya inclined his head.

  “They are men!”

  Sheloya nodded. “Boys. Yes.”

  Dietrich fumed. “I thought they would be women!”

  The proprietor curled the end of his mustache. “Ah. A common mistake. If you prefer women, we can arrange that.”

  “Yes!”

  The Nurflander was glaring at him, displeased by the intrusion.

  Dick slid a hand down the back of his coat, where he kept a pair of holstered pistols. He smiled innocently at the brute.

  There was sudden noise from outside the brothel. Hoofbeats, growls,
shouts.

  Sheloya Flitz squealed. “Oh no!”

  The entire brothel went quiet. The girls were no longer languid or seductive. They were alert and focused, and within a heartbeat, they were gone from the common room, leaving behind a confused lot of drunk merchants and travelers.

  Dick reached and grabbed Sheloya’s striped gold robe. “What is happening?”

  “Bandits, My Lord. Do not worry. We will handle them soon enough.”

  More guests were filing out of the rooms, in varying states of distress, confusion, dishevelment, and outright fury at being interrupted. Kief was dressed, but his face was smeared in paint from whoever had kissed him. The three guards were there, too, strapping on their sword and pistol belts.

  “Bad timing,” Kief complained, smoothing his hair back.

  “You didn’t tell me the twins were boys!” Dick hissed.

  Kief shrugged. “Sorry about that. That’s why the Salabians and Koravs spared Challe. They thought the twins were a novelty. Plus, you know those fuckers. Sheep, goats, their own sisters, anything.” Then it dawned on his cousin. “So, you don’t actually like men?”

  Dick pushed past the bastard. “Sheloya, what now?”

  The proprietor raised his hands. “Stay calm. They will probably raid a house of two, take some livestock and leave. If you don’t resist them, there won’t be any bloodshed. They may also demand one of my girls. Or the twins.”

  Dick bristled. “You just let them be?”

  Sheloya grimaced. “It’s springtime, My Lord.”

  Dick listened to the slow, quiet confession. Thawing snows, hungry brigands, ineffective protection from the castle’s garrison. There had not been enough time for the king’s patrols to reassert their dominance of the roads and forests. The war had disrupted the balance of power in the region, and the criminals were taking advantage of the winter and chaos.

  Screams outside.

  I’m the Warden of the East, Dick thought inanely. This is my palatine now. This is my responsibility now. Father wants me to prove myself, I’ll prove myself.

  “After me!” Dick shouted, ignoring the curses from his guards. He deftly pulled the two pistols from their snug sheaths and rushed into the cold night.

  The brigands were mounted, wielding axes and torches. The big, curved blades frightened him, but the torches gave him just enough light to place his aim. The pistols cracked into the frosty air, and two men stumbled from their mounts.

  Kief ran out, a sword in his hands. The guards followed, their own blades drawn.

  Dick retreated behind a wall, put the smoking pistols on the frozen ground, and reached for a third weapon hidden in his boot. One of the horsemen was just coming ‘round the corner when Dick discharged the pistol in his face. Hot blood spattered his fine clothes.

  A fourth man was running toward him, on foot. Dick realized he didn’t have any more loaded pistols. He squared his shoulders, bracing for impact. Foolish, he thought a regretful instant later. My gallant stance won’t stop steel.

  Pain slithered through his belly as the man stabbed. They both lost footing and fell onto hard mud, rolling. Death didn’t hurt too much, Dick thought, wondering why he’d left the safety of the brothel rather than let his men sort it out. Must be lust violence.

  I am dying for Monrich. I hate you, Father! It should have been you dying for the realm!

  He wanted to do so much, to achieve so much, and now he would be denied all that. He felt indignation more than agony.

  Out of sheer stubbornness rather than any real desire to keep on fighting now that he had been mortally wounded, he kept on grappling and wrestling with his killer. The man was ferocious, but Dick was heavier. Still, he was soon out of breath with the brigand on top of him and trying to reach for his knife.

  The final blow comes. Sweet Saint, let the Monrich people know I did not avert my eyes from death.

  The weight was lifted off him, and the brigand’s slack body thumped by his side. One of the guards was standing there, panting, wiping blood from his cheeks. His sword dripping red onto Dick’s crotch.

  “Are you hurt, Your Royal Highness?”

  I will be noble in my demise… The tragic thoughts dissipated. Luckily, strangely, Dick felt no great pain. Just an irritation. His breath was labored but not any worse than a passionate runt.

  Maybe…

  Maybe he wasn’t dying?

  “Gert, is it?” Dick asked, panting from excitement.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the guard replied.

  “Move your blade away, you’re ruining my breeches!”

  Gert sidestepped. “Apologies, Your Highness. Are you wounded?”

  Dick remembered his stomach wound. Panicking, he patted his belly, expecting his fingers to sink into hot, wet guts. Instead, there was only a rent in his furs and silk, and a tiniest graze on his skin.

  Utter joy filled his lungs.

  He would get a chance to kill Old Fart after all!

  “I have masterfully deflected the lethal cut.”

  “Well done, Your Highness.” There was no trace of mockery in Gert’s voice.

  The brigands were retreating, Dick realized. Their dispirited cries in Korav faded into the night as the few survivors fled the village. He rose on all fours, and with Gert’s help, stood up, swaying with fatigue and bliss. He had fought a fierce enemy! Hand to hand! Master Udo’s training was paying off! Not that he intended to change his attitude toward Voytech’s spiritual brother, of course.

  “Well done, Your Highness,” Gert repeated. “Those first shots were spectacular. Very brave.”

  “I killed that one, too.” Dick pointed at the headless corpse a few steps away. He looked into the night. Now that the danger was gone, the villagers were coming out of their houses, terrified and relieved, coming to help.

  Behind him, the patrons and the women of The Cherry were standing in a semi-circle, watching him with admiration. This. This was what being Warden of the East was all about, he realized. In that moment, he could understand his father’s pride in war and killing.

  Then the sentiment passed.

  “Where’s Kief?”

  “I’m here,” his cousin rasped. He was leaning against a building. He looked injured.

  “A leg wound,” Mathis said, kneeling by the bastard.

  Dick pointed at the third guard; he didn’t remember his name. “You ride back to Ostfort. Get reinforcements and help. Quick. We will follow as fast as we can.”

  Kief slid down to the ground. “I will be all right, Dick.”

  You’d better be, Dick thought. Father would not appreciate even one of the Drechfieslings dying in a silly accident with brigands. It would undermine his authority. Especially once he learned it had happened just because Dick wanted to enjoy some innocent—if rightfully deserved—fun in a brothel.

  Dietrich glanced at Sheloya Flitz. The weasel must have a lot to tell about these brigands and the invasion last year. Valuable information that Dick definitely needed to learn. This meant coming back to Challe on another occasion. For questioning, contemplation, and deliberation.

  No twins next time, Dick thought, wondering if he’d ever get laid in this backward palatine.

  It was all his father’s fault.

  They bound Kief’s leg, helped him into the saddle, and rode back toward the castle.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Hero Returns

  “The ground shook, not with the drum of feet but with the thunder of throats, calling his name.”

  —HALIKI THE DEFT, MANOORI POET AND PHILOSOPHER, ON SHEYTAN OF ALALAB’S RETURN FROM THE FIRST BATTLE OF TEARS, 3RD CENTURY

  29th Day of the Month of Budding

  Ostfort was in an uproar when they returned. A company of twenty knights had intercepted them about an hour away from the castle and escorted them back to safety. The walls were lined with soldiers gripping arquebuses in nervous hands. The fort gates were open, teeming with still more armed men. They looked as if they expected an enemy army
to attack at any moment.

  “The Prince has returned!” someone shouted.

  “Praise the Saint,” a female voice added.

  The crowd parted and Dick rode past, followed by Kief. The bastard looked tired and cold, the pain of his injury finally registering now the heat of the fight had dissipated. Not to be upstaged by anyone, Dick quickly dismounted and helped his cousin, ignoring the questions, savoring the looks of admiration for his courage, command and decisiveness.

  Healers rushed close, gently edging him away. Dick hated the look of soft misery Kief spared the women as they gently lowered him onto a thick blanket, so he would not freeze pressed against the cold ground.

  Dick’s mood soured. The bastard was getting all the attention.

  “Your Royal Highness! Prince Dietrich! Are you hurt?”

  Someone actually cares for my wellbeing. Dietrich turned around slowly, making sure he was in absolute control. “I am whole.”

  Arnie exhaled all too loudly. Dick didn’t like the lad too much, he was all too emotional. Oh, he missed Crispin.

  But everyone else was focused on tending the bastard’s wound. He was left alone, with his rent shirt, his burning loins and his simmering anger.

  Not for long, though.

  Lieutenant Nils was the next to annoy him with his show of worry. “My Prince, I should have been informed!” The man’s voice carried, and suddenly half a dozen maids rushed forward, armed with hot water and towels and gut stitch.

  Dick swatted a hand that tried to dab blood off his jacket. “I appreciate your concern.”

  The lieutenant swallowed, some of his old chagrin coming back. “King Ulaf tasked me—”

  “The protocol dictates it’s the local garrison responsible for my safety now. You are not to blame.” Dick quickly realized Nils could be useful, especially when Dick needed discretion. He didn’t have too many allies in this forsaken castle, and he shouldn’t scorn his own household help. “I shall arrange that you are given personal charge of my protection in the future.”

  Nils blinked, surprised. “Very kind of you, My Prince.”