by S E Meliers
The EAerymen went into a tavern. She rolled her eyes: no matter the man, good, bad, poor or wealthy, the siren’s call of inebriation would summon them at some point to drown their sorrows. She debated the value, and the risk, of lingering outside a tavern when a pair of hands seized her and dragged her into the narrow alley between the tavern and its neighbour. She was pushed firmly up against the wall, pinned there by a heavy body with her cheek and palms against cold stone.
‘What have we here,’ Ash murmured in her ear, nipping the lobe between his teeth.
‘You are very lucky I knew it was you,’ she replied with laughter. His hand explored the outer curve of breast, skinning down to her hip, to her rucked up skirts. ‘I could have killed you.’ She felt the rough catch of his palm against her outer thigh as he stroked upwards with an approving murmur. ‘You are mad,’ she said as his fingers crossed her mons and glided between her thighs. ‘I am not doing this… here,’ she half protested, even as her head fell back against his shoulder in sensual surrender.
His other hand crept up her ribcage, cupping her breast and running his thumb across her nipple. ‘Why ever not? Where else does a whore take her client, if not the shadowy recesses outside a tavern?’ he replied. She could tell by his tone that he was smiling. His hand stroked down from her breast, across her rib cage to her hip. He adjusted her skirts, trapping them beneath his palm. She shifted her weight to her toes, leaning heavily on the wall, the coarse stone rough textured against her skin, to accommodate his entry. He grunted as he sank deep. ‘You’re wet,’ he purred, his breath warm against her cheek.
‘And you’re hard,’ she retorted with humour and a gasp. ‘Shall we exchange adjectives or will you shut up and get on with it?’
‘I can do more than one thing at a time,’ he replied, his lips curving in a smile against her neck. She shivered at the promise in his tone, her skin tightening in reaction, hair on end, and supersensitised so that the whisper of his breath, the press of him against her back, the feel of the warmth from the palm that rested on her hip, were all as erotic as his unhurried glide within her and the hand that had moved to stroke where her flesh was most intensely pleasured.
The dim light in the alley flickered as people walked by on the street beyond oblivious to their activity. She found herself watching the opening, however; the part of her trained to be wary of attack whilst vulnerable would not let her relax enough to enjoy Ash’s skilled manipulations. She groaned in frustration.
‘Let it go,’ he said. ‘Let it go. We’ve got it. No one will come, no one will attack. Coal is watching for us. Just close your eyes, and let it go for once.’
She hesitated, before closing her eyes. Let it go, she willed herself. But doing so would be to place her trust in them. Did she trust them? She forced herself to focus, focus on the physical sensation. She could trust Coal enough to guard them; it was his twin, after all. Ash groaned against her cheek, and she felt him jerk as he came. He leaned against her, a hot, heavy blanket of flesh. Even though he had reached completion, he did not end their contact. He rubbed his finger in insistent circles around her clitoris. ‘Come,’ he whispered. And she did, with a helpless moan, trusting him to hold her up as her knees trembled. She sobbed her pleasure out against the stone wall. ‘Good,’ he was pleased.
Sanity returned and with it hot anger. ‘Get off me,’ she snapped pushing off from the wall and pulling free of him. She flattened her skirts feeling exposed and vulnerable, and shifted her glare from Ash, righting his own clothes, and Coal, who materialised from the shadows. ‘Is this some sort of game to you?’ she demanded. ‘Some sort of power play, or attempt to dominate me? I am not some weak, mewling wench you can control, so do not – do not- ’ her hands were shaking. She fisted them, crossed her arms across her chest and glowered.
The twins exchanged looks, but it was Coal who spoke: ‘It is not a game,’ he said, wisely not reaching out to touch her. ‘And we have no wish to dominate or control you.’
‘Then what-’ she unclenched her teeth. ‘What is this about?’
‘It is about you, and us,’ Ash leaned back against the wall with a sigh. ‘And nothing else.’
‘I do not understand you,’ she thrust her fingers into her hair in frustration, found it still bound up, and began randomly pulling out pins and dropping them to the floor. ‘I do not understand any of this. You make my head hurt. Forget it, just forget it.’ She pushed past them, and strode towards the street.
‘Wait,’ Coal said as he and Ash hurried up her as she reached the mouth of the alley. ‘We will walk with you.’
‘You cannot,’ she said. ‘I cannot be seen with you. I am a Hallow, remember?’
‘You do not look like a Hallow, today,’ Coal reminded her. ‘Today, you just look like you. Surely, no one will recognise you as a Hallow in what you are currently wearing?’
She hesitated.
‘We could walk down to the beach - maybe grab a skin of wine and a loaf of fresh baked bread. We can have a picnic, on the sand, and take a swim as the sun sets,’ Ash tempted.
She considered. It was tempting. ‘I have duties,’ she tempered.
‘Tomorrow is soon enough,’ Coal leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth lingeringly.
She gave in, sighed, and turned her face to him to taste his lips. ‘Just for a little while,’ she said. ‘I have things I need to do. Important things.’
‘So do I,’ he said; with different meaning and a mischievous smile.
She laughed, and the sound startled her.
Cedar
‘We are best to wait,’ Lovel cautioned as they watched the little melodrama play out from the safety of their hilly perch. ‘We do not know if they are Shoethalian or Rhyndelian, or what is happening. It would be unwise to simply rush in.’
‘We have not seen sign of Shoethalians so far west,’ Charity protested.
‘This may be that sign,’ Cedar murmured. ‘They are certainly not being warmly greeted by the villagers.’ The commander of the small band of soldiers was being rebuffed by a grey beard, the village head man, vehemently. The soldier persisted, his men taking stance to enforce his order, and from somewhere in the little crowd that had gathered in the packed dirt square to watch and support their leader a rain of rocks soared high to rain down on the armed intruders. They were not large enough to do any real damage, however the notion was quickly seconded – vegetables, offal, animal waste arced through the air with surprising accuracy. Infuriated, one of the armed men brandished a flaming torch, whilst others drew sword and aimed crossbows, trying to supress a suddenly unruly uprising.
The commander swung swiftly up onto his horse, using the added height to yell down at his men and the rioting villagers. The responding cry of outrage carried clearly across the distance separating Cedar’s cohorts and the village. ‘It may not be a good time to visit,’ Lovel commented as a volley of arrows scattered the peasants, felling several. An arc of blood turned the dirt muddy beneath trampling feet. On purpose, or by accident, the flaming torch caught a thatched roof alight, adding smoke and fire to the screams and blood.
It was over quickly. The peasants were untrained, armed only with tools, and, although greater in number, their quantity included the very young, the very old, and the very pregnant. The soldiers, on the other hand, were well armed, armoured, on horseback, and trained in warfare. When sufficient rebels had been cut down to quell the remainder, men and boys were separated from the villagers and marched out, leaving behind weeping womenfolk, the elderly, and the very young.
‘They are headed this way,’ Lovel took the reins of her lead horse. ‘We had best be off this path.’
‘Wait,’ Charity insisted, still peering down at the approaching soldiers and their prisoners. ‘I swear… that is the King’s emblem on those soldiers! It is the Rhyndelian army!’
‘That may be,’ Cedar was still wary considering what had unfolded below. ‘But they just massacred a bunch of peasants. They may not be the best of company right
now. If we fall back from the path, they will pass unseeing, and we can follow them and see what is happening.’
‘You are overcautious my friend!’ Charity clapped him on the shoulder. ‘They are Rhyndelians. There is no cause for fear. I am sure they had good cause for killing those peasants,’ he added with a casual dismissal of the suffering of the lower echelons that Cedar had witnessed him display too often for his taste; the callousness of a loftily removed nobleman.
Lovel had already guided her wagon back over the hill, indifferent to their actions, and was gone from sight. Cedar looked after her and sighed. He would prefer to be in hiding with her, however Charity was determined to stand and meet the approaching soldiers, and he could not abandon the Lord. ‘You had better be right,’ he said to Charity as the scout of the group neared them.
‘I am,’ Charity assured him. ‘Hail,’ he called to the scout, who aimed a crossbow at them.
‘Who are you and what is your business?’ the scout demanded.
“I am Lord Charity of Amori,’ Charity replied. ‘And I am travelling West to raise an army to take back Amori from the Shoethalian invaders.’
‘Oh, sure, and I am the Princess Faithful,’ the scout retorted, laughing.
‘I am Lord Charity of Amori,’ Charity ran his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘There must be some way to prove my identity to you.’ He turned to Cedar appealingly.
‘What do you think I can do?’ Cedar raised his eyebrows. ‘You are just someone I dragged out of the sea.’
‘Fine help you are,’ Charity grumbled. ‘I am the Lord of the Amori,’ he insisted to the scout. ‘See, golden hair, tall, educated-’
‘Conceited, haughty,’ Cedar muttered under his breath, amused.
Charity did not hear his words, but the tone earned Cedar a brief, stern frown. ‘- I can recite my lineage back to the days before record if you want,’ Charity declared, a vein prominent in his forehead. It had to hurt the man’s ego, Cedar ceded, to fall so swiftly and so hard.
‘Does not matter anyway,’ the scout shrugged. ‘You are Rhyndelian, and you look like you can carry a sword so you are now conscripted to the army. Congratulations, yeomen.’
‘Hey, now,’ Cedar protested realising he was included in this recruitment plan. ‘I am not Rhyndelian.’
‘Prove it,’ the scout challenged.
‘Do I sound like a Rhyndelian to you?’ Cedar demanded.
‘Sound enough like one to suit me,’ the scout did not care. ‘If you are not Rhyndelian, you might be Shoethalian. I would have to kill you then,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Well,’ Cedar glowered. ‘I am not Shoethalian.’
‘Prove it,’ the scout retorted, ‘by joining the army and marching against the Shoethalian invaders.’
‘It is my intention to join the King’s army in its march against the Shoethalians,’ Charity sighed wearily. ‘But I will do so as Lord Charity of the Amori. I cannot believe I am even having this conversation with a scout. I will speak with someone who actually has some intelligence and authority: your commander would be a good start. And when I sort this out, I will have you transferred to be the latrine digger of my unit for your cheek.’
‘Sure you will,’ the scout grinned, ‘Lord Charity,’ he mocked. ‘My commander, he was a friend of Lord Charity’s and mourned his loss, so you might want to reconsider your claim – I cannot promise that you’ll keep your head, elsewise. Shall I call him over?’
‘Fine,’ Charity smiled wolfishly. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘Wonderful,’ the scout signalled the approaching party. The unit’s commander spurred his horse forward.
‘And if I am the Lord Charity,’ Charity added watching the commander’s approach. ‘You will have plenty of time to reconsider your attitude whilst you dig those latrines.’
‘Sure,’ the scout replied. ‘Sir,’ he saluted the commander as he joined them. ‘This man claims to be - ’
‘My Lord Charity!’ the commander swung down off his horse and dropped to a knee on the path, head bowed. ‘We had heard you died. I am pleased – very pleased – to see that news was wrong.’
‘Diligence!’ Charity beamed, clasping the man by the shoulders. ‘I am lost for words with joy at seeing you. Get up man, and tell me: what is happening? Is His Majesty moving on the Shoethalians? Where do we stand? Are Truen and Lyendar holding? There was a lot of Shoethalian movement through that land as we travelled - I fear they are under siege.’
‘My Lord,’ Diligence regained his feet. ‘Let me get you a horse. My squadron will reach us any time now and there is dissent amongst our recruits -’
‘Is that what you call them?’ Cedar muttered under his breath. They did not hear him.
‘- so I need to get them to Guarn as swiftly as possible.’
‘Guarn,’ Charity grunted. ‘Horrible place.’
‘I will not disagree,’ Diligence smiled. ‘But it is the nearest stronghold to the lands currently in the grips of the invaders. Zeal, man, run back and organise a horse for the Lord Charity and his servant,’ he said to the scout. ‘Get Thrift to take point.’ Cedar considered clarifying his role, but his designation as Charity’s servant was getting him a horse, so he shrugged. As long as Charity didn’t get it into his head to start assigning him chores, he would go along with it. He mounted the mare offered happily: travelling by wagon was better than travelling by foot, but travelling horseback was more dignified then bouncing along in the wagon tray.
‘… fallen to the Shoethalians’ and with Lyendar it is only a matter of time. The King is unwilling to invest his entire army immediately to the battle. Almost three quarters of the available men are being held back. If the Shoethalians move beyond Guarn… ’ Diligence shook his head. ‘The four cities form the line between the civilised world and the barbaric. If Guarn falls, then the King will have to move decisively to protect the body of his Kingdom.’
‘He should invest more into ensuring Guarn does not fall,’ Charity said severely, displeased. ‘And in the recapture of Amori, Lyendar and Truen. We need to push the barbarians out, and swiftly.’
‘They are on a religious quest,’ Diligence spat into the dust. ‘The Zealots are driven, I will give them that much, and it has given them the advantage over us.’
‘And they are well organised,’ Charity added frowning. ‘I did not think they had it in them. I did not think they were much above cave dwelling, to be honest.’
‘You have a misconception on Shoethalians, then, my Lord,’ Cedar snorted. ‘They are more advanced, in some ways, than the Rhyndelians. Their medical skills, for example, by far exceed your own. In that, alone, they could defeat you: a healthy army is a strong army. They will not have to deal with outbreaks of cholera, dysentery and poxes as they have effective preventative measures for these maladies as well as treatments and ways of preventing further spread.’
‘How, in the name of the blessed Goddess, would you know?’ Diligence was astounded and suspicious.
‘That is a good question, Cedar,’ Charity concurred. ‘You are rather well educated for a peasant.’
‘I am not,’ Cedar sighed, ‘a peasant.’
‘Then what the abyss are you?’ Charity cursed without heat.
‘I am no one,’ Cedar shrugged, ‘haven’t been for almost half the years I was someone.’
‘That,’ Charity frowned and Cedar hid a smile as he could see the Lord was struggling with the math, ‘is not an acceptable answer.’
‘You have an interesting accent,’ Diligence commented.
‘Thank you,’ Cedar smiled wryly, although Diligence had not meant the comment as a compliment.
‘Where did you come by it, may I ask?’ Diligence’s hand rested casually on his sword hilt.
‘Well,’ Cedar considered insolently reaching for the sword on his hip, but decided the action would be too inflammatory. ‘There were a number of years spent in EAery, and of course I have resided in Rhyndel for quite some time, and I spent a
few years in Shoethal… so it is really a blend, I guess. I am rather well travelled.’
‘Suspiciously so, unless,’ Diligence’s fingers closed, ready to draw, ‘you are a spy.’
‘Come, now,’ Charity interceded. ‘Cedar is not a spy.’
‘No, I am not a spy,’ Cedar agreed. ‘Nor have I ever been one, though I understand it to be a fascinating profession. I have no interest in politics, the possession of land, or which god or goddess people pray to. My interests are of a more simple nature; a full belly, a warm body - both mine and one to lose myself in -’ he grinned amused by himself, ‘- perhaps the opportunity one day to see my features in a newborn’s face, and the means by which to keep my family fed and warm. Simple desires, for a simple man.’
‘Very nice,’ Diligence replied dryly. ‘But a man’s desires do not necessarily dictate his employ. I have known Kings who like to garden, and stable boys who have an interest in politics.’
‘Cedar is not a spy,’ Charity repeated.
‘No, I am not a spy,’ Cedar nodded pleasantly. ‘I am just a man who has travelled.’
‘Who is not a peasant,’ Diligence clarified dryly.
‘No, I would not class myself as a peasant,’ Cedar acceded. ‘I was fortunate enough to come from a distinguished family who afforded me exceptional tutors as a boy.’
‘A Rhyndelian family?’ Diligence pursued.
Cedar pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I do not own them, and they do not own me; therefore Rhyndelian or not does not matter. That is all I will say on the matter. Either take me as I am; or draw your sword,’ he growled in challenge, hand on hilt. Diligence drew an inch of his sword before Charity thrust his horse between the two.
‘Enough!’ Charity declared glaring from one to the other. ‘I vouch for Cedar, and that should be sufficient for all.’
‘I apologise,’ Diligence reluctantly let his sword resettle in his scabbard. ‘It should be enough; would have been enough in the past - but these are trying times and it is those times that flavour my response. I will not be alone in my suspicions of your man, my Lord. I will, however, cede those suspicions to those of higher authority then mine.’