Lord of the West

Rebels and renegades

Synopsis

‘Some prices are just too high, no matter how much you may want something. The one thing you can't trade for your heart's desire is your heart.’


Enter a world of verdent forests, teaming cities, fairy groves, ancient tombs, haunted crossroads, lonely mountins, a world where demons are once more stirring, and ancient clan are the keepers of a secret that they willing kill to keep.....

When arcnane magic and primal lust are inextricably linked, the pursuit of power becomes only more fraught with danger, and excitement.

The handsome and brooding Lord Darcia leaves with his army to subdue a rebellion in the south march of his dukedom, a conflict he had thought that he had already fought himself clear of. But the actions of his dark and brutal past that he would rather forget keep coming back to haunt him.

Meanwhile in the corrupt and decedent imperial city of Mawnaws, taking advantage of the turmoil in the west Lord Terenet Edouard and his scheming wife Sienna plot the downfall of the young emperor.

Left behind by her Dark Lord in Bala, Daen is left puzzling over the latest turn in their turbulent relationship and his passionate but ambiguous parting shot. Troubled by the darkness and violence in her seductive lover she must decide whether she can stay at his side, a question that becomes more complicated when an old lover comes claiming that all he desires is her salvation.

Loke the demon sword is once more awakened, and his only desire is to wreak havoc and destruction down upon the world. Leoff Sheld the young warrior fights the demon for his sanity and control of his body, a battle that if he does not win will unleash chaos. Watching over him is the man who loves him, his closest friend the minstrel Vas who hopes to save the young man's soul buy obtaining his heart.

‘Love is not ours to command. We don't always get to choose what or who we love.’

The story continues with lovers, passions, ambitions, desires, friendships, revenge and pasts that refuse to lie quietly.


For those who want to skip to the sex secnes check out chapter 7 and 8.


A/N: This is the second part of a series, You can read it as a stand alone, but i would sujest you read the Heretic of the East first.

http://original.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600095592
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter one
The way of the sword



The Duke and his cavalcade rode in to the free burr town of Confluence to find it seething with armed men. The streets resounded with the clash of steal, and the spring sunshine reflected brightly on the blades, polished shields and the plate armor of knights. The Duke’s faithful vassals were poring in to the large burr town to answer his summons. From the border forts came his soldiers, infantry from the fortified towns, from the castles his loyal lords brought their knights even to the very north they came to join the Duke at his war council.

Confluence was a thriving comunity almost as large a Bala the Duke's capital built with stone lower storys and timber framed upers that hung over the streets. It was the first of the towns in the south that had been granted its independence from any feudal over lord but the Duke of Marchadia himself. Darcia could still remember his grandfather granting the town its charter when he was still but a boy. The Duke had often used the town as a base to launch raids in to the south. It was loyal to him; the raven emblem banner flying high above its ramparts was testimony to that. And more importantly it was defended on both sides by the confluence of two rivers as well as its own thick stone walls. It was here that as a young man he had been welcomed when the first attempt on his life was made two days after his father had died. It was here that he had planed to take back the south ten years ago.

A large company met the Duke on his entry to the town. Alwen a young knight acting as Lord Darcia’s squire watched with interest matching names to faces. There was many grate men amongst those greeting the Duke, Lord Lieuvin, and his cousin Lord Perche as well as his brood of warrior son’s, the war like Lord Auge, and the quieter but no less dangerous Lord Eviecrin all men who held lands on the western border. They were men who had fought many campaigns with the young duke at their head. There were many others, amongst them was an older man who the Duke embraced warmly. It was Lord Alistair his kinsman through marriage. The old gentleman smiled warmly, his stride however was stiff as if a little pained.

Lord Darcia’s voice was a quiet rumble, Alwen had to strain his ears to hear what he was saying to one of his oldest and staunches to supporters. ‘My friend you did not need to come in person. Some one need to guard the borders for me.’

‘My lady Roslyn is more than capable of watching over my lands.’ The dignified gentleman said with a dismissive wave of his gauntleted hand. ‘I know what you are trying to do Andras and it won’t work.’

The Duke’s voice was placating. ‘It is not wise.’

‘I have been swinging this sword for more years than you have been walking.’ Lord Alistair answered levelly. That’s the problem Alwen thought to himself. Lord Darcia gave him a hard look, a look that Alwen would have cowered under but Lord Alistair laughed and drawing his sword with practiced ease swung at their Duke in what could have been a killing blow. ‘Insolent pup remember who helped to teach you how to wheeled a sword?’

Darcia let out a low laugh his own sword out in an instant blocked it, his fierce smile hidden behind his helmet. ‘It looks like I have learned some things since then.’ He said, as he sheathed Bherith.

‘Not to mind your elders.’ The old man smiled his teeth still strong and white though his face was worn, ‘I may be an old dog my boy, but I still have my teeth!’

‘So I see my old friend, I apologize.’ Lord Darcia said removing his ebony helmate revelling a hansom face, masculine and ascetic. He had strong dark brows, beneeth which were capatavting gray eyes. An aristocrat his skin was pale, which made his mindight black hair only the more striking. A tall man, straping and vigerous a man in his pride and a man who men could proudly folow for he did not just cary a swrod for decoration.


Alwen thought that he would have been a bundle of nerves, the last battle he was in had disgusted and terified him right to his very core but in actual fact he was so busy that he had no time to think on anything much less any time to indulge in fears or doubts. At night he slept deeply losing consciousness as soon as he hit the palate as only young men can. he began to realise that his Lord was purposefuly keeping him tierd.

He followed Lord Darcia all day like a hound, his squire, his shadow. Beside the Duke Captain Faorin and Captain Kef advised him, but he outstripped them. A demon of energy seemed to possess their duke; and they panted behind him in spirit just as Alwen panted behind him in body. Alwen rode behind Lord Darcia, jogged behind him to keep up with the nobles swift stride, stood behind him in council, slept at his door, and even carried his standard as Lord Darcia galloped up and down the lines of his troops. Men lifted their brows at this, some looked jealously, some sneered but Alwen did not care, not while the Duke’s commanding voice called a twenty times a day ‘Alwen!’

Men grate and small all continued thronged in to the town over the next two days as Lord Darcia awaited a reply on his ultimatum. A stark demand that the rebles submit to theire overlord and face his juctice. No compramise, no discussion it was an order from a man who was used to being obayed. The rebels reply was swift and decisive, as news came to the Duke of a raid on the free town of Longford. Lord Darcia’s eyes had burned with a cold fire as he ordered his men to start donning their battle harness and setting up lines, for his justice would be swift and hard.

‘Not bad, not bad!’ Veoine nodded leaning against a tavern wall watching Lord Rhyl and his young son Gethin of Rhyl ride in to the town at the head of his men.

Kef said shaking his grated head gloomily. ‘Do you see the Lord’s of Moyon or Sever? Where are Walter Panthe and his kin? What word comes from the shores of Yvaren? We shall pit our strength against them on the battlefield. We will not see them before I will bet seventy heads on that!’

Even Veoine who loved gambling more than he liked to sleep or eat was unwilling to take that bet. This was a full scale rebellion, not just a petulant vassal throwing his weight about as they had first hoped. Veoine glanced up at the room with the shutters open, where Lord Darcia sat with maps opened before him and gods knew what churning in his impenetrable mind. Daily Veoine watched as his noble cousin’s wroth was stirred. Lord Darcia was not a man to be provoked, he did not have a quick temper but once his passions were aroused he became a very, very dangerous man. An uprising could be put down, they had in there time settled many. Times were at least not as desperate as they had once been and Lord Darcia had yet to lose his arctic cool under pressure save once. Very little frightened Veoine, but his cousin could right down to his very bones. Still Lord Darcia was older now, wiser, by the goddesses they all were just through experience if nothing else.


‘Captain Faorin you look troubled?’ Alwen said late in the evening as he sat polishing Lord Darcia’s ebony colored amour in the large private room that lead to their respective bedrooms within the inn.

Veoine had been staring at Lord Darcia’s door, and then running his blue eyes over the armor that Alwen was working upon, his golden brown brows frowning and his mouth set in a flat line.

Veoine sighed, ‘I would rather he did not see the battle field.’

Kef harrumphed in disagreement ‘You sound like a woman. I have never seen a warrior to match our lord. Nor could anyone command like he.’

‘Godesses, I know that. The three sisters blessed him at birth, he was born to lead men.’ Veoine scowled, ‘I know he is very capable of taking care of himself in battle. I have little fear as ever for his health.’

‘Then what?’

‘It’s not good for any man to be in a battle, it can make you….lose yourself.’ Veoine shook his head, ‘It would have been better if he had brought filly along with him.’

Kef’s dark eyes flicked over Veoine’s sword and then he ran his hand over is own his mouth twitched in comprehension of some secret that Alwen was unawhere of, a secret that neither of the captains were willing to discuss in front of him.

Late in the night the day that news of Longford’s sack reached the ears of Lord Darcia he called his captain’s and the various leaders of the disparate groups of warriors to a council held in Confluence’s town hall. Torches were lit and the men summoned from their pallets.

The Duke’s captains stood calmly, Kef with his heavy muscled arms across his barrel chest awaiting there Lord’s appearance keeping others from approaching the dais with his dark glare alone. Alwen looked up at his blond mentor as his young ears picked up the low murmurings of the assembled group trying to guess what the Duke’s plans were.

Finally Lord Darcia appeared his stride crisp and purposeful. Lord Darcia was an ominous figure, His amour was deep black and decorated so that the paldrons looked like raven wings. His helmet had two wings sweeping back to look like horns. More like a demon than a hero. He stood calm and poised not bothering to use the dais, as only Captain Tann matched him in height. ‘All warriors together, none higher than the rest.’ He solemnly greeted his followers.

‘It seems that the rebels want a battle.’ He said his voice calm. ‘We shall oblige them and teach those curs a lesson they will not soon forget. They can attack me, but it is a coward who attacks the unprotected. It is not our way; it has never been our way. We shall meet then warrior for warrior and see just who the gods decide had the most just cause!’

A rumble of agreement rose from the gathered assembly. For the next half hour Lord Darcia laid out the details for his plans. Well past midnight and Alwen found himself flagging as he tried to listen to the plans. They would go along the high road, though it would take longer as it wound in amongst the mountains, and the weather would be more inclimate higher up they would not be as likely to be attacked.

Lord Darcia was fairly sure that there was a trap laid in the woods that ran along the trade road. The woods allowed for easy harrying tactics with its heavy cover. He had a large well armed army, he could not afford to split it up if they got harried, no it was far better to go by the mountains. Lord Darcia did not want any further civilian casualties; he wanted a battle though a war of attrition would be lest costly in his warrior’s lives.

‘This young knight demonstrated such a service risking his own life and leaving his family to serve not me, nor wishing for any reward, but to protect the people of this land, our land.’ He pointed to Alwen who flushed hotly at been so singled out. ‘It is our job as knights to protect, we must never forget that.’ Lord Darcia said, ‘Before pride, before honor, we serve.’

The room broke out in to conversation. Alwen allowed his gaze to rest on his lord’s unmasked face. Once more he fell to pondering the stern lord to whom he had sworn allegiance, who now had fallen silent his piece been said. It was impossible to tell what went on behind his lord’s eyes. They held a gleam however even when he seemed abstracted. His gaze was direct and often very disconcerting. Alwen thought that whatever a man might want to conceal from the Duke would surely be revealed under the ordeal of his hard stair.

From between his steal gray eyes was the Dukes strong almost aquiline nose which was at once haughty and masterful. His mouth was clearly defined, well curved, a little sardonic. It could smile with unexpected good humor, but in repose it had a stern look. His lips pressed together as if he guarded his secrets. In anger only a muscle in his cheek quivered. It had quivered as the scout relayed the sacking of Longford and other lesser settlements. Alwen had seen then that what passion the man held in him was curbed nearly always. Alwen thought back to Veoine’s warning, that if Darcia was ever truly provoked in to losing his firm control then the anger in him would sweep everything before it; kindness, justice and policy.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Daen stifled a yawn with her hand and then closed the book she had been half heartedly perusing out of want of something to do than any real desire to read. The stained glass windows in front of her desk were open letting in the cool moisture laden air that smelt of damp leafs. It had rained earlier, heavily spring showers that had drenched everything, sinking in deep to leave the temple gardens sodden and heavy.

The high priestess sat in a chair close to the small fire, her fingers working dexterously sewing an alter cloth; she glanced up at the sybilla for perhaps the hundredth time that day. She knew that had the girl not been reading and would soon would fall back in to staring sightlessly out of the window. All morning the young woman had sat watching the downpour, her chin on her palm.

The young woman she studied now was capable of such serenity and halcyon at times, but today it was nothing but a farce. Daen was very good at hiding her emotions, and for the past few days she had appeared as serene as a swan on a lake. You would only see it if you looked for it, the troubled look brewing in the girls green eyes, calm she might be on the surface, but underneath all that was a swirling tempest of emotions.

Moved from concern at Daen’s continued brooding she sought a way to distract the young woman’s thoughts and cleared her throat to talk. ‘Daen you have been very quiet the last few days. I expect you’re worried about the men. I wonder when we will hear any news from them?’ She continued probing for information, hoping that Daen would give her an indication at least of what Lord Darcia had said to the young woman before he left. ‘I expect that Lord Darcia will send word to you soon, he will probably want to know if you have had any visions of late that might help.’

The young woman’s eyes flashed in annoyance for a moment, her straight brows frowning before she stood, placing her hands on her lower back and it stretched out, easing the strain from it with a deep sigh. She stretched out her neck but only said, 'it is dreary today.’ Her viridian orbs continued to gaze in to the garden, ‘I am weary.’ The high priestess did not fail to notice the young woman brining her hand up to her breast where her fingers twiddled a concealed piece of jewelry. The high priestess wondered what it was but was certain that it had come from Lord Darcia. The young woman noticed the high priestess attention and tucked the necklace back in her blue robe seeming a little agitated then left the room.

Mummera was glad to see the younger woman a little ruffled and blushing like a maid discovered in her first crush; at least she was still feeling emotions and not just locking them away. The priestesses own mind was often as still as a bowl of water, a cultivated stillness born of years of practice, dedication, service and patience. But it was disturbing to see such stillness in one so young.

Daen when she had first turned up at the temple looking like the victim of a rape had not only spilled her story, but her emotions had spilled out as well, and the high Priestess had felt them whether she would or no. How one person could feel so much, or so many emotions, hope, despair, fear, loneliness, fear of loneliness, self hatred, loss, and love all these the girl could feel in the passage of minuets.

That first night Daen’s emotions had been like a heavy sent that had flavored the atmosphere. It had been partly to protect the sensitive priestesses from Daen’s mental overspill that the high priestess had been forced to sedate the girl. Then Daen had escaped, and disappeared for the night, presumably to see Lord Darcia but the next evening she had by her own choice come back to the temple and had remained for the last two weeks. However she was not quite the same, Daen seemed to have suddenly gone in on herself, impenetrable and nearly inscrutable, hidden. As bad as Andras the high priestess thought. She hoped that by offering Daen another option, a way out that she might at least force the girl to confront herself.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



The ducal army rode out along the high trade road that wound its way about the mountains. Here and there along the march they were joined by small contingents of southern men who remained loyal to the Duke. They were very few and from day to day Lord Darcia’s scouts brought news of the rebels advance.

Riding beside his Lord Alwen once more took in his savage and almost frightening design of his black armor. The raven design upon it reminded Alwen of the old legends, of the wælcyrige the moon goddess Lloer’s triplet daughter’s who were the saint’s of battle. Flying as a raven’s over the battle field they would allot death to men and govern victory. He hummed a refrain of their chant, a children’s rhyme in his head as they rode along.

‘With entrails of men,
This warp is heavy weighted
With heads of the slain,
Spears blood-besprinkled
For spindles we use,
Our loom ironbound,
And arrows our reels;
With swords for our shuttles
This war-tapestry we work;’

He sang the grim little ditty over and over, trying to remember other verses, thinking that in adventure stories they always forgot to say about the mind numbing tedium there was of riding in between places, setting up camp, stag duty, cleaning harness, polishing armor and eating dull rations over and over. He almost wished that Lord Darcia had been wrong and that they would have a few skirmished in the mountains just to liven things up a little.

‘I’m surprised that Sindri is seeing this out.’ Lord Alistair commented riding his bright bay desterier as they listened to the latest report from the scouts.

Lord Darcia let out a low noise of agreement. ‘Indeed I had hoped that like last time if I flexed my muscles a little he would back down as he did last time. This is one of the largest armies I have ever amassed; he must know this by now.’

‘I wonder what has given him the confidence to go through with it this time.’ Veoine pondered.

‘Confidence?’ Darcia shook his head, ‘No I wonder about his purpose. Surely he cannot think that he can defy me. I had never taken him for a fool before.’

The conversation made Alwen remember something, a stranger accompanying his brother, If only he knew who it had been. He looked up at the battle wised men discussing tactics in front of him and the words died in his mouth, who ever the man had been with his brother Goring he had hardly been a threat. The elaborate dressed imperial noble could barely sit a horse let alone make a battle plan. Still the thought niggled at the young man.

The poor peasant folk crowded about the roadside to watch the noble host ride past. Knights banners streaming colorfully in the wind, lead by the blood red banner with a black raven upon it that flapped above the Duke’s head. Refugees from the sacked towns trudged wearily along the side of the road. As the army passed they were engorged to go to the town of Confluence where money had been left by Lord Darcia to provide for them. There were open mouths and wide eyes, men nudged each other whispered, ‘There goes the Duke head to toe in black. Goddesses he look’s terrifying!’

‘He goes to take vengeance for us, to punish those who have taken our homes!’

A girl’s voice cried out shrilly, ‘Goddesses keep you my lord! Death to all your enemies!’

There was a general cheer, and voices rose in chorus ‘Goddesses aid! Goddesses aid!’ Lord Darcia rode by seemingly unmoved. Just as he seemed unmoved that the rebels army was not even half a days march away, come dawn they would draw their battle lines and let their blades decide.

That night Veoine had given Alwen a few strong tots of brandy to help him sleep and for that Alwen would be eternally grateful.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Lord Darcia lay on his back, his arm flung across his eyes. It had been a very long day. He had not for a long time, but as a younger man he sometimes lay awake unable to sleep his thoughts chasing themselves like hounds around, and around in his head.

At first he thought of those who followed him, everyone who walked the path behind him. Darcia had little worry on his own account, he had always known that he was destined to fight against the odds and survive. However not everyone was as strong as he was, all he could do was protect them where he could and hope that they could take care of themselves when he could not.

Lord Darcia had long since ceased to fear pain. Any pain he had learned be it physical, or emotional had a message. The information pain relayed about our life he saw was often remarkably specific, but it usually fell into one of two categories that: we would be more alive if we did more of this, or that, life would be more lovely if we did less of that. Once one understood pain's message, and followed its advice, then the pain would in theory go away. Right now his heart was aching.

He was so desperate that it was almost funny. No mater how trying the day was, no mater how burdened his mind was with planning his campaign and processing the information he needed he still had time to think about Daen. She was impossible even when he could not see or touch her, by the goddess she was impossible even when he had no business thinking about her. He was not a young man caught up in his first passionate romance, so why did he feel like one?

He missed her sent, he missed her humor, her smile, he even missed her temper little spitfire that she was though she tried to control it. He resented that he could not set things to right with her before he left, taking the burdens of his lands upon his broad shoulders once more. There was something not right about the whole situation, Lord Sindri should have fled by now, it reminded Lord Darcia of a chess game, someone unknown hand was moving the pieces, Darcia would be dammed to play by someone else rules! He was not a man to shrink from danger either. He who dares wins and Lord Darcia dared much. Tomorrow he would meet the rebels on the field of battle he would take the bate to find out who was holding the line. Still uncertainty troubled his decisive mind; he did not like to travel through the unknown in such a reckless way.

Closing his eyes he concentrated on the memories he had of her. Slowly an image formed in his mind. She had a lamp on, she to could not sleep. Darcia suddenly realized that he was dream walking not just imagining her anymore the vision of her in his mind soothing his raging need for her just a little. She stood in a small cell of a bedroom, the temple dorms perhaps. It annoyed him for no particular reason to not se her in their bed. He reminded himself that he was being unreasonable since he had after all requested that she say at the temple to await his return.


It was probably best that she stayed in the temple. Lord Darcia had been surprised over the new feelings that the woman stirred in his breast. He found himself to be a possessive man, almost violently so. Any man who touched Daen would not live long. He had always been a passionate man, but he had learned to curb himself, self discipline and his iron will had always been paramount. But around Daen he could feel them cracking.

Daen was small boned, with elfin features. She remained Lord Darcia of a small queen house cat, lithe, fierce yet soft and affectionate. A wild animal who was tamed only because it suited her. And because of that she could, he hoped understand the wildness in him. She had a narrow waist with high full breasts; her hips flared out exquisitely and down her back was a fall of rich brown hair that ranged in shade from chestnut to mahogany. Verdigris eyes stared out of the window veiled by thick black lashes. She was combing out her glossy locks before plating them for bed.

Her brows were drawn in a frown, faint lines of strain hovered about her mouth. Lines he could so easily kiss away. He imagined standing behind her, running his strong calloused hands over her shoulders as he had so often done, easing the tension from them.

Daen tensed, held her breath, her eyes moving warily. He mentally brushed over her shoulders once more, pressing his body against hers. ‘Daen.’

‘How can you…?’

‘Sushh… It dose not matter. You cannot sleep little one?’ He said, instinctively she had opened up to him and he could feel her body was tired and yet sleep still refused to come. Daen did not answer him unsure of herself, unsure of him. And perhaps even a little afraid, he could not blame her he had hurt her, used her very ill. Still his heart felt like it skipped a beat uncomfortably at the thought that she might fear him. ‘Lay down little one.’ He commanded giving her a mental push.

‘Bossy even at a distance!’ She replied, half annoyed half amused with him. ‘I’m going to bed not because you have told me to but because I want to.’

‘Indeed.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘No.’

‘Well of all the arrogant things to say!’

He laughed at her annoyance. It was the fist time he had laughed in days. She scowled and turned over on the bed, rubbing her temples, she had a headache. ‘Little one you are in pain?’ He asked in gentle tones, solicitous.

The young woman let out a long sigh and turned over to lie on her back looking out of the window her small hand flung up on the pillow close to her face. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It’s been stoing you sleeping the last few nights.’ He stated not entirely sure how he knew it to be true. ‘Why have you not asked the Priestesses for healing herbs?’

‘I get them sometimes if I use my powers a lot it is nothing to worry about.’

‘You have been using your powers?’

‘I thought that I could try to have visions to help.’ She admitted. Daen felt Darcia’s almost hungry anticipation for information, before he could ask she answered. ‘I haven’t had a vision yet. I see nothing and all I have managed to achieve is a headache so far.’ Lord Darcia was touched by this gesture and longed to hold her close to him. He hoped that she could feel the mental hug he enveloped her in. it was a torment in its way like seeing sunshine through a window but not been able to bathe in it. ‘How long?’ She asked softly after a moment.

‘How long to what?’

‘Until this is all over?’

He was not sure what she was referring to. But decided that she probably meant how long until the latest conflict was over. ‘I do not know.’ He answered truthfully. ‘I ride to battle in the morrow. But rebellions are rarely quelled by just one battle I should be in the south a while yet.’

‘I could come and help you.’

‘No!’ He exclaimed harshly. He felt her hurt, her recoiling from him. ‘No,’ reiterated a little more gently. ‘I don’t want you in danger; a battlefield is mo place for a woman.’ He felt she would argue with him but when she approached him again perhaps she felt his determination and she retreated. It was true, the thought of Daen in danger was enough to unman him. But more importantly he did not want her to see what he sometimes was forced to become in order to fulfill his role as a Duke. He had to be cold, hard and totally ruthless. It was a side of him he hoped never to show her if he could help it.

‘You should go in that case, you need to rest.’ She said, her tone a trifle cold.

‘Not yet, I will stay with you until you fall asleep.’ He said, his tine though soft was imperious, unchangeable. She did not argue, but he felt the tension in her. She had not yet forgiven him entirely. But she was tired, she did miss him, despite that though she wanted to be left alone in her suffering.

Darcia decided to leave her with one last gift. He was not entirely sure he could do it, and likely as not he would be exhausted if he did succeeded, but with Bherith’s help just as he had when his evil witch of a godmother had torn open her mind he cast a spell about her to drag her down in to sleep. A deep sleep where even the pain in her temples could not find her, and with that he left her to return to the confines of his own body.

‘Master are you alright?’ Bherith the demon in his sword asked knowing the answer full well. Demon humor! Darcia did not dignify his demon with an answer, he groaned, his own head now aching with fatigue. And worse he was hard as a rock from just being mentally close to the young woman. How did she do that to him? Darcia's hand drifted down over his blanket, hovering over his groin. He could feel the heat from his erection like a brand just removed from the fire. He needed desperately to touch himself, to relieve the relentless pressure that was making his insides begin to cramp

Picturing her once again he let his ebony lashed fall to cover his sliver eyes as he decided to find some relief and hopefully distract himself from the pounding in his head. He imagined her face washed with heat as they tangled their naked limbs together. Though Lord Darcia had handled the young woman roughly when he needed to, for the most part he was gentle and sensuous when he made love kissing any skin available to him, and constantly stroking Daen’s silky skin to keep her in a state of mild frenzy. He remembered their various encounters; He pushed his hand beneath his sheet. He looked down his eyes running over the taught muscles of his heavily muscled abdomen to where his desire stood up proudly. He touched his thighs and felt how hot they were. They were damp with sweat, and clenched, the muscles bunching. His fingertips grazed the raven black hair at his groin.

He bit his lip stifling a moan as he ran his calloused hand touch himself between the legs. He rocked his hips forward and gasped as he griped his throbbing desire, making a tight channel in which to pump. He imagined Daen leaning over him, her satin hair trailing over his chest playfully, and her hot mouth with peach soft lips descending to suckle upon one of his nipples.

He wanted to be with Daen so badly that he wanted to roar her name to the heavens like a wounded god, he wanted her laid out before him, he wanted to lick and bite at her golden body. He wanted to taste Daen again and know that Daen permitted it, wanted it, was desperate for it because it was He. He wanted to hear his name upon he lips as she came.

Sweat beaded on Lord Darcia’s forehead as fire built in his groin. He sucked in his breath as he imagined Daen’s tongue twined around his thick, erect flesh. Her green, green eyes more flawless than emeralds gazing up at him lustrous with desire. His long, slow strokes upon his own turgid flesh began to pick up pace. He panted, open-mouthed, but lost his breath completely as his climax approached, his headache drowned in the pleasure that now rushed through his veins like boiling larva. He shivered as he did not allow himself to do when with a partner as the rush he longed for approached he arched against the mattress and spent himself with a broken cry. Hot, thick fluid, spurted out over his hand in spurts. Finally the tremors subsided and he relaxed back down, his racing heart beet rapidly slowing back to normal.

He sighed, content yet not. It was only a fraction of what he felt when making love with Daen, but tonight it would have to content his hungry body. The dark lord stood, naked without his sheets only his midnight black hair spilled about him. He wiped his spent desire on a wash cloth and took a long drink of water. This was going to be more testing than he first thought.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



The rebel army was drawn up along the bank of the Deluge River. Over the high ground descending from the mountain road the ducal troops, and saw at their feat the plane of Mein-es-dunes, without hill or valley or wood sloping gently to the east and the shore of the river in windswept bareness.

‘It’s a fine place for fighting, but it will be heavy going, ’ Remarked Lord Alistair riding abreast of Captain Veoine. ‘Sindri had chosen his ground well by the Goddesses!’

‘To well.’ Veoine replied thoughtfully. ‘This generalship is not like Lord Sindri’s. There is another with his hand in this of that I am certain, but who?’

Young Alwen who was riding just behind Captain Veoine looked at the silver gleam of the river in the distance and thought; there will be blood in the water, and dead men floating upon its surface. He wondered who of them would not wake to see the next days dawning.

Whether Lord Darcia suffered such misgivings it was impossible to tell. He spurred his pitch black desterier Gunnar in to a brick canter as though egger to come upon the field of battle. Alwen’s gray leaped after and the wind unfurled the standard that the duke’s squire carried showing the black raven upon the blood red ground. The Duke’s mantel flipped back to reveal the crimson lining to his dark cloak. Everything is red today Alwen thought, and it shall be a lot redder yet.

The Duke pulled up to speak with his Captains and the Lord’s one last time, finalizing the battle plans. Alwen did not listen, his thoughts ran through his mind like soap bubbles, attracting his attention but could not be captured. It was a moment of quiet. Alwen’s gray horse stamped restlessly, champing on is bit. The wind shivered the duke’s silk banner and bent the long grass so that it seemed to send a tremble all across the plain.

Alwen looked towards the rebel army in the distance drawn up in battle array. There standards fluttered aloft, and his traitorous eyes sought out his families crest and colors, but they were to far away and the light flashed off the metal tips of the spears brightly confusing the eye.

The quiet plane stretched out before him, and the Deluge ran untroubled through it unconcerned with the struggles of men, it’s rippling song unchanged. Alwen suddenly wished that the tranquility of this place might remain unspoiled. In his mind he could see the turf torn up under the shod hoofs of war horses, dead and wounded men laying on the riverbanks, drowning out the song of birds would be the clang and clash of metal and shouts of men in agony and anger. He mentally shook himself; men after all were born to fight. Seeking some kind of strength his eyes went to his Duke, who sat his head only slightly bent so that he might speak with his generals, but from the direction of his visor Alwen knew that Lord Darcia looked out towards the rebels.

Heralds from either side rode out and back again. But today it seemed that there would be no compromise. Alwen wound his gray’s rains more tightly about his wrist, and took a firmer grip about the duke’s standard that he carried noting the nervous sweat on his palms. He felt breathless, as if he had been running hard, and his heart skipped and leaped in his chest. He liked his lips, for they had suddenly gone very dry, had he wanted to speak he did not think he could have found the voice and so he prayed silently that he would bare himself as befitting one of the Duke’s household men at arms in this his first real fight.

Lord Darcia rode to the head of his men, drawing his stallion to a halt he stood unmoving looking out over the battlefield with eyes of granite. His black desterier nodded its grate head making the plate metal of its crinet that lay along its neck clink together. He looked powerful and ominous, dark and was so still for a moment. But not still like the eye of the storm, no he was the tempest itself caged only by his own iron will.

A hiss of metal. Like the hiss of a serpent as Lord Darcia drew Bherith from his sheath. The red ruby winked in the sun. The Duke held up his blade, no tremor in his strong arm and said the oldest of battle prayers, a savage evocation to be granted victory from the wælcyrige sisters, the Marchadian goddesses of war, his voice was compelling it was not quite an invocation, not quite a battle cry. ‘Forth now we will ride, then through the ranks rushing be busy where friend’s blows blithe give and take. After that let us steadfastly stand by the brave; then men shall mark mournful their shields red with gore to banners rush on. Mind, maidens, we spare not one life in the fray! We pray to you oh raven maids; oh coarse choosing sisters have charge of the slain!’

‘Rhoi er berson damwain, aharge enill!’ The men rejoined. ‘Put us to the test sisters of fate, grant us victory!’

Heavy silence like that after a thunder clap fell. The tension that Alwen felt only seemed to increase. Then the sharp order to charge rang out. Lord Darcia swung his sword forwards and his grate desterier bounded forwards. Suddenly Alwen was exited and not afraid anymore.

Alwen felt the army surge forward like a rising wave. Losing their rains to allow his horse to start from a halt in to a trot and then role in to a canter and then rumble on to a gallop. The hoof beets drummed out everything else, even the frantic beating of his own heart that echoed about his helmet. He counted the rhythm, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four….duh, duh, dum…..duh, duh, dum…..duh, duh, dum….. on and on rumbaing like thunder. He could not have stopped his horse had he wanted to its bit between its teeth; there was no going back now.

Alwen’s eyes caught in the corner of his eyes the grate bay head was abreast of him, he caught the swirl of a yellow mantel, caught the hard glint of light off a shield, but his attention was on his lord who rode his horse relentlessly forward just ahead of everyone leading the charge. Ahead of him the rebel army galloped towards them and he wondered what would happen when they crashed together. The shout of many voices rang now in his ears, and he to found himself shouting a voice joined in the chorus of ‘To the Duke, to the Duke!’

Bourn on the wind as if in reply came the rejoining voices of the rebels. ‘Death to the Duke!’ and ‘freedom to us all!’

The two armies came together with a crash that brought both of them to a jarring halt. Shield clashed against shield, lances were broken, swords clanged against amour and other blades. Maddened desteriers struck out with steal shod hoofs and lashed out with strong teeth.

There was a man down, he fell beneath trampling feat, he screamed and Alwen gritted his teeth refusing to look down to where lay. His grip was slick on the standard he held, but held it he did. His shield was raised slanted as Veoine had drilled him, shedding the blows of his enemies. He forced his young gray on after the Duke fighting his way through the press of warriors.

Someone cried out that Lord Alistair was down, there was a scuffle ahead. Lord Darcia drove his sword home and a rider fell. Alwen could see a bright bay horse struggling to stand riderless, its nostrils red and foaming, a spear wedged deep in its chest. ‘Get out of the way!’ Lord Darcia roared to someone. ‘Find Lord Alistair a horse now!’ Then Alwen had to turn his attention away as he defended himself from a sword thrust.

Alwen’s gray reared up and away from a man who having fallen fought valiantly on foot with his broken spear amongst the slain. Alwen yanked his horse aside and slashed downwards with all his strength. Blood spurted up his leg, wet and warm. He did not look at the damage he had inflicted; instead he swept on over the dead hacking his way to the duke’s side.

‘Death to the bastard!’ someone howled as they trued to slash at the banner that Alwen jealously guarded. Not this time Alwen thought grimly and his sword Veoine had gifted him with hissed through the air flashing deadly blue steal. The banner remained safe and the rebel went armless. Alwen shook the blood and the sweat from his eyes and yelled, out an inarticulate battle cry.

A man drove at him in a mad charge, and he recognized the heated face of Lord Moyon, with a smear of blood across his one cheek. Kef had been right he thought. And then Veoine appeared, his sword taking Moyon unawheres and knocking him to the ground, splitting him down to the sternum. ‘False traitor!’ Veoine snarled his blue eyes ablaze with a passion and hate that Alwen did not think the golden haired captain capable of. Alwen did not watch anymore as in the press he was swept forwards and finally found his way to the Dukes side where he waved the banner.

Lord Darcia fought with untiring energy. Foam from his desterier’s mouth speckled his person, but nothing else seemed to have touched the lord. Hand to hand he fought with his sword, his eyes sliver and glittering. He fought against a veteran warrior one of the best that the south had to offer, but the Duke’s blade beet his down and the Duke seized his advantage and slashed the man’s unguarded throat. Red blood gushed over the man’s tunic, as he fell to the floor with a gargling cry.

So intent upon his front Alwen was not watching his rear until Lord Darcia shouted him, ‘Alwen, mind your rear!’

Alwen turned his head in time to see a knight bearing down upon him, a spear headed straight for his chest. The assailant’s eyes just like Alwen’s own widened in horror on seeing Alwen’s profile and at the last moment the spears deadly aim altered and it sank deep in to Alwen’s gray horse instead of his heart. ‘Brother!’ he called out.

Both rider and horse went down, and so Alwen did not get a chance to see the warrior who seemed to have disappeared when he finally managed to escape the thrashing death throws of his beloved mount. He looked about franticly but did not see anyone who resembled his brother. Alwen crouched down by his young horse, stroking its grate head, until it groaned out it’s last breath, its liquid brown eyes staring unseeing at the sky. The young knight got up, numb and floundering.

An man with an mace was upon him, Alwen had no heart to dodge but a grate black body swing in to him. The black warhorse forced him to stumble over his own dead mount. Alwen stared up at his dark savior, his grim lord who in an instant had slain the mace barer. Eyes the same color as slate and just as hard glanced down at him. ‘You must not stay on the ground!’ Alwen had not more time to think as another man was upon him. He skipped away from the blade and snatching up his shield and the banner he caught a lose horse mounting it hastily to rejoin the fight.

For how long the melee lasted Alwen did not know. He kept beside the Duke with a terrier’s tenacity, snarling through his teeth as he guarded the banner from the many attempts made to cut it down. It was blood stained and dirty, but still Alwen managed to wave it over the Duke’s head rallying the loyal troops.

Alwen found that he was acting on instinct. Ever changing faces passed before him, if they came to close he would lash out automatically. The faces, tired, drawn, determined and blood splattered just as his was kept shifting before him like faces in an uneasy dream. For a while he could not hear, his ears numb to the shouts, the clang and the clamor, though every so often the scream of a dying horse would brake though the mental cotton in his ears and tears that had been flowing down his face would begin again even through he was to tired to feel any emotion other then determination to survive, and to hold the Duke’s banner aloft. The only other sound to brake through to him was the rallying call of Lord Darcia.

Captain Tann’s infantry who had been held back for the first initial charge now joined in the battle at a well chosen moment and fell upon the rebel’s flank. Lord Sindri was the first of the rebel Lord’s to leave. As the heap of dead grew the ducal troupes pressed on driving the rebels back to the deeper ground near the river he lost heart. And in his eyes it was easy to see the fear they held when he looked upon the sword wielding Duke. But it was when a small group of men left the field in an orderly retreat then true terror seemed to possess the southern lord. Casting his spear and shield from him he turned his horse from the battle and bending low over it’s neck spurred it on like a mad man to gallop across the plain as if the demons of legend were upon his heals.

From beside Alwen Lord Darcia seeing this let out a sudden harsh laugh. Alwen startled, the sound of Lord Darcia’s laughter recalling him to himself. He drew in a shuddering breath, remembering once again that he was a man, and he looked up with a bit of horror at the man who could laugh in amongst such carnage.

Darcia pointed with his blood wet sword to the fleeing figure of Lord Sindri. ‘The coward like a goose with its neck outstretched he flees and without his men!’ He said highly amused as the noise of battle began to die down and instead confused voices raised instead.

Alwen finally catching on to why his Lord’s eyes burned with mirth could not help laughing himself now as well, through more through relief. With Sindri gone that should brake them! He laughed in helpless gusts something near to sobs. Lord Darcia seemed to wait for him to finish and now spurred his horse forwards as Alwen followed. The young knight bit his lip as he began to shake uncontrollably, like someone in the grip of ague. Now that he was done with fighting Alwen took in the carnage, the smell of blood filled his nostrils, his tunic was covered with it, even the saddle of the borrowed horses was soaked in it, he suddenly felt like retching.

‘It will pass. Trust me.’ Lord Darcia said his voice alone giving Alwen the strength to sit in the saddle.

Those of the rebels who could left the field. Only one of the rebel’s contingents continued to fight with a sort of grim determination. Lord Perche’s eldest son Yvendras one of the most able warriors amongst the border men lay spread eagled where he fell under the remaining rebel’s hands. Alwen recognized the tenne colored shield with the elegant black stalk upon it instantly, as it was the very same man who had killed his horse from underneath him, his brother Arhlan. The man who still fought like a lion as he cried out ‘For freedom!’

‘By the sisters I would have a place about me for a man such as that!’ Lord Darcia said watching with scrutiny the man who refused to fall to his men.

The Deluge river was swollen with corpses, they drifted like bundles of fabric down stream. The rebels who were left were forced back in to the river, most casting away their shields, spears, and armor so that they could swim to the other side rather risking drowning to the Duke’s fury.

Ahrlan finally had to owe himself beaten and drew his men off in an organized and disciplined retreat. Kef wanted to chase the young knight and his men down seeing a threat in the discipline and skill of his men. But Lord Darcia much to Alwen’s guilty relief said ‘No, I charge you to let that man go!’

Thanks be to sisters that there were any left alive at all Alwen thought as he tired not to look at the body at his feat. It drew his eye irresistibly. Once it had been a man, it had once had a face to smile or frown. It had no face now, that part of the body batted and torn up by the hoofs that had stomped over it.

The Duke his visor raised so that he could wipe his brow saw that Alwen was staring, and he looked to see what was holding his squire’s attention. His dark brows twitched together, that was the only sign he gave of either pity or revulsion. ‘Come!’ he commanded and rode on.



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The magnificent, wise, and just emperor Sargon the thirteenth was bored. He was tiered as well, his head felt like someone was trying to fight their way out of his skull and yet he sat here listening to the talk of old men. Someone should have told him that a he had a meeting this morning if he had known he would not have drunk so much wine the night before. Or he could have moved the meeting to the afternoon. His mother the empress had prevented him from shirking off his wearisome duty saying only in an acid voice. 'The emperor may do as he pleases.' Of course he had had to go.

He couldn't even be bothered to look interested, why should he. He was the emperor after all and all this talk of sewers bored him. What did he care for sewers in the waterside? Sickness, phish everyone knew that the world would be better off without the scum that lived at the waterside, dregs of humanity at best, let an epidemic wipe them out. But he said nothing, he just rested his chin on his pale be-jeweled hand and sighed wearily looking out of the window to where some of the ladies of the court lounged on the grass enjoying the first of the spring sun and he desired to be amongst them.

Finally the meeting ended, and he left with a wet attempt at courtesy only his mothers stern glance forcing him to be civil to the wrinkled councilors. At the doorway he paused as he did before entering or exiting any room with people in it. His servants scuttled forward and fussed at the elaborate robe he wore, straightening the way it hung from his shoulders, arranging any braid that may have fallen out of line as he had idly played with them. Some days he wanted to smack them to make them stop fussing but that was not the way an emperor should behave. An emperor had to be perfection at all moments, or at least make the effort of perfection and it was the servant’s job to see he came as close as he could. Still he wished that sometimes they could forgo it. He sighed and another servant at once hurried forward to open the door for him. With quick strides he managed to leave them behind.

Sargon ran his fingers over his artfully dressed locks as he headed for the garden looking for the pretty young ladies who were as bright and wonderful as his caged song birds. The Palace, like many of the oldest and most important buildings in the empire, had been destroyed by fire and rebuilt many times over the course of its history. It has been destroyed and rebuilt eight times, two of them during the 250-year-long relatively peaceful period of the last two centuries or so. The version currently standing was completed within his father’s reign. The main building on the Palace Grounds included, among other halls, the hall for State Ceremonies, the hall of pools, Court Room, Imperial Study and library. However the only people allowed to set foot within the inner plaice was the emperor and his close family and then the women of his court or eunuchs.

Sargon came from one of the state rooms across the courtyard surrounded by cherry trees which were just beginning to blossom and up the marble stairs to stride through main hall lead to the central throne room. The Throne itself, called the Auran sat on an octagonal dais, five meters above the floor, and could be separated from the rest of the room by a curtain. The sliding door that hid the Emperor from view had an image’s of the saint Enkil’s life painted upon it, and nothing finer could be found in any temple.
The center of the main hall was surrounded by a long, thin hallway which surrounded the main wing of the open planed building. Right now Sargon scurried along it, hoping that no one spotted him through the delicate guided lattice work walls and delayed him.
The inner court lay to the west of the official buildings. It sprawled out beyond a high orange wall where no man might see (Sargon was not a man he was a living saint.) Opening the door and going through the gilded arch was often still a sudden shock. The official arias where state business was conducted were often austere, graceful but business like with pale walls and large open spaces. The inner court was sectioned off with drapes of silks, its pillars often made from fancifully decorated ceramics, and there was an abundance of stained glass everywhere. It was a symphony of light and colors almost too many but somehow their abundance did not cheapen them rather it looked like a grate garden. The emperor headed there now, wanting to escape his mother and the councilors who would continue to bore him with trivial matters. Why could they just not deal with such things, after all they had managed for years themselves why must they burden him now?
His long black hair was already getting a little greasy despite the lemon oil. His age was to blame apparently. It annoyed him greatly after all he was supposed to be the descendent of Enkil the prophet chosen by Daer the grate mother herself, lord of the earth, keeper of the divine laws, and the bringer of wisdom to men, surely with such a lineage Sargon should be free of such things as spot's, greasy skin and hair? He toyed with the idea of going for a bath. However before he could act on this desire councilor Gaius caught up with him beckoning him.

Sargon could hardly hide the disappointment he felt at the old man's unsought presence. But softening the blow a bit Sargon noticed Terent following his father. Sargon had always admired the fashionable cut of Terents clothing, and his certain air. More excitingly he noticed that Terent carried a rapier and rather than wearing his hair in courtly curls he had it bound back in a low warriors tale that appeared both martial and yet stylish. Terent wore a double breasted coat, its toggles heavy gold lace, on a long tightly fitting burgundy coat. Beneath those breached of pale primrose. It was a rich outfit, sumptuous but still conveyed an air of the military. Sargon was immediately intrigued and was determined to know more of Gaius’s son.