Lord of the West

Chapter 17
But scratch a Hero….


Night settled quietly over the sleepy market town of Rhodaden. Sitting benevolently above the town was its ancient temple. A vast sprawling complex attached to the Daern temple itself was the long disused hospital, and on the other side an inn for pilgrims that no longer visited. Most of the rooms were shut up, but the Priestess had kindly provided two more than adequate chambers for the young men.

Leoff watched as lamp by lamp went out in the town below. The night air was thick with the hum of small insects, clean pine, rhododendron flowers, and the faintest sent of incense. Thick foliage spilled on to the wooden veranda who’s edge he was now perched upon. Fireflies had come out, and now danced to music only they could hear, and the young man felt a measure of peace for the first time in what seemed months, the blood lust that seemed to lurk in his mind always, kept at bay for now at least. But perhaps it was just the blood loss making him dizzy, calm.

“Sir Sheld, if you are ready I would treat your wound.” The Priestess said her voice gentle and musical.

He nodded, wearily. Getting up he staggered slightly, Vas was there to support him on to the table. He sighed, the incense burning within the room soothing.

Leoff pulled off his shirt, aching now his muscles had cooled and the adrenalin had left his system. The priestess’s dark eyes moved over his body, lingering on the most recent scars, still shiny and pink. “So many.” She mumerd. Vas helped her remove Leoff’s blood soaked bandage. He flinched as the Priestess washed his wound with an herbal infusion. He did not want to look, he could feel that it was deep and would need time to heal.

She smiled, “Stings like demons.”

“Worse than salt water.” He agreed. She washed the blood away, and once he got used to the sting he found the warm water and her dexterous soft hands soothing. Leoff was natural taciturn, but the Priestess did not seem to mind this.

The young warrior found himself watching the Priestess as she opened a box of herbs, and set about making an ointment for his wounded arm in a pestle and mortar. The priestess wore an air of culture and agelessness in her flowing white robes, a thick black and red sash securing the fabric at her narrow waist, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore no adornments, and no cosmetics, yet all the same she did not lack any feminine charms.

“You have much skill.” Leoff comented.

“It is one of the arts of a Pristess. Though being one of the last of the Daeren order, these arts are being lost.”

“How serious is it?” Vas asked concerned.

“The wound is very deep. But it is clean.” The Pristess said examining it, before smoothing a paste of Comfrey, honey, garlic, and some obscure root gum in to the wound. “This is an old remedy, just as good as stitches. With rest it should heal in oh, six weeks or so. After what you have done for us, you are more than welcome to stay here while you convalesce.”

There was no way that he was going to wait six weeks. “We will stay tonight, but we cannot stay longer.” Leoff remembered his manners; he was the son of a prince after all, even if he was an unorthodox one. “Thank you for your hospitality priestess all the same.”

“But your arm.” She exclaimed. “You cannot think of traveling like this, it is not safe!”

“We will be fine Priestess. I have born worse. We have to retern to the Imperial city imediatly.”

"And report what you have seen here."

Leoff could not lie. "That is not our buisness, but we will do what we can."

Her dark brows rose faintly. “Being an Imperial agent must be a hard life. You have many recent scars.” A pale finger traced one of the marks from Leoff’s near death experience in the Arena.

“I guess so.” Vas said reluctantly.

The Priestess had not missed the looks between Leoff and Vas. She looked at the breast plate Vas wore. It was a good replication, but Leoff knew that it would not stand up to close scrutany. “You’re not really Imperial agents are you?”

Their silence spoke volumes.

“It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone.” She promised. “What you did was the single bravest thing that I have ever witnessed. What you are dosent realy matter. And please call me Renthe.”

Leoff met her deep brown eyes. He felt a stiring of intrest. Electricity. Conection. She realy was a very striking woman, perhaps not beautiful in the classical sense, but attractive. She had wide cheek bones, and large brown eyes, with full lips that reminded him of a pansy. "Renthe." He repeated, holding her gase for a moment longer then polite.

She blushed faintly, ducking her head. "I will show you your rooms."

Leoff stood, his head realed. He fell against the pristess only to be pulled back by Vas. "I'm so sorry. I must have lost more blood then I ....." Leoff's knees seemed to give out and he sank down to kneeling like some knight of old. "..thought."

"Perhaps a few days rest wont hurt." Vas said rufuly, helping Leoff up. "Don't worry Preitess, this is not the first time I have had to help him to bed."



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Dawn was shy of braking, and so deep in the woods its pale light did not penetrate far. It shone in pale silver flashes upon the shallow river, but darkness clung to the tree line like a sulky child to mother’s skirts. Fifteen of the Emperor’s Verangian guard made their way up stream, their horses picking their way over slippery stones, and shallow rapids. Dark and twisted woodland flanked either side, and was so crowded and overgrown with prickaly byre that it was impossible to pass this way on horseback by any other means then following the rivers channel.

They carried no torches to light their way, least it give away their stealthy progress. And at the base of the mountain they left the river, and following a stone slab road nearly wholly swallowed by the forest, until only an uneven trail remained which cut its way up the mountainside. They dismounted unable to pass any further, looking about one of the Verganian guard asked. “Is this the place?”

“Follow the river until it reaches the base of the mountain, find the hidden road until its end, where you will find a grove containing the ruins of a temple.” Lanare studied the scroll in his hand for a moment before he looked around the grove, his eyes taking in the mouldering ruins. “I suppose that could be a wall over there underneath all that ivy.”

“Now we are here, what do we do?”

“Now we have to find a door and open it.”

Koto shook his head. “It is like a fools errand.”

“Mayhap, but it is the young Sir Edouards orders. And the paper was sealed by the Emperor.”

“Imperial nobility! Queer bunch.” One of the guards commented sagely. “But this is not the oddest thing that we have been asked to do in service.” And from there a number of the older gaurds went on to speak of the outher strange whims of the Imperial nobility.

The wall turned out to be the remains of a tower, long fallen in upon itself, and there was indeed a doorway cut in to the mountainside itself, it’s door apparently untouched by age unlike the building around it, hidden behind an ivy shroud and down root choked steps. But despite there being no obvious bolts, or hole for a key it was shut fast and would not open. The men wondered if perhaps it was secured from the other side.

Koto waited on the surface, keeping a watch with the majority of others. Ancient trees crowded together, their dead fallen among them at odd angles, boulders, twisted roots, and mossy mounds making the ground between the trees look as if an army of legend had lain down to sleep amongst the trees and were blanketed in moss. Apart from the rattle of a curb chain, or the occasional clank of armour nothing broke oppressive silence, not even a bird’ s song disturbing the mausoleum like quality of it. At least any of Darcia’s men won’t see us through all these trees Koto thought. But then again if the Duke’s men were hiding amongst the trees there would be no way to tell. The foliage was so thick now that very little of the early morning light now penetrated, and it was only growing darker. As if dawn, or even spring itself had never reached these woods. Koto shivered in his cloak as frigid mists began to creep across the ground.

“The horses are restive.” He observed. “I don’t like this.”

“Eight.” Lanare murmured.

“Pardon?”

“Eight times you have said that you don’t like this since we set out. That makes sixty four times in total since we left Athalvard.” The Nhemian prince explained with suppressed annoyance. “Of course you don’t like this. We are deep in to enemy territory, on a fools errand. I don’t like it, but you don’t hear me whining like a whelp. Keep it up and Gier might overhear one day, and then you will really have something to whinge about!”

Koto flushed hotly. Lanare was right of course and he watched his back retreating as he stalked off to aid the party opening the door. As his father had said to him, in the Order, you do as you’re told, without argument, as it was the will of Helu.

Even if sometimes his will seemed very peculiar.

The young Nhmian knew that he was not a coward. His faith was strong and he feared the blade of no man. But something about this place was warning him away, making him want to volt upon his horse and gallop as far away from this place as he could. The longer he was there, the more instant that feeling became. And from the restless shifting of the other guards he knew that he was not alone in this.

He knew the moment that the door was opened. It was like the tole of a great bell, only there was no sound, only the resonance deep within his bones. A sudden gust of wind, like a wave braking blowing through the trees; only there was no wind. Koto realised with sudden alacrity why the Verangian guard had been chosen for such a task, for the door was sealed shut by more then just locks. Powerful magic, blood magic of the old kind was at work. He would have cried out in warning, but it was too late, and the deep silence of the grove was pierced by a blood curdling scream.

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Leoff's wound, and not to mention the inumrable bruses where aching, and after nearly a whole day unconcious he wonderd out on to the balcony just as evening fell, annoyed that he had missed a whole day, but willing to admit defeat - his body betraying him. Still he was healing. And as he chewed on some bitter willow bark, the pain receded.

He did not flinch at the sound of bare feet on the polished wood veranda behind him. He waited as they stayed and quietly watched him for a while. Leoff’s voice was low and quiet, but in the silence of the deep night he knew that the intruder heard him. “Good evening Sister Renthe.”

“How did you know….” The priestess asked surprised.

“I heard the rustle of your robes and could smell your perfume while you were standing in the door way Milady.”

“Oh. I came to take a breath of air, and saw you out here.” She said and then after a moment added, “I didn’t mean to disturb you, you must be tired.”

“After I slept the day away? No You’re not disturbing me.” Leoff replied. Quite the opposite he thought. “I’m sorry I must sound very rude.”

“No it’s alright I will leave.”

“Don’t.” Leoff stuttered but amended himself. Smooth Leoff. “I mean I would like the company. I’m sorry I’m bad at this sort of thing.”

She let out a small laugh. “You’re bad at what?”

He shrugged, “Polite nothings.”

“Oh I wouldn’t call them nothings.” She smiled as she came to kneel fluidly besides him. Her hair now unbound was a heavy fall of dark brown, almost black silk that fell right down to her waist, it smelt of the azaleas. Her skin was pale as milk, contrasting the dark curve of her lashes, and deep brown almost black of her eyes.

Leoff realized that he was staring and he looked away with a blush, glad that by the light of the moon she would not be able to see the boyish heat in his cheeks. “Your friend is a curious one.” She said after a moment. Leoff nodded glad that she had started the conversation for he had been tying himself in to knots trying to think of a topic. “I have been with him in the library. He has been watching over you. I thought he might like something to read, when he heard about the library he went to see for himself. You look surprised.”

“I am. I did not know he could read anything besides the trade tongue.”

“He can read Temle script well enough. But he is no scholar." She explaned. "The library is very old. He asked me to translate some rather obscure texts for him.”

Leoff wondered what Vas was about. “He is like a cat in to everything. I’m sorry that he disturbed you; he has a tendency to impose himself on people. ”

“No, no.” She laughed, in that cultured voice. “It’s been so long since we had a visitor to the libraries. It’s very sad, all those books and scrolls yet no one reads them apart from me. But I have to admit his tastes run along the morbid.”

“How so?”

“Well he was most interested in texts on demons. He’s pouring over the illustrations in one of the oldest texts right now.” Ah, that would explain it, he thought to himself. A small rueful smile twisted Leoff’s face. Trust Vas to be thinking of him, even now. “It is a strange interest.” The priestess sent him a searching look.

Momentarily afraid for his secret, he made sure that his cloak was covering Loke, and thought swiftly of a plausible excuse. “He is a minstrel, I expect he is planning a song.”

“I see. How wonderful.” She smiled.

Leoff told her of Vas’s considerable musical talents, unbeknown becoming more animated as he described his friend. “He likes to sing the great epics – and I’m not saying that he has not got a good voice, because he has – but his voice is much more suited to ballads. I don’t unusually like those insipid love songs. Vas just sings them softly, simply, but it moves me more then all that stupid warbling ever could.”

The Priestess’s eyes never left his face. “You two are very close.”

“He is like a brother to me.” Leoff confirmed.

“Were you boys together?”

“No. He is from the Cawmaw. We have travelled together since spring.”

The Priestess’s brown eyes opened wide in surprise. “But it seems that you have known once another for a very long time by the way you speak of each other?”

Leoff laughed, “Sometimes it feels like that. We are brother’s in arms, when you have to trust another with your life you must learn about each other quickly.”

“I see.” She said. “Then where are you from? It was obvious where Vasalion is form when I think of it, that darker skin and hair and that accent. But you know, I still have no idea where you are from, you are not from common stock I can tell by your address.”

“But then neither are you.”

She smiled. “My family is from this area, it is no secret, The D’Colombois. You still have not told me where you are from, the Northlands perhaps?”

Her curiosity made Leoff smile shyly. “I’m from all over really, but my father’s Nhemian.”

“How interesting!”

“Not really.” Leoff said dismissively.

“But it is.” The priestess replied, her warm brown eyes fixed upon him. Leoff was suddenly very aware that she had shifted closer, and that her thighs were now gently pressed against his own, warm through the fabric. “I have never traveled you see. I’m the youngest daughter of the lord here, and the high priestess of this temple has always been a member of our family, though I fear I may be the last. My father and brothers all died, i am the last of my family but as pristess i can not inherit.” She sighed, her expression turning sad for a moment. “I chose to live this life, and I do not regret it, but I like to hear the stories of other places.”

Leoff supposed that it would be alright to regale her with a few of his traveling tales, keeping rather vague over many of the details. But neither the less Rhenthe seemed charmed. She then began to tell him about the woes that had befallen the land under the new Shire reeve. From the old ruling family in this area, her elder brothers had died the same time as her father and mother, the Blood plague sparing only she. But as she had lay convalescing the Emporor’s government had appointed a Shire reeve, but seeing that he was an avaricious man with a black heart intent on forcing her to marry him, seeking to take advantage of her unprotected youth, she remembered an old tradition, and swore herself in to the service of the temple, becoming it’s priestess and avoiding that dire fate, hoping to protect her people in that role.

“You’re not what you seem.” She said.

“What do you mean?”

The priestess moved closer, her hand covering his when he would move. “You might not be Imperial agents. But you are not just nobody. You can still help us against the shire reeve can’t you? That man has bled this land dry since my father’s passing. No body knows that you are not Imperial agents but me, you could go to the Reeve.....”

Leoff’s heart was pounding. He could see the earnest entreaty in the woman’s eyes. Every instinct was telling him to run, that this was not his fight. He had other duties to attend to. “I…I think you might have the wrong idea about us. My companions and I we are only passing through, there is pressing business in the Imperial city which we cannot afford to tarry for, we did not lie about that. Vas was just thinking on his feet, it is a deception that we can not continue. Our armour will not fool evryone for long.”

Her hand fell away. He instantly missed it. “I see.” The priestess stood, the azalea sent filling his nose again as she moved. "You should not have interfered then. The Reeve will not be kept at bay for long. I know him, he will want to silence us all for fear of the Emporor finding out. He will come with more men, and we will not be able to stop him. It will be worse than before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not a sword.” Renthe replied sadly, but without reproach.


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The minstrel had observed that in life there were two kinds of people, Larks and Nightingales. Vas was a Nightingale. But Leoff was naturally an early riser, a lark. And it was on the threshold of the day that they met. Vas knew that brooding look. He came and sat besides his friend, who sat staring down at his demon blade with consideration, as if it was a horse he was intending to brake.

“Have you been up all-night?” Leoff asked softly.

The dark haired man rubbed at his stubble, “Do I look that rough?”

“A little, yeah.”

Trust Leoff to tell the harsh truth. Vas shrugged, looking down at the scrolls of his own writing in his hand. “It was worth it I think. I don’t think we are going to get another chance to access a library like that for some time. I think I may have found something’s that might be useful. You can take a look if you like.”

“Later, perhaps.” The Nehiman looked up at him, his hazel eyes oddly warm. “Thank you Vas for this.”

He felt encouraged by this and smiled. “It was nothing. There wasn’t much specifically on demon swords, but there are a lot of you know…. allusions and the like. Folk law, but even if they are just half truths its more then we know already. I just wish that we had more time. I suppose I should get an hour of sleep before we have to hit the road again.”

“We are not going.”

“If you just wake me…” Vas did another take. “Pardon?”

“We are not going.” Leoff reiterated. “I’m not going at any rate. I have started something here. I mean to see it through. These villagers need our help.”

Vas pressed his lips together in a funny gesture, a shrug of his lips. Before he sat down on the bed roll and made to pull the covers up.

“You’re not going to argue?”

Vas almost laughed, as if arguing with Leoff when he had made up his mind was even an option. He turned over to face the young man. “No.”

“You don’t think I’m being foolish?”

Vas considered this, and studied the firm purpose in the young man’s face, the animation there. Leoff the hero was back again, the young lion. His Leoff. “Probably, but when has that stopped us before? But are you fit for it?"

"It's not going to involve fighting, hopefuly." Leoff said. "Infact, its more in your line of work. We are going to make that Reeve belive that we realy are Imperial agents come to get him."


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Daen had been dosing, not quite ready to face the day even though her Lord had risen when dawn was only a faint gray line of the horizon, waking her with his lips brief salute upon her forehead. She suddenly jerked, as if doused with cold water. Frozen with terror she lay still, her heart beating franticly like a bird in a cage. She looked about fearfully, ready to spring from the bed. But as she pushed the heavy fall of her hair back away from her face she realized that there was nothing there, she was quite alone. It was not the first time she had woke like this, after the attempt on her life it was not unexpected. Still she had not felt this way for some time. Daen was ready to dismiss it as a bad dream. The young woman made her way to the duchess’s chambers adjoining Darcia’s own room, to dress for the day, washing her face in cold water to chase the lingering fumes of sleep away.


Something drew her to the balcony that looked over towards the northern mountains. It was a beautiful view, heavy woodland covered the lower slopes giving way to the snow packed peaks. The Palice itself was set on a spur at the base of one of the mountains; above them were the barrows of Darcia’s ancestors. Daen’s attention was once again drawn to the woodland, they were lovely, dark and deep. In the distance almost out of view beyond that sacred place a vast murder of crows were swarming in a black cloud. Leaning on the stone arch, she watched them for some minuets and wondered what was making them behave in such an odd way. After a while they settled back in the trees, like oil on water, before suddenly taking wing again, heading this time straight for Bala.

The black birds seemed to race towards the city, like some grim winged armies charge. Startled, Daen slammed fast the shutters, just as the crows raucous cries filled the air, swarming in the air about the windows. Cowering in a corner Daen listened as they pummeled against the wooden shutters, their calls angry, as one thwarted.

Terror froze her in place. Opening her eyes she would have swore that she saw a vast shadow stealing over the room, like a bird of prays wings opening, edging ominously towards her. She could practically taste the malevolence in the air, feeling her out. But then as suddenly as it had happened, the noise died away, and golden light seeped in through the cracks.

When she had caught her breath, the young woman tentatively opened the shutters. The day was fine, and noting seemed out of place. Almost in disbelief Daen stood looking over the helicon scene, and wondered whether she had just imagined it. But at her feat was an ebony feather. The whole episode made her feel quite sick, and as she nibbled upon a dry biscket she attempted to convince herself that there was some rational explanation for the birds odd behavior, but she could not think what.

Her first thought was to run and find Lord Darcia, he could have allied her fears with his presence alone, but it struck her as childish to run to him whenever something was bothering her, especially as he was concerned with more pressing matters then the rather peculiar behavior of a flock of carrion crows. They were all under a lot of strain, and she was inclined to believe that it had been little more than the result of an overought imagination.

Pacing about the plaice, attending to whatever jobs needed doing Daen hoped to put it out of her mind, but as the morning progressed she could not shake the feeling queasy feeling, a sense of impending doom. Instinct perhaps, or her magic, Daen had always simply called them her hunches – those feelings that nagged at her and would not go away. Too often she had ignored them at her peril, reason wining out over those rather nebulous emotions.

But as the day wore on she became more and more certain of one thing; that something very powerful meant them harm. And it was coming.

Unable to ignore her feelings any more, she abruptly left her astonished ladies with no more word then she was going to find her Lord and ran down the stairs flinging a cloak over her blood red taffeta skirt, and black lace shirt calling for a horse to be saddled that instant. She did not quibble that the horse she was presented with was another lady’s hack, or spurn the honor guard who accompanied her, but nor did she wait for them as she rode out to find her betrothed and tell him…. Well she was not sure what yet, but she had time on the ride to decide how best to explain it to him.


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Vespa was clever.

But she was not nearly clever as she thought that she was. The blond captain watched her through narrowed eyes, Veione was on to her. From the moment Veione met Vespa, the young woman had made a habit of lying to him. She was proud, so proud that she would rather have died then admitted that she was tired, or afraid. It was one of the things that had first amused, and then attracted him. But the habit, like all habits could be incredibly frustrating; especially when Vespa tried oh so hard to disguise from everyone that she was suffering.

But Veione knew his old squire well, you see.

He had seen Vespa ecstatically happy, at her whit’s end, deep in love, raging in fury, desperately lonely, full of despair, full of wonder and hope. But more importantly he had born witness to Vespa carefully guarding all these emotions. It was Vespa's most common deceit: that cold shoulder, those hazel eyes hard as agate, her full lips curved in a mocking smirk, as she continued recklessly – when in fact she was ready to drop.

For the past four hours they had travelled through the wooded hills to watch over the Imperial encampment, setting up outposts. But unbeknown to many, Vespa had been wounded when they had routed the Imperial forces. Her light armour no real protection against the blow of a mace. When she had reported for duty Veione had seen at once that something was amiss by her unusual pallor, and the stiff way she held herself. He suspected that she at least had a few ribs broken, but from the way her arm was bound he wondered if there was more to it. Captain Vespa however had assured both himself and Lord Darcia that she was fine. But Veione trusted her ,and because of that, he had helped her convince Lord Darcia that she was fit for duty, earning as a reward a soft word of thanks, and a small smile from the woman.

But this was wrong. This wasn't worth it, she should have been convalescing in bed, she should have had those bones set at least – he would lay money on that she had been nowhere near a physician. The others didn't know Vespa they way he did, and she would refute all of it with a passion that would be entirely convincing. And the unavoidable truth, should he say anything – she would hate him for it.

Convincing Lord Darcia to send her back now would be the tricky, because Vespa revealed nothing. Her face was blank – if a little pale. When her gloved hands trembled around the reins, or a shuddery breath left her lips she blamed the cold. Veione alone knew it was a lie. Vespa was not fairing well.

Her horse would shoot forwards every few minuets. Vespa was not known for her placid mounts, and some might just see that the horse was in high spirits. But Veione knowing horse and rider, and had spotted that Vespa’s legs jerked in anguish at every jolt, her spurs biting in to the equine’s sensitive sides. And when the rouncy fretted, jerking at the bit, Veonie was furious to see that Vespa had tied the reins to the pommel of her saddle, as she held a hand to her sides.

Veione knew he had only himself to blame for this situation. He should have said no. He should have trusted his instincts and his memory of all the times when Vespa was his squire and had tried to fight when she was in no fit state. He should have known that she would try to deceive him, under self-imposed pressure, feeling that she needed to prove herself, the only woman amongst men. Worse she felt that she needed to prove herself as capable to him. As if she needed to! Captain Faorin would have laughed if he weren't so upset. Vespa was capable of doing things that few men could. True she would never have the strength of a man, but she was quick, ruthless, and dam cunning. She had survived the worst situations imaginable and saved the lives of their men innumerable times. Veione trusted her with his life, and the life of his men.

"Veione, are you alright?" Captain Brand asked softly.

"No, I'm not!" he snapped, regretting it immediately, he sighed. "I don't like this, they should have left," he said, letting apology ease his voice. "I hope this won’t turn in to a lengthy campaign. Our men have been fighting to long as it is, they need time to recover. The valleys are our most fertile lands, if they are not being cultivated soon then there will starvation to face this winter coming!"

Timor nodded in understanding. “It seems to be relentless. I own my men are weary.”

“Look Vespa can barely ride!” Veonie said. He frowned. “From the way that she is avoiding using that arm, I would say it’s broken.”

“If that's true, we should make her stop. Our Lord won’t be pleased if she kills herself." Timor replied, looking over at the Scout captain.

"Do you honestly think that Vespa will listen to us?" Veione scoffed. "And like it or not we can not afford her absence."

"But how can you let Vespa suffer like this? It is in your power as the Duke’s second in the field to send her back."

"She is more stubborn than I am cruel," Veione muttered. “Letting her carry on wounded, is better then hurting her pride, especially in front of the men.” It was a truth that made him feel very tired. "She won't spare herself, she never has. Since nothing I say or do short of knocking her senseless will stop her, I suppose I will just have to help her as much as she lets me. If she lets me.”

Timor shook his head, his expression thoughtful. “They say pride is the most grave of sins.”

“So it could be.” Veonie agreed. “But we are all guilty of it in one form or other. I must go report to our Lord.”




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The news that the Imperial army had only retreated as far as the Abby lake was in Lord Darcia’s words, disappointing; but it did not vex the Duke overly. He had hoped that last night’s surprise harrying would have dulled the Imperial forces marshal ardor, but it was apparently not to be as an Imperial herald arriving at dawns braking only brought with him more of the Emperor’s surly threats, alluding to some great disaster that would fall upon the Duke should he not capitulate. Lord Darcia had read the scroll through carefully, his chin pinched between his fingers and thumb as he was wont to do when considering something, though unmasked his stern face was nether the less inscrutable. He dismissed the man cordially, but offered no answer for the Emperor.

The Duke of Marchadia had said his piece, and it was not his custom to repeat himself to anyone, not even the Emperor.

He had ridden out soon after, accompanying his troops to the front line of his defenses, and directing from there. A map spread out before him as reports continued to come in. So it was no surprise when Captain Tann made his way in to the pavilion, his great bulk filling the doorway.

“M’Lord.” Kef bowed, typically gruff and businesslike. “My men have captured a number of Imperial troops close to the city boundaries.”

The Duke did not look up from his work. “Where?”

“They caught the worms in the old forest, just north east the mountain, just below Raven’s rock. Though what they could want there is beyond me.”

“How much room…”

“We have no room.” Kef said without preamble. “If they mean to lay siege to us there is not enough food. There is not even enough food for the men we already have.”

“I see.” Lord Darcia said, using the tone that Kef would know meant that he expected his Captain to sort the problem out on himself.

Captain Tann however was not deterred. “Besides, they are Verangian guard far too dangerous to keep.”


At this Lord Darcia’s dark head rose from his map, grey blue eyes suddenly keen as a hawks. “What did you say?”

“Verangian guard, ten of them.”

“Verangain guard, so far from the Emperor?” Darcia repeated. “I find it hard to believe.”

“It is true sire; you can come and see them for yourself.”

A suspicion crossed Lord Darcia’s mind. There was nothing that way, nothing but the tombs of his ancestors high on Raven rock, and impassable forest. There was nothing there apart from…... No they could not have…..but a Verangian guard, a Nhiman magic wielder…..

“Have you discovered their purpose?”

“Are they likely to tell us!? Those that have talked have spoke no sense. Mayhap they are trying to mount a surprise attack from the rear.” Kef offered helpfully.

“Perhaps.” Darcia nodded. “That would be the most likely explanation. I will come see them now, perhaps discover more if they are reluctant to speak, interegation was never your forte Capatin Tann.”

“Aye Sire.” Kef bowed. “But I fear that it will do little good. Closed mouthed bastards.”

“I will see them nether the less.”

Lord Darcia went with the Kef to look over the prisoners. At a glance he saw that Kef was right and that the Verangian guard’s men who might have been willing to talk were so frightened out of their whit’s that they were incapable of any coherent speech, the rest only looked on in churlish silence. But what was not said was quite enough to deepen Darcia’s suspicions, and his frown. Something had frightened these men, almost to the edge of madness.

It simply could not be. Darcia reasoned with himself. Uncharacteristically distracted Kef had to call him back to the matter at hand.

“Sire, what should I do with the prisoners?”

“They cannot be allowed to live.” Lord Darcia admitted reluctently, his eyes shadowed as he looked upon the poor unfortunates. “Hang them on the Mere’Ambras road, in the trees where the army is likely to come upon them. Then some good might come from this.”


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Wind hurtled down from the mountains and across the plane, bending the long grass, and rocking the trees. The ten bodies hanging from their branches swayed on their long ropes, like macabre puppets set to dancing.

Daen had not known what they were at first, but she was at no doubt as she rode closer. The way the road curved she had no choice but to file past the grizzly scene. Her eyes lingering upon it.

A knight galloped out to met her. “My Lady…” He panted. “My Lady, we did not expect you..” There was a censorious look cast at the guard of honour.

“It’s quite alright.” She said softly, not recognising her own voice, surprised that she could even manage such an automatic reply as she starred at the bodies on display. They might be in Imperial colours, but their armour was unmistakably Nhmian in style. Looking up at the swollen faces, eyes bulging out like cattle’s, and petrooding tongues they looked quite monstrous. Like the gargoyles that were craved in the cliffs back home, gurning faces that had haunted her childhood nightmares. The corpse’s limbs still gave the occasional twitch through she knew full well that no one could save them now.

Academically she knew that they were her Lord’s enemies. That there could be many more that they would have to kill to protect these lands……..but those were here people hanging from the trees; killed not by sword or war axe in the heat of battle, but in cold blood by rough rope, like criminals.

“Cut them down.” She said, a kerchief pressed to her mouth by a trembling hand.

“I regret that I can not oblige you My Lady.” The Knight replied. “The corpses are to remain on display.”

Daen winced and had to look away as one of the corpses was cut open with the efficency of a butcher dressing a pig, their bowls spilling out in a bloody ribbon. Hung and drawn. Near by crows jeered, already circling in wait. “On who’s orders?”

“His Graces.”

She spurred the hack on to canter in to the encampment, only drawing rein in front of the raven standard. Lord Darcia came from his pavilion to meet her. An impressive figure. A simple silver band upon his raven locks, his black fur mantel thrown carelessly back from his shoulders. He was so hansom that it almost broke her heart. “Daen, what are you doing here?”

After what she had just witnessed, she had quite forgot her mission. Throwing herself from the horse she all but threw herself at him, clutching at his mantel as he held her. “Oh those men, those poor poor wretched men.” She sobbed in to his shoulder. “Be so kind My Lord, take pitty, please take them down. Burn them or …or give them over to the temple…”

Lord Darcia’s gentle stroking of her hair paused. His voice was full of regret. “I am sory for it love. But it is done and they must serve as an example little one. The Emperor must fear us.”

Daen covered her mouth fighting back the rising bile. She saw the pile of stakes she had first assumed were for the ramparts, she remembered half snatches of conversation, she saw some of the bound prisoners from Rhayd, and horror dawned upon her.

“What do you plan to do with them? Will they share the same fate?” Daen asked barely more than a whisper as he followed her gaze. He did not answer her, looking gravely in to the distance. She swallowed, and repeated her question, this time her voice did not waver. “What do you plan to do with them Andras?”

“Do not demand of me that which you do not want the answer to little one.”

“You mean that I will not like the answer to.”

Lord Darcia exhaled with violence. “Child, leave it be!”

“I am not a child!” Daen exclaimed, as she caught his lapel. “Do not treat me as one.”

Darcia put her at arm’s length in frustration. “There are some things that you are better off not knowing. Alwen, come here boy. Lady Daen needs an escort to return her to Bala!” The young woman hardly knew what to do, as she found herself being tossed up on to the quivering mare. Darcia had the horse by the bridle and was baring her along towards where Alwen was franticly tugging Lonan along towards them. “You should not have come.”

Evidently she thought. She lent forewords least they be overheard. “You cannot hide this part of your life from me. I do not hide anything from you.”

“That is different.”

“What of trust, of standing side by side through everything?”

“And what of obedience?” Darcia growled. “That is also in the marriage vows.”

“We are not yet married! And we will not be unless you can take me in to your confidence!”

“Fine, as you will.” The Duke turned to face her at last. His jaw was clenched hard, the tell tale muscle twitching in his cheek, as his brows drew down to look saturnine. “They outnumber us twenty to one. But battle’s are not won by arms and numbers alone. You can beat and army before you ever face them. This is done through fear.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” His grey eyes, cold as granite bored in to hers, demanding and furious.

“But…but that is monstrous!”

“Monstrous.” He laughed bitterly. “I suppose it is. Have you not killed to preserve life?” His tone was so ironic, so bitter.

Lord Darcia, she knew wanted to comfort her, but he couldn't, the world was a cruel place where terrible things happened and justice was scarce, and he expected her to know this too. He expected her to be an adult about it and get on with things even without the hope of a happy ending. She let her gaze fall to the ground, feeling strongly ashamed. He was right of course. But she tried to use logic. "What if they had any useful information?"

“Would a Nheiman tell an enemy even to save their life’s?” He asked pitiously. She had no answer for him. “I thought not.”

A tear fell unchecked down her cheek. “I know you will not kill them while I am here. I know it. And you cannot make me go!I would rather kill myself then let you do what you are going to do!”

And he wouldn’t. The Duke swore softly. She knew that she had bound his hands.

"Look at me, Daen," he commanded.

The young woman could do nothing but. There was something cold as winter in his eyes, an expression she hadn't seen since she had first known him and run from him; her legs jerked slightly with the sudden, instinctive urge to flee this predatory creature that suddenly stood in the place of the man she had grown to care for so deeply - but she knew that this was Lord Darcia, who had risked so much for her so she stayed where she was, wondering if she had pushed him to far this time.

He was still staring at her, and then he said, very softly: "I do not gamble. Not with the life’s of my people, not with yours. You must listen, you must stay within the walls of the castle."

She could hear the promise of death, should she gamble and lose, in the words beneath the words.

And Daen wanted to tell him that she wouldn't, to swear to him that she would not risk her life, but that was an oath she could not keep, and then she just wanted to be angry. It was her choice to be here, and it would be she who decided which risks were worth it. And really, she thought with a small, hollow despair, the stakes were so high already that it seemed pointless not to go as far as she could. But Daen didn't say any of that. Instead, she swallowed around the lump in her throat and opened her mouth. "No, not until you promise that you will not kill them. I mean what i say, i will stab my own heart, or throw myself from the nearest ramparts."


His eyes narrowed a cold, significant fraction. He was angry with her now, angry that she would use his love for her as a weapon. Her throat clenched tight on itself. She feared to lose him more than anything, more than death and her hands tightened on the reins.

“Promise me this one thing, and I will do as you say.” She'd seen him avoid her eyes, and it hurt. The future loomed, and Daen quailed, wondering what kind of man her heart had bound her to.

And then came his answer. “Cut the men down, see them delivered to the temple.” He snarled angrily at his men.

"Thank you." She said softly.

He did not look at her now. Releasing his grip on her horses bit. “Go now, before I am tempted to school you with my whip as i once promiced you, and it would be less then you deserved!”

"Are you ever afraid of anything?" she wondered suddenly, her voice a little too loud. She didn't care, though - it seemed so important, now, to hear him say that yes, yes he felt dread and terror for more then just her beneath that cold facade; she had heard it in his voice the day that she had nearly been hit by a cross bow bolt. Her heart was pounding as she waited for his answer.

Finally he shifted his gaze to her. "Why should I fear anything," he asked, "when the only thing worth fearing is me?"

For the faintest, briefest of moments, Daen hated him fiercely. And some part of her wanted to laugh at the chilling truth. How arrogant – how very like him. How very tragic. That is not it. That is not the right answer, she thought savagely. Don't lie to me. He hated how his position forced him to compromise his honour, his soul, even as he gathered them to him.

But she didn't ask that.

"Go." He orderd again.

And she left, looking back at him. How much, she wondered, wanted to ask, do you fear yourself? Insted leaning in to him all she said was. "Andras' I am scaird."




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A/N:
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