Lord of the West

Behind blue eyes


Chapter Nine

Mists hung over the marshy lake Morlyn and shrouded the flat lands around castle Hereonwall. In the pale light of morning Captain Veione Faorin, the principle leader of Lord Darcia’s army, found himself the soul commander of in excess of two thousend men. Heronwall was the home of Lord Bute and it was the last fortress save the town of Morton before they reached Lord Sindri’s keep on the southern border. They had hung back last night, camping on the road. He saw no reason for subterfuge or even a swift attack. By hanging back within easy reach of the castle he knew that the rebel scouts would have reported to their commanders about the approaching army. Those within the castle would not have slept well that night knowing that the black Duke's army was camped only six miles distant and that greater castles had fallen under their relentless pressure.

Now two hours past dawn Veione had drawn the army up insight of the castle. In full battle array the lightning count approached the castle gates by the main road, accompanied by a herald and four of his men. His herald carried two banners, the black raven upon midnight blue engraved in silver; the standard of Marchadia, and another slightly paler blue with a golden swallow upon it, Veione’s own coat of arms.

They drew to a halt closer than perhaps was safe, and defiantly within arrow range. But Veione was if nothing daring and he recked the danger not. The herald in his velvet cap was equally calm; he had been put in dangerous positions by his captain too many times now to be in any way worried buy this. He cleared his throat and then called out to the defenders who were now gathering on the battlements.

“We wish to speak to your lord.”

No one moved, but a moment later they parted to allow another man to approach. He was not in the prime of his life, but he was not old and his fur lined cloak marked him out as somone of importance within the castle, the steward or the marshal perhaps. He looked down upon Veione and his men. “I will speak to my Lord? Is that the Count of Antivari?”

Veione pulled off his helmet, and ran a hand through his blond locks. It had been a long time since somone had referd to him as the Count of Antivari, years perhaps. “I have no love of that title. I do not come in a private capacity. I come as Captain Faorin, second in command of Lord Darcia’s army. And it is in the name of Lord Darcia, Duke of Marchadia, Prince of Bala, that I ask your Lord to surrender his arms!”

“Grant us some time to ask my lord.”

Veione bowed his head. “It is given. We shall return in an hour for your answer.”

It was the same for every siege, the same treating and posturing. Like dogs circiling, or stallions pawing the ground, the art of seige was all in the threat. Heronwall was a small castle, if they did not treat then Veione estimated that they could storm the defences in perhaps as little as two days. Though it depended entirely upon how many men at arms were within. Kef and Veione had not come in to contact with any of the rebels in their march,it was strange.

Lord Sindri’s army was reported to be regrouping at his newly fortified keep they had expected to run in to the odd band of woriors, but there were none, it was if they had disapeared in to the either. It made Veione uneasy to know that somewhere between here and the border one hundred or so men lead by Arhlan of Bute and the estimated three hundred who had escaped the sieges had disapreared. In all likelihood they were hiding out behind those walls, and would delay them further. Veione felt degected about this, a force of that sise could delay them for weeks, and Veione wanted the encounter to be over in days so that he to might join his Lord In the North. But it was all academic until they had Lord Bute’s answer.

Veione hated waiting. Patience was Lord Darcia’s game not his. Veione especially hated waiting when he wanted to keep something off his mind. He was a man of continuous action, if he was doing something he did not have to think. He did not have to think about his past, his father, his family, his failures, and he did not have to think about the way that Vespa had all but spat in his face when she left, and he had no idea what he had done. He did not have to think about what danger she was in now, or that he could not go to her, or that that last words they might have spoken would have been in anger. They had separated after arguments before, but never had he felt such acute emotional agony over it.

“Your fretting.”

“I’m not fretting.” Veione growled back.

Kef snorted and lent back in his camp bed. His dark gaze followed the blond captain’s restless movements. How he fiddled with his sword hilt, how he picked up the missives looking over them but not really reading them. He had been like this even before their Lord had left to releive Rhayd, he always got restive when he was not geting enough action in the form of the feminine persuasion.

Veione looked over at his friend, frowning. He looked down at the piece of paper he was twisting in his hands, with a sigh he set it a side. Perhaps he was fretting.

“The only time that you can tell that our Lord and you are related are on the rare occasions that you frown like that, or he smiles.” Kef observed.

Veione let out a low chuckle. “Are you expecting me to talk?”

“No.” Kef said. “I expect you to sit down like a civilised person, and not wriggle about like a six year old boy with ants in his pants. I know what your problem is and i dont want to hear about it.”

“Civilized?”

“Yes Civilized like.”

“I would rather stand.”

Kef sighed and crossed his arms. “Fine, but stop that pacing, it’s irritating.” They fell to a tense silence for a while. After a moment that silence was broken by the mournful call of a horn. Kef sat up sharply and listened practically holding his breath. The call came again. “What in the world is that?”

Veione turned his head, cocking it slightly listening. His lips twitched in a half smile. “It’s a very old Marchadian tradition.” Veione informed Kef. “You blow your horn when you approach a settlement to warning them of your approach, to show them that you’re not trying to sneak up on them. Or that you’re not just a spirit lost in the mist.”

“A spirit?” Kef snorted.

Veione shrugged. “Who knows what could be lurking in the mists?”

“You don’t seriously believe that do you?”

Veione’s blue eyes sparkled. “It’s little different from believing that our ancestors watch us from their burial mounds." The cavalry captain headed out of the tent, and walked to where men were gathering at the edge of their encampment. From out of the mists twelve horse men came in to view. All men at arms dressed in mail and cloaks. They walked placidly towards the camp. The man in front put up his had calling a halt and then he slipped off his horse. He was unarmoured and the only thing that marked his position was his fine fur cloak, trimed with ermin secured by a heavy gold clasp and the fine sword at his hip.

Veione approached him, noticing the mans slight limp, the result of an old battle wound. “Lord Bute.” Veione greeted him. The older man despite the neatness of his fading blond beard, and the brightness of his eyes looked haggard. Like a man who had spent many restless nights thinking over an impossible decision.

“Captain Faorin.” Lord Bute answered brusquely. “I don’t want to bandy words about. We offer you no fight on this day. I am willing to discuss terms and offer you the unconditional surrender of Heronwall. I open my gates to you and we can treat inside were I can offer you the proper hospitalities.”

‘Proper hospitalities oh yes?’ Veione looked thoughtfully at the older man. It had occurred to Veione that the man was seeking leniency, for he seemed relieved to be speaking to Veione, known to be of a more merciful deposition than his hard lord. Georg under his amused scrutiny stroked down his beard, unsure whether to be uncomfortable or annoyed. “You did not take part in the battles?”

“No.” Lord Bute answered truthfully.

“But your sons have.”

“Yes.” The older man then sighed.

“And your sons?”

“Their fates are their own to decide.”

“Wont they want their say in negotiations.”

“They may want their say. But I am Lord still at Heronwall.” Georg said decidedly. Veione could detect a hint of bitterness in the man’s words, it was the same note that his own father had used when discussing him. That was the cost of civil war, family and friends all sacrificed for beliefs. If Georg’s sons were half as bad as he was then he pitied Georg. The older man spoke again he seemed very tried, a man who had endured many sleepless nights. “I ask for very little only that you spare my people.”

‘Ah.’ Veione thought, ‘So that is where Alwen get’s his compassion from.’ He was tempted to tell the man to be proud of his youngest, that Alwen was an upright and brave young man, but Georg did not ask about him. Nor did Georg’s eyes search the crowd looking for his lost son, they remained firmly on Veione. It made Veione a little sad at how history seemed to repeat itself. Perhaps Alwen would be lucky; perhaps he would be reconciled with his family once the fighting was over, as Veione never had been. “You have my word.” Veione replied finally not voicing his other thoughts, “Offer us no treachery and you and your people will not be harmed.” Lord Bute had nodded, and then mounted his horse, and they left some kind of understanding reached. The cavalry Captain had met him on a few occasions before, he had been a man of few words then.

Kef was waiting his arms across his barrel chest. “Well?”

“He submitted. And offered us the hospitality of Heronwall to discuss terms.”

Kef’s black eyes widened momentarily in surprise and he laughed, “Hospitality, I know well the hospitality of the south. Like that time a few years back at Bouvanche castle, What are we going to do?”

“We will treat with them of course.” Veione responded. “How many men do you think I should take? Fifty seems a little to many, if they are in earnest they may think that we have gone back on our word. Perhaps just twenty five of my knights?”

“And what if they have a hundred of their men laying in wait for you behind their walls?” Lord Alistair responded.

“That is a possibility.” Veione conceded, he then laughed. “Then Kef will have to come and rescue me.”

Kef’s lips twitched in to a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time I have had to come and grab you by your ankles.”

Veione of course had his way, but it was not without the misgivings of many of his men, or his own. Like Lord Darcia however Veione entered the proverbial lion’s den with confidence in his own skill, his own sword, and the skills of his men. He had hand picked the knights that would accompany him, very one of them was a seasoned veteran who had proven their worth on many occasions. However it soon became apparent that his precautions were needless. There were perhaps only fifteen men at arms. The rest of the people within the castle were the local peasantry who huddled in groups, terrified by the presence of so many heavily armed knights.

If Lord Bute was offended by Veione’s lack of trust he did not say it. There was anger lurking in his eyes, resentment, but the older man held his tongue, couching it in strict civility. Veione suspected that a good healthy fear was the only thing that kept Lord Bute so tame. Still Veione did not want to ruffle too many feathers by overstaying his welcome and he was carful not to offend his reluctant host more than needs be. Especially as Lord Bute laid on ale and fresh food in the form of a handful of boar pigs for all his men. Dispite the older man’s caution and generosity Veione found himself out of patience with him. Lord Bute reminded Veione starkly of his father, and Veione had precious few memories of his father that were anything other than bitter. To his credit Veione realised that he was being unfair towards Georg. Lord Bute was a proud man, but he was trying to do what was best for his people, but Veione knew that he could not change his prejudice any more than he could touch the sun.

Within Heronwall they found there were signs that a larger force had recently resided within the castle recently. But that only lead to the question where was that force now? Scouts were sent out to find out just that as any lines of questioning in that direction had proved to be fruitless. And getting information out of Georg of Bute was like getting blood out of a stone. Even the terror that Captain Tann could bring to bare on people with just a dark glare and the meaningful cracking of his fingers was unsuccessful.

The first morning after arriving at Heronwall standing on it’s battlements Veione noticed the woodlands that lay to the east of the keep. They drew his attention. The steward of Heronwall had accompanied Veione. “That woodland there is called Heronwood. Fifty acres belong to my Lord, his land ends where the stream cuts through it, beyond that belongs to the town Pitbur, about oh another fifty runs on to Foldgate heath.”

“Does Lord Sindri hunt Heronwood?”

“No, his father did, as it lay close, but Lord Sindri prefers the great western woods.”

Veione thanked the steward and glanced meaningfully at one of his knights standing behind him. Half an hour later the knight returned and confirmed what Veione had suspected. “There were lots of horse tracks; recent ones, they could have been watching us last night.”

“How many?”

“Fifty horse at least.”

“Well it looks like we have found that missing army.” Veione said, he rubbed his hands together a plan forming in his swift mind. He took a hasty leave of Heronwall that very afternoon, leaving Lord Alistair behind to secure their position along with Kef’s infantry. Kef of course refused to remain behind even though he had protested the sudden removal from Heronwall, wanting to wait for Lord Darcia’s return. “Have you thought this through, we aren’t talking about hunting down a fox Veione!”

“I know that.” Veione had answered him. “But the rebel army is split we can catch them before they get to Lord Sindri, break them,” Kef had capitulated but it was reluctantly, even as he admired the blond man’s ability to make a plan on his feet as so to speak. He knew better than to argue with Veione when he was filled with this impatient restlessness. Veione had been fretting like a hound left behind from the hunt since the news of the attack on Rhayd. Kef had very confidence in Lord Darcia’s ability to handle the situation in the north, and he knew Veione did to. But no one liked to miss out on a good fight. Perhaps a good battle was what was needed to work some of the jitters out of his blond friend.

It was not only Lord Darcia who could command an swift manoeuvre, Veione was not known as the lighting strike for noting as drove his knights until long after darkness had fallen and their destination had been reached.. Having camped overnight on Fouldgate heath he had been able to choose an excellent defensive spot, to the south there was the open plane like heath that would serve very well as a battlefield. The pronounced valley of the Fould allowed Veione and Kef to shelter their sizeable army from view. The cavalry captain hoped to catch the Rebles by surprise as they emerged from the dense woodland to the north of Fouldgate Heath. Veione’s large cavalry would be at their most effective on the open ground.

That night Veione had ordered that no fires be lit to give away their position. Kef enforced this with brutal efficiency. The heavens had opened once again, and his men resigned themselves to passing a wet, cold evening with nothing more than dry bread to sustain them. The rain had cleared and in the distance there was the bugling call of a horse. This was answered by one of the ducal cavalry’s mounts. A few choruses of answering whinnies travelled through the darkness, they were perhaps a mile off. It looked like Veione’s theory had hit it’s mark.

At dawn he formed his troops behind a large hedge, which faced sloping open heath land. A few hundred yards in front of this position was a narrow, steep-sided valley through which flowed a burbling brook. On the other side of the valley, just out of the range of a skilled bowmen, was the rebels position. The new day was bright, and the only evidence of the night’s heavy rain was the sodden ground and soaking grass. Veione looked out at the rebel army; they had perhaps seventy horse men, and another hundred footmen. Veione wondered if Lord Bute’s sons were among them. It was well known that the Bute family were deeply involved in leading this latest uprising. And if it was not Georg himself then it stood to reason that it was his son’s Arhlan and Goring. It was a good thing that Alwen was in the north with Lord Darcia, Veione knew that this would have torn the young man apart, for if the rebels offered him a fight today then Veione had no compunction in hammering them in to the ground. If the son’s of Bute and their army wished to launch an attack, they would have to cross the brook whilst under bombardment from Veione’s archers, proceed up the slope across open ground, and then finally fight their way through a sizable hedge. Coupled with the fact that Veione had by far the larger force, it seemed that the rebels had almost hope of victory.



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Sir Ahrlan of Bute’s heart sank when he saw the sun glinting off the pikes above the distant hedgerow. He had hoped that by travailing through the woods his force would not be detected by the Duke’s and they would have the time to make it to Lord Sindri’s keep where the resistance was regrouping. It was welcome news, for victory after victory had been won by the Duke. He was no fool, he knew that he was outnumbered their only hope was that they could perhaps stand their ground and escape somehow. The vagaries of fate had placed his brother and himself in charge of this thin arm of the rebellion, those who had escaped the sieges flocking to his banner. But he was isolated from his allies; well those that had not been defeated, and even his father would not offer them support, fearing the Duke’s fury. Somehow they had to get to Lord Sindri’s keep. They couldn't move around the Ducal forces lead by Captain Veione to the west because of the river Rush, nor could he move east because he would be hindered by dense woodland, and they knew a force was still present at Heronwall cutting off their retreat. It seemed hopeless.

There was a deep streak of fatalistic stubbornness in Ahrlan, and he decided to stand his ground that morning watching the sunrise as if it might be his last. Today he thought as the sun rose, today is a good day to die as he formed a defensive plan. Goring for all his faults knew how to light a fire under men and he was doing so now through carrot and stick (though mostly through stick.) Ahrlan drew up his forces in battle order on the northern side of Fouldgate Heath, just out of range of the Ducal archers, so that now both sides faced each other across brook. What they lacked in knights, they made up in conscripted solders, knaves that they had pulled off the land, (to date they had had problems with them, as the villagers refused to fight directly against the Duke) but on this day the duke was absent, his banner missing from the banners in the distance and they knew how to dig.

He had them dig ditches and drive sharpened stakes cut from the bountiful striplings in the wood behind them into the ground as defensive precautions. Ahrlan was aware that Veione may have other forces in the area, and was careful to dig a large trench to protect his rear.

“What is all this digging? Are they dogs?” Goring laughed at the men industry. “Put your battle raiment on my good fellows, you won’t find our enemies down there!”

“Hold your tongue Goring!” Ahrlan growled. “They outnumber us at least four horses to one. Not to mention the scores of archers. We cannot mount an effective attack, any fool can see that.” He looked about his defences, “We can perhaps repel their attack and at nightfall flee from this place.”

“Dam it Ahrlan, I am tired of fleeing!”

“As am I.”

“And I.”

The voices of fractious knights, all Goring’s bosom companions were raised. Ahrlan scowled and threw a near by bucket of water over them. “Cool your hot heads!” He shouted. “You are not green children. Even a half whit could see that those that follow the Duke’s banner have the advantage over us today.” He turned on his heal and left the spluttering indigent men behind him. He may have offered them enough insult to draw steal upon him, but they were mostly all bluster. Bullies, they would not fight someone who might actually beet them. He looked around his fortified encampment; his right flank still needed protecting from the archers. “Arrange the supply wagons in to a circle.” He ordered his men and then took some time to himself to pray to Whyrd sisters for victory.

And so the two armies of the south and the north lined up in readiness for battle on Fouldgate Heath. It was clear that tactical advantage was by far in favour of the North. Captain Faorin’s army outnumbered the rebels by four or five to one, and they had dug themselves into an excellent defensive position and had had plenty of time to prepare for the battle. By contrast, Ahrlan’s followers found themselves in battle order with little preparation, in what was once their homeland and what had suddenly become hostile territory and vastly outnumbered. It was enough to break a heart with sorrow or rage. And then from across that deceptively sunny heath the drums of war took up their rhythm.

“Free men!” He Ahrlan called. “Lo, battle calls us! Lo the wyrd sisters call our names. Prepare yourselves and kiss the ground for that is the spot on which you will live or die!” With that he himself knelt and kissed the loamy ground, his fingers dinging deep in his native soil. Some of his men followed. “We hold here, our fates will be decided on this soil.”

Captain Veione himself rode out in to the middle of the battlefield to offer terms. His hair glistening like wheat straw in the sun, a welcoming smile on his angular face, as if he were just out enjoying a ride on a spring morning. But today there could be no negotiations. And Ahrlan had refused to ride out to meet the Captain fearing that like his father he too might give in to his charm, and bow to the force of Lord Darcia’s rule.

The Northern army opened with a barrage of arrows from their longbows. They fell like rain, a sound like a swifts wings warning of their approach. Ahrlan watched them with disjointed fascination. ‘Is one of those my death?’ He thought. His men ducked behind the wagons or put their shields up. The sound as they hit wood was almost deafening. It startled him out of his thoughts and he to hid from the arrow fall before ordering his own barrage of arrows. But both armies were out of range of each other, and the casualties were thankfully few.

Ahrlan had realised that mounting an attack on the Northern army would be suicidal, but his one chance was to initiate the commencement of hostilities. He needed to goad the ducal forces into leaving their defences and making an attack. It would be no easy thing to do as Captain Faorin and captain Tann were expert and experienced commanders. There are moments in any commander’s career where he has a choice which will determine victory or defeat and his success from hence forth. And this time in that moment Ahrlan was fortunate as he achieved this brilliantly by feigning a retreat from the centre of his position, which persuaded a less experienced section of the Northern forces to leave their defences (without orders to do so), and charge across the open ground and attempt to cross the brook.

At this point, the Ahrlan’s men swung around and returned to their original positions as the break away horse men forced their horses up the steep bank. The force of the charge forced many of them in to the freshly dug ditches that soon became freshly dug graves as their horses fall upon the spikes and they were left at the mercies of the rebels spears. Those that were still floundering with heavy armour and weapons, on the muddy slopes of the brook, were dispatched with a hail of arrows.

Captain Tann’s voice roared out across the battlefield, ordering the foolish men back their attack having failed spectacularly. However Ahrlan knew that this was not the end of it. They had not even won the battle let alone the war. It was going to be many long hours full of blood and pain before darkness fell.

Goring had some good ideas, and it was he who brought out their canon. It was a gift from his Imperial friend Lord Terent Edouard. So far Ahrlan had not been impressed by the contraption; it was heavy (though not as heavy as some Goring had informed him as if he were an expert upon cannon.) Goring liked I t because it made an ungodly amount of noise, and frightened practically everyone and everything around it. So far the only damage that the canon had managed to inflict was to an abandoned cottage, and in that it caused most of their horses to spook and trample over two of their own men. Still if it could scare their own horses like that, perhaps it would work on the ducal army.

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Veione for one of the few times in his life was silent. His teeth were bared not in his trade mark smile but a fixed snarl. To say that this was going badly was an understatement. Part of his right flank had broken off against his orders and charged whilly nilly at the rebels. But it was to late now, they had to throw all they had at the rebels now to extricate the wounded of the first attack.

He ordered the charge, leading it himself, and the heath shook with the thunderous cadence of hoof beats. This time they were able to successfully cross the brook and assault the rebel position. He was brining the full fury of blade and lance down upon the rebels he could reach. In the back of his mind he could admire the clever use of defensive structures even though they were rendering his cavalry near useless. They may have been heavily armoured and experienced but they were taking some heavy losses. And when a deafening boom rang out across the battle field Veione looked up in enough time to see a Knight and his horse been blown away as if they were struck by a bolt of lightning. A moment later pandemonium broke out as the rest of the horses panicked and nothing that their riders could do to convince their horses from bolting.

His own dun jumped in the air like a cat before rearing up and attempted to bound off like a row buck back down the steep back, stumbling and half falling at the bottom. Veione was very lucky not to be thrown, a lesser horse man would have been. Veione managed to control his own horse, soothing down his neck and calling its name. Kef in the end was the one who called this fiasco to an end calling a retreat back to their positions. As Veione canterd back to his own camp he watched as one of his men was draged behind his mount, his foot caught in the stirup. With all his armour there was little chance that the knighyt would gain more than a batterd pride, but for once Vieone's hunour failed him ahd he could not see the funny side in this situation.

Most of his men had never even heard of a cannon let alone have ever actually seen one and they were if not terrified, extremely unsettled. The more religious of the men were sitting that perhaps the Rebels had made pacts with demons to bring down fire and thunder upon them. However no one fled, as the hysteria was swiftly nixed by Kef, who made some explicit comments linking under endowed men and cowards. They may not have fled, but Veione knew looking at their faces that he was going to have a nigh impossible time convincing most of them to go back out on to the battlefield.

Veione’s dun was still skittish as he made his way back to the camp. But his horse was comparatively placid compared to the still wild and plunging mounts of many of his men. He dismounted, and cast his helmet aside from him in a fit of temper. “Canons, they would have to have a bloody cannon!”

“I haven’t seen one of those since Lord Darcia helped the emperor with that uprising on the southern peninsula.” Kef agreed. “It took ten oxen to move it then.”

“They have to have imperial help.” Veione said, poring a flask of water over his head. “There is a deep game going on. I just whish I knew what it was.”

“I told you shouldn’t have left our infantry behind.” Kef said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Veione took a swig from his water skin and frowned. “You did. You were right.”

Kef nodded, but he was not pleased that he was right. “I hope our Lord returns soon.” With those words, Veione’s heart sunk further, even though they were not meant as criticism.


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Lord Darcia stood looking from one of stone ha ha’s in the plaice gardens that looked over the lake, his hands on the cool white stone wall. It was quiet; the peaceful lake was still, stretching out towards the mountains as smooth as glass. Beneath him his city was settling to sleep, the windows of light one by one guttering out. Behind him were muffled voices raised in singing and revelry. They had arrived back in Bala at noon that day. By then the news of the woman’s defence of Rahyd had already spread to his capital city and the surrounding areas. Those who had heard of the Imperial army’s approach had fled to the safety of Bala where they had waited anxiously for news. The triumphant return of Lord Darcia and those who had lead the defence of Rhayd had been welcomed with much rejoicing and relief. That night in the palace and the town there was feasting and celebration.

Lord Darcia had at first enjoyed the meal, glad to be home, glad to have his little love at his side. However the fight was not over, the fight was never over and the revelry grated on his nerves. For him it was by far too early to be celebrating. He was surprised that Daen noticed his poor mein for he didn’t think he had given anything away. “You’re not enjoying yourself.” Daen had whispered in his ear, her eyes twinkling with some lurking amusement.

“I have never enjoyed this kind of thing.” Lord Darcia answered under his breath. “And they would be better off seeing to the defences rather than dancing.”

“You old grump.” She responded quietly in his ear.

“Old?!” He exclaimed softly, he had not expected her teasing, but it amused him and did much to restore his humour, he attempted to look hurt. “Old, you think I am old?”

The small woman was not taken in buy his mock indignantly for a second and rose to the bait. “Well.” She purred, “You are older than I am.”

“Wretched imp.” He admonished her. He narrowed his eyes his voice deadly serious. “Don’t you know people who insult me usually end up in the darkest and dankest of dungeons?”

Daen laughed at this, “Well someone had to tease you. You’re so serious otherwise.” He made a brief noise of amusement. She stood and pulled on his hand. “Come on lets go and dance.”

“Daen.” He laughed like a groan, resisting her insistent tug.

“You know if you at least pretend to be enjoying yourself you might accidently find you are having fun.”

“I have found my fun.” He replied wolfishly and standing up caught her about her waist.

The young woman laughed, ignoring his lascivious behaviour and sensing his resolve weakening she dragged him on to the dance floor to join in the kayleigh that was now well underway. I occurred to Darcia that he had not partaken in one of the communal dances since he was a boy. He was pleased to find that he still remembered the movements, and even if this was not his favourite dance, Daen’s laughter and sparkling eyes made it worth it. It continued to amaze him that with just a look that one small woman could bring such unaccustomed happiness. How was ot that by having her in the circle of his arms looking up at him with a bright smile she made him forget himself? It was a pity that he could not afford to forget himself for any length of time.

He joined her for two dances, and then excused himself, kissing her cheek. On arriving the first thing that he wanted to do was bare her off to the temple and marry her as soon as possible, before she had a chance to change her mind. And then let the bells of the Bala and all the burr towns ring out in chorus announcing the Duke’s nuptials. But it was not that simple. As Duke of Marchadia to marry he needed to have the emperor’s permission. He needed to tell his nobles and there were the bans to be read. It was Marchadian custom to announce an upcoming nuptial, to allow anyone to challenge or contest the match.

Darcia hoped that there would be no objections to the match, but Daen was right the fact that she had no dowry, no political connections, there was nothing more to recommend her than a pretty face, charm and her youth. Essentially she had no tangible advantages to bring to the match might upset his nobles. He hoped that he could convince them that her powers were advantage enough. But their displeasure was as small price to pay for the young woman. As for the challenge, should anyone seek to challenge him for Daen’s hand he would not hesitate to kill them. His demon sword approved vastly of this sentiment. The real problem lay with the emperor. He was officially head of the temple, and if he decided that the marriage was invalid then there was little that Darcia could do to make it legitimate in the eyes of the empire. His father had ignored this and it had ended in tragedy.

It was not himself that he was worried for, but Daen. The attempted attack on his mother had showed the duke the colour of his enemies. If they knew how much Daen meant to him then she to would be in grave danger, and he did not know if he was strong enough to bare the thought of that. A selfish part of him wanted to keep her safe forever behind the walls of his city. He knew that to do so was impossible of course; she was in danger even then. Perhaps he was wrong for asking her to marry him. He sighed; life was never just simple and good.

He heard a soft scuff of bare feet on stone behind him, he turned, as a small hand slipped over his own filling him with an unexpected peace; his hand came to cover hers as she lent her head on his shoulder, rubbing her cheek upon him like a cat marking her sent. He smiled down at her, his little love, his dearest desire, his Daen. No, he couldn’t give her up, even if it was wrong, even if it destroyed them both.

“What’s wrong?” Daen had asked. Lord Darcia found that he could not answer her. He sensed that she was watching him, but still he could not speak, how could he burden her with his thoughts, it was his desire to protect her. She sighed and her eyes turned from him, “It’s a beautiful night.” He looked down at the young woman’s up turned face making a low noise of agreement. She was gazing up at the stars that shone in vast multitudes, pinpoints of light in a deep blue sky. The waning moon, a shard of silver in the sky basked her in its light, in its ethereal glow she took his breath away. Her voice was soft, “This must be one of the most beautiful views in the whole of Bala, with the moon hanging between the mountains like that and the whole effect reflected in the lake.”

“I prefer admiring closer prospect.” He replied.

“What just the trees?”

“No little one. Or have you forgotten the reason I have remained behind?”

“I thought that you wanted to check the defences.” Daen answered candidly. “And find a place to stash those Imperial captives. I also thought that you might be announcing our engagement.”

His hand tightened reflexively upon hers. “Not tonight my dearest love.” He turned to face her, “I have to write to the emperor first to ask his permission to marry.”

“Is that what had been bothering you over dinner?” Daen asked, her eyes searching his face.

“It is only a formality.” He answered swiftly trying to reassure her.

Daen frowned, “But what If the emperor was the one who ordered the attacks on your mother? What if he dose not agree?”

A muscle twitched in Lord Darcia’s cheek, and his eyes darkened slightly as he avoided her gaze. Lord Darcia had been asking that very same question, he glanced down at her and with her hands caught between his own the answer was suddenly much simpler. “Do you think I would let the words of some boy stand between myself and what I desire?”

Daen smiled the worry leaving her face as swiftly as it had arrived. “No.”

“Do not worry Daen, nothing will ever keep me from you.” He said ardently.

Daen sighed sadly, her eyes as deep and fathomless as the lake. “At night, when we are alone together like this it is like we are the only people in the whole world and it all seems so simple. But then the day comes and everything is so much more complicated.”

“I know.” Darcia replied. “But I love you Daen, and we are together, and it will be over my dead body that we will ever be separated.”

‘That is what I fear.’ Daen thought, but she did not voice it. They fell in to silence for a while, as she was content to shelter in the warmth of his body, his strength. Tonight he looked so melancholy she could hardly bare it. It made her wonder had he always been so terribly alone? He had already survived so much, and she had promised herself that she would try to help him bare his load, her proud, strong lord.

“I have to leave tomorrow and rejoin my army.” Darcia said breaking the silence.

“So soon? Must you go?” Daen asked coyly, knowing the answer already. “Couldn’t Veione and Kef lead them for a little while longer?”

Darcia’s lip twitched to smile; he was holding her hands between his. “They could.” He admitted, “But there is still the diplomacy, it is necessary that I am present to settle affairs when the southern nobles offer terms.”

“You think they will so soon?”

Lord Darcia frowned slightly in thought. “I would be surprised if they do not. Before I left we had almost broken the rebellion. I suspected they were waiting for something.”

“Or someone.” Daen interrupted.

“Or someone.” He continued, “I had suspected that they had been promised help from somewhere. Lord Sindri might be a fool in many respects, but he had never been reckless.”

“Do you think it was the emperor?” Daen asked anxiously.

“Perhaps. But perhaps not I suspect someone else’s hand in this. In any case I think that the Rebels were waiting for that Imperial force, when they hear that they have been defeated they will not wait long to offer terms.”

Daen looked at him for a moment and then nodded, “And then you can come home to me Andaras.”

He nodded, He was thankful that Daen did not ask what if it was the Emperor, for he had no answer to that question. Could Marchadia survive war on three fronts, civil war and foreign invasion at the same time? All he could do was make preparations as best as he could and react to what fate dealt him. He was thankful that she did not ask to go with him, back in to danger. For his own peace of mind he need to know that she was safe and alive somewhere. He suspected that Daen needed to recover from Rhayd, the siege had left her more traumatised then she would ever let on. She lifted her chin, offering her mouth to him, and he gladly took advantage of it. He kissed her reverently, an apology for he knew that her life with him would never be easy, all he could promise her was that he loved her, and always would.

Her hands came to grasp the lapels of his frock coat, and his arm slipped about her waist as he deepened the kiss. Daen was right about one thing, at night, like this, no one else existed for him, it was just her, and she was all he needed.


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Vespa stood in one of the plaice’s arched windows looking enviously down upon the scene below her, the two lovers kissing in the moonlight. Vespa was no longer jealous of Daen for having won Lord Darcia’s heart, but she wondered why Daen’s man had come to her rescue and hers had not. Why had Veione stayed behind? Why was he not here? She had been expecting to see his blond hair, and his wicked smile, to hear his battle cry and laughter, but she soon came to realize that he had not come. Not that she needed the help in the first place.

She turned from the window and went back inside to the celebrations. The feast tables had been pushed back and the great hall was now being used for dancing. For once in her life Vespa did not have the heart to dance. There were plenty of hansom guard’s men who would have gladly taken her hand despite her ferocious reputation, but all she longed for was her bed. She told herself that was just tired from her latest adventure, and that the heaviness in her heart had nothing to do with it.

Timor approached her with a friendly smile holding out a goblet of wine. If Lord Darcia had chastised him for leaving Rhayd to its fate he was not letting on. Vespa suspected that Lord Darcia however had not done so, and Captain Brand had only done what was sensible, Dean seemed to have forgiven him also, but Vespa still felt sore about it. Timor kept up a one sided conversation for a while as Vespa downed her wine before he relented. “Vespa it seems that I owe you apologies.” Vespa searched his face, his expression was repentant. “You have no idea how worried I have been for you, had I suspected that they were really going after Darcia’s mother I would have sent help. But I believed that they would attack here first. I suppose I should have remembered our Lord’s warning never to underestimate your enemy’s cunning. ”

“I understand Timor, you have nothing to apologize for.” Vespa said briskly, she was in to dour a mood, and had to much wine to talk through anything at that moment.

“I do. I left you in danger. One doesn’t leave a man behind or so says one of Veione’s favorite maxims.” Timor explained.

“Veione has a lot of maxims.” Vespa responded dryly.

“That he does.” Timor laughed, “Veione will have my balls for this when he gets back.”

The female captain chafed at this. “He would have no right to. He did not come.”

“Ah, I did wonder about his absence.” He placed a comforting hand upon Vespa’s shoulder. “Lord Darcia probably left him behind in the south as his second. Someone would have to lead those men in our Lord’s absence. I think if Veione could have come he would have come. You know how he likes to play the hero.”

“I don’t need rescuing.” Vespa scowled, shaking off his hand. “What do you know about anything!”

Timor held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t know anything about your relationship with Veione, but you are both my friends…”

“There is no relationship between Veione and I!” Vespa interrupted vengefully her eyes blazing before she stormed off.

A little while and a few more glasses of wine later Vespa’s notorious temper had cooled somewhat. She stayed sitting outside in the garden with her back up against a wall until the cold drove her back inside. Wine left her feeling pensive and regretful. The past few days left her in need of a friend, just someone to talk to. She longed to speak to Veione, for his understanding and warmth. But thinking of him made her both sad and angry. She thought of going to Daen, she would not admit to liking the girl, but Rhayd had forged a closer understanding between them. Veione had been right, and she had found more similarities to herself in Daen then differences. Daen however would be with Lord Darcia, and she doubted that they would appreciate interruptions judging by their earlier display. And so swallowing her pride she went to find Timor.

Captain Brand had retired to his chambers. And Vespa knocked softly on his door wanting to apologies for her behavior if nothing else. Vespa could see a lamp still lit in his study. Timor liked to work at night, an incurable insomniac and she expected that he would still be awake poring over one of his designs.

Vespa was only half right, Timor was at his desk, and he had been working on one of his drafts, but he was now slumped across it, having succumbed to the wine he had been drinking that earning. Timor dreamed of his dead wife. Thinking of her was not something Timor often did now, for it had been fifteen years since she had died. But it was nearing the anniversary of Amellia’s death the second day of Huath, the hawthorn month, and it seemed that his subconscious felt compelled to visit her once again.

He didn't dream of her as she'd been when she lived still, beautiful and full of life. To his regret, she was in her last throes of life, weak, lingering on after a thief had stabbed her in broad daylight. Her golden skin he loved to stroke was, pale and dry. Her glossy black hair was lank and greasy. Her kind deep brown eyes, always so full of humour and spirit, were as dull as weather worn wood as they looked up at him. The familiar helplessness welled up in Timor as he held his beloved wife. He knew he was losing her. The pursuit of knowledge that had driven his life could not help her now. No healer in the whole of the Imperial city could help her. And he was left wondering why, why had the foot pads attacked her. Why did the gods take her and not him as well?
He held Amellia tight to his chest, and as he had done all those years before, Timor again promised her that he would remain by her side until she became well again, no matter how long it took. That stray knife had pierced something vital and it was poisoning her blood slowly. He had been forced to watch her life drain away like dirty water down a drain. When she had died he could not abide the Imperial city anymore, the city that he had lived in, had learned in, had loved him had in his eyes died with his wife. And so when he had heard that Lord Darcia was looking of an engineer to help with the building of forts in remote Marcaidia he had taken the opportunity, glad of a new start. A new life far from his native imperial home, somewhere he could become a new person. Start again, somewhere that the pain could not follow. Of course it was not that easy to hide from ones pain.

In his dream he saw her death all over again. He was transported back to the night it had happed. It was early evening and they were strolling back from a play. The footpad had rushed upon them demanding money, Timor his sword at his hip had refused, a struggle had ensued. The man ran off. At first Timor had thought that everything was alright and then Amelia had collapsed, her hands stained red with blood. She had been so quiet he had not known. He had not known.
"Easy, Timor. It's only a dream." A female voice urged softly. "Your caterwauling will raise the dead."

Waking Timor stared with unabashed surprise as Vespa knelt beside him lightly touching his grey hair. Cool feminine fingers stroked somewhat hesitantly over his temple. The female captain’s expression was as close to concerned as Timor had ever seen it. Timor realized he was seeing something rare from Vespa. He could not stop himself from staring.

“Bad dream?” Vespa asked aware that Timor was no longer sleeping.

“Just a memory.” He answered.

“We all have memories like that.” Vespa replied as she lent back on her heals. Timor felt strangely bereft of the comfort that her touch had provided. He had been friends with Vespa since she had joined Lord Darcia’s army. They had shared many things together, and he knew her well. He was a good listener, and occasionally she would come to him to talk. He suspected that this was one of those times. “I’m sorry about my outburst earlier.” Vespa offerd.

“There is no need.” Timor assured her, his brown eyes warm. “I know what your temper is like.”

They talked for a while about inconsequential things. Timor decanted them some brandy, as he did he noticed her trembling. “Your cold.”

“I spent to long outside.” She admitted.

“Here drink this.” He said holding out a glass to her. “My living quarters should be a bit warmer.”

Vespa followed him in to his living chamber, which truth be told was little more then his bedroom, and a few chairs. However it did have the advantage of an iron stove which would swiftly warm the room. Timor’s three hounds waged their tales lazily at his approach, already sprawled out of the currently non existing fire. Vespa sank down by Buff, one of the nearly full grown pups. She buried her face in it’s neck and she began to cry.
"Vespa," he said softly, stopping when he was an arm's length away. "What's brought this on?"Vespa shook her head, hiding her face in the cavern of her arms as she held on to the great wolfhound. Delicately, Timor laid his hand upon her narrow shoulder. "Tell me."

After a long moment, Vespa turned around her normally hazel eyes the colour of grass, contrasted by the redness that her crying had caused. Timor studied her tanned face, frowning at the hopelessness he saw there.
"You see a sword," Vespa whispered chokingly "and it's blade is sharp, and it's bearing true. You think that with this weapon you can defeat any enemy." She took a breath, her lip trembling. "But what if ….what if one day you carry this sword into battle and the blade actually has some inherent weakness in it, what if it doesn’t just bend but it breaks?" And then she began to speak of her time at Rhayd and all that she had seen and done there, her fears, and the limitations that she had found within herself. She was not the confident and fierce captain who was speaking; she spoke of the weaknesses that she perceived in herself, all the doubts that Timor suspected had been dogging her for years.

Vespa did not say it directly, but she said enough for Timor to work out that Veione had managed to say or do something that had damaged the until now untouchable captain’s confidence. It was unusual for Veione to make such a mess of things, the man had a bucket of hansom thrown all over him at birth, he was charming to boot, and under all of that there was a good heart. It seemed that even love would make a fool of the greatest lover of them all.

He sank down on his knees. “Vespa before me I see a woman. A woman who has never before let her weaknesses stop her. You have already taken the first step to becoming stronger by admitting you have weaknesses. Now that you know what they are you can work on them. And I know you, you will triumph.”

“Is it really that simple?” she asked.

“In theory.” Timor smiled. “In practice it might be harder. Things normally are. But your stubborn.”

Vespa let out a small gurgle of laughter. “Thank you Timor.”

Another unbidden memory came in to Timor’s mind. Last year during the winter snows they had been securing the passes. Vespa had been scouting the mountains, looking for good places to set up watch towers against the Meiw. They had stayed in a small town high in the mountains when the snow fall was too heavy to travel in. For a week they had not been able to venture from the burr town, a blizzard keeping them all indoors and the shutters tightly closed against the bitter Marchadian winter. Much of the week had been spent talking and drinking about the hearth in the inn.

That night he had been thinking of Amelia, the seemingly endless darkness making him despondent and melancholy. Vespa had found him, and he had told her of his wife, and his time in the Imperial city. He was glad to have someone to talk to. Vespa was wise in her way, she was direct, and full of energy, so much energy even in the depths of the winter gloom. She encouraged him to drink as she did, and dance when she sang. She reminded him that he was still a man in his prime, and then he kissed her, a kiss that tasted of the spirits they had drunk that night.

"Do not pity me," Timor had whispered, ashamed, starting to pull away. "I know I am an old man who misses his wife. Grant me my dignity and do not pity me."

Determined fingers caught him by the back of the head as her other hand guided him under her woollen top to find her bared breast. "I do not pity anyone, it is not a grace I possess," Vespa had said, “I do not pity, I desire.” She smiled, full lush lips parting predatorily as her hands slipped under his britches, “See you are no old man.”

That had been the end of all coherent thought. They were both available, both free to chose. He had not take a woman to his bed since Amelia had died, he had not wanted to. It had been a long time since his senses had been excited by another's touch, by another's taste and smell. His last remembrance had been of Amelia, but even that memory was a distant one: a sent of rose water, a brush of petal softness, and an impression of longing. Vespa had been real, and she had wanted him with a desire he could only imagine. There were no declarations of love that night, no sweet words, only desire, just as Vespa had said. She was very different from Amelia, her flesh was not as soft, and she was aggressive, she did not smell of perfume, but of leather, metal, horse and wood smoke. She made him lay beneath her, he took his power away from him,- taking on a man’s role, and yet he did not feel degraded by the experience, far from it.

He recalled making love with Amelia in their town house, on their bed covered with fine woven covers, his hand sliding up her leg, parting her silk robe, as she lay beneath him her eyes watching him with a smile and the small flames of the resinous oil lamps reflected in her eyes. Those nights with Vespa had been something quite different. As if civilisation had been striped away, he had lain on furs, and the heath fire had seemed to set her body aglow, her unbound hair was red in it, a warrior woman, like the Wyrd sisters of legend, a fey spirit. And like in the stories where a mortal meets with a fairy in her cave, when she had her way with him they parted company.

Vespa's eyes were as large and dark, she watched him with almost paralyzed fascination as Timor’s mouth drew nearer. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Their lips met. And again there was desire long forgotten kindled alive once more. Timor swallowed hard. For the first time in many, many years, he admitted to his loneliness. It was like storming a castle whose defences had long since fled, Vespa’s hand came to pull off his glasses as if they were getting in the way. If it was anything like last time she would have him striped naked before he could protest.

Their mouths met again, and Timor understood. Vespa, passionate, ever sensual Vespa, would accept his advances; she would use him as a way to forget her loneliness and her fear if just for that night. Vespa would take anything she was given, simply because she, like Timor, had come to the realization that what she truly wanted in life might never be hers. He kissed across a flushed, wet cheek, listening to Vespa's panting breaths. His lips explored her face, her neck, smelling her hair that tonight smelt not like a soldiers but of exotic spices, cinnamon, and vanilla.

Timor groaned and wrapped his arms around Vespa, holding that small and slender body against him as loneliness squeezed his heart, mixed with the regret for leaving her to her fate at Rhayd. Vespa’s lips were on his neck now, her teeth scoring his flesh. Her breath was short and urgent in his ear. He shut his eyes and listened, hearing possibility echoed in her actions, Vespa could be his even if just for tonight. Once again he could know the comfort of a woman’s touch.

But Timor had wisdom, and while he was praised by others for this it meant that he could not hide the truth from himself, however much he might wish to. He pictured his friend Veione with his lips upon Vespa’s. He knew how the cavalry captain looked at her when he thought that no one was looking.

“This is wrong, you and I.” He said standing up.

“It’s because of Veione isn’t it?” She demanded. Timor nodded, knowing that as much as he would regret this now, he would have regretted by far seeing what she had in mind to a conclusion. The flushed petals of Vespa's lips were closed, damp and trembling with emotion. He watched the younger woman, sensing a great, withheld passion. “I am free to give myself to who I will.” She said.

“As am I.” He replied. “You are lonely as am I. You are hurt. But that is not a good enough reason to do what we were going to do. If you seek to hurt Veione in that way I will not be a part of it.”

“I didn’t.” She paused, “I never set out to hurt Veione by doing, but…..Oh gods!” She murmured and sitting down cradled her hands in her head.

Timor placed his arm around her shoulder, “Shussh, it’s alright. You love him I know. Tonight you are tired, you are a good way to being drunk and we all just need someone to hold them once in a while.”

Vespa nodded, her voice was still slightly tearful. “Is it alright if we stay like this just for a little while.”

Timor sighed, he rested his chin on her head and drew her closer. “Yes this is fine. This is how it should be my friend.”



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Ahrlan was right and the battle lasted until dusk on and off. The sun was unseasonably warm, making the armour uncomfortable and unbearably hot. Sweet ran down his arms, making the grip on his blade slick. Ahrlan began to envy the men who were fallen, lying on their backs at the bottom of that red stained stream unable to get up under the weight of their chain mail. Somehow they managed to hold their position. And as darkness fell it was beginning to sink in that they had routed the Ducal forces. But his work was not yet done.

Under the cover of night he encouraged his men to slip back in to the woods. They would be unable to hold a formation, but in small groups they could melt in to the darkness. Ahrlan has also thought up a clever ruse. Goring had come across a temple priest attempting to flee with some relics a few days previously and had decided to drag the poor man along in some fascicle joke punishment. His brother was much like a cat, he enjoyed to torment his pray never just content to simply end it. As it was the presence of the priest and his terror of Goring was proved to be fortuitous as he employed the priest to fire off the cannon periodically on the battlefield throughout the night with a stern warning that if they did not hear the cannon’s roar Goring would come back and get him. The cannon fire would have dissuaded any other Loyalist forces from approaching the battlefield by giving the impression that the Rebels still maintained control. By the time that Captain Veione managed to regain control of his men and dawn had broken all they found was a deserted camp, a battlefield strewn with corpses and a frightened priest shackled to an iron canon. Sir Ahrlan and those of his men that had survived were en route to Lord Sindri’s keep.

Ahrlan had been among the last to leave the field of battle. He was more tired then he had ever been before in the whole of his life. He had ridden on numbly and realised that he had lost his way; in the darkness one unfamiliar bit of forest looked much the same as any other. It was some time until he found his bearings, recognising first a twisted oak, and then a line of pine trees; it was a section of woodland that he had hunted. The initial relief of not being lost any longer was short lived as it meant that he was back in his homeland and still dangerously cut off from his goal.

He nudged his horse up a steep gorge, once at the top he would have a fairly good command of the local geography and then perhaps could make his decision on what direction he would take then. He glanced up at the tree line and noticed a faint orange glow. Morning had come too soon. Ahrlan had no illusions about the difficulties he faced as day broke, he had miles to cross, and he would be hunted, the longer that the darkness hid him it its shadows the better.

A thought suddenly struck him, the sun rose in the east not the west. He was suddenly filled with misgiving. Forcing his horse in to a canter he crested the gorge. His nostrils were filled with the acrid sent of smoke, smoke which blinded him momentarily. Coughing he rubbed at his eyes and looked again and tried to comprehend what he was in that first shocking instance.

It was a small hamlet, one that his father was Lord of, they were wood cutters, or rather they had been woodcutters, they were now dead, and their houses were burning. Ahrlan was filled with deep rage, he had known those men and their families. They had provided wood for the castles gate and the beams for the new hall that his father had built when Ahrlan was just a boy. He sometimes talked to them when he passed this way hunting. The knight cast his eyes about for the assailants ready to reap vengeance upon them. It was then he heard a familiar laugh, and his rage was simultaneously doused and fanned. It was Goring.

“Brother?!” Ahrlan called. He heard laughter once again from in the one house that had not been set light to. Ahrlan nudges his horse forward towards that house and it’s open door. He called his brother’s name again. This time Goring answered coming to the open doorway himself a pitcher in his hand.

“Ah you did make it! Did you get lost as well?” Goring greeted him jovially. “Come inside there is plenty of food. You look like you could do with some rest, you’re as white as a sheet.”

“Goring, what has happened here?” Ahrlan asked his brother, though in his heart he already feared the answer. “Please tell me that you found this place like this?”

His brother laughed drunkenly, “Found it full of dirty traitors more like.” One of Goring’s cronies joined him at the doorway. Goring nudged him, “Isn’t that right Yorsk, we couldn’t sleep with the likes of them around. There are a load of them all hiding here trying to get out of their duties.”

“Just like vermin, we smoked them out.”

Ahrlan found his anger just on the tip of his tongue, but it was checked when he heard soft coughing coming from the burning barn. Jumping from his horse he ran over to the building, shielding his face from the heat. “Have mercy.” A voice said, but it was so quiet he almost missed it over the roar of the fire.

“Help me free them for pity’s sake!” Ahrlan shouted as he struggled with the great bar that secured the barn door closed from the outside. Neither Goring nor his friends moved, instead they simply watched from doorway. The bar eventually gave and he was able to fling it to the side. No less then twenty people scurried out coughing and spluttering. Four of wich were children.

“Granma, Granma!” One of those children cried out. Ahrlan did not hesitate and went in to that burning building, even though the great beam that held it groaned ominously. He could see very little once inside, thick plumes of smoke choking and blinding him, sparks burned his skin where they landed. He was lucky as he practically tripped over the old woman. She was lain out on the floor like a sack of grain, and like a sack of grain Ahrlan hefted her on to his shoulder and carted her from the burning barn and not a moment to soon as it shortly collapsed behind him.

To exhausted to be genteel he had collapsed on to the floor, and dumping of his load unceremoniously as he fought for his own breath. “Thank you sir, oh thank you!” A woman said as she rushed to the old woman’s side. “Oh mama!”

“She’s alive, she moaned when I dropped her.” Ahrlan coughed.

“Oh thank you sire. But what about the others?”

“Others?” He asked without comprehension.

“My Lord there were others trapped in the other buildings, Those that they did not slay.” The woman explained tearfully.

Ahrlan looked at the buildings and shook his head. “I was too late.”He rolled to his feat and looked about. Women, children and old men. Refugees from the war, hoping to hide it out in peace. His father in all likely hood had told them to come up here where it was supposed to be safe from raiding. The peasants noticed that Goring and his men were still watching them and their sooty faces became masked of perfect terror. Ahrlan walked forwards and stood between them and Goring’s men, his hand on his sword hilt.

Goring clapped, his voice sarcastic. “Well that was quite the demonstration of heroism.”

“What by our ancestors is the meaning of this Goring!” Ahrlan demanded hoarsely, his blue eyes flashing with anger.

“Oh no you’re not going to act like Alwen over this are you?” Goring said. “You hypocrite, you have been with me when we have put at least five towns to the sword.”

Ahrlan indicated behind him. “Those our, our people! You use chevuche against our people!” This was not what he had intended. Goring was out of control.
“Our people, look how easily they gave in to those dogs of lord Darcia. They are pathetic, beneath contempt!”

“They are not warriors, we should not expect them to….” he realised that it was useless trying to reason with Goring. “Leave this place.” He growled. Goring looked like he was going to argue, Ahrlan drew his sword. It slid free from its sheath with a serpent like hiss and approached his brother, whispering in his ear. “Don’t try me Goring. You never bested me as a boy, you wont now. If you want me to kick your ass right in front your friends I will.”

Goring pushed him away, but lowered his eyes refusing to meet Ahrlan’s burning gaze. Ahrlan knew that he had submitted. “Come on we have had our fun here. Trust Ahrlan to play older brother and be a kill joy.”

Ahrlan watched as they left, his arms crossed over his chest. The villagers wanted to thank him further, but he only wanted to be alone. Ahrlan made his way to the edge of the village were a small stream cut its way through the woodland. He washed his face in its cool loamy water, the short growth of his blond stubble scratching his hands. He washed away the soot from his face and rinsed the ash from his eyes. The water tasted of earth, he drank deeply, trying to sooth his parched throat. It rinsed the bitter words from his tongue. In the water his face was a comic distortion of a man. “Alwen, you may have been right about something’s.”

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Author’s note;

Sorry this took such a long time to update! I cross my heart hope to die promise that such a long gap won’t happen again.
Big thank you to Tiffany for your email, I’m just sorry that it took me so long to update for you!
Solitude: I’m really grateful for your detailed reviews. All of Darcia’s captains have demon swords. It was part of the reason that he chose them. I don’t think I pointed it out in the story. Leoff and Vas are about to get in to all sorts of hot water. And I’m so glad that you enjoyed the last few chapters!

Luinil_Telcontar; Your opinion as ever means a lot!

PS; If anyone is looking for something really moving read Luinil_Telcontar’s Shards of innocence, it made me sob buckets. Just make sure you have a packet of tissues with you!