6 comments/ 67635 views/ 81 favorites A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 01 By: Stultus Copyright© 2010 by Stultus Synopsis: A fantasy/romance novel of young blacksmith who rescues the Duke's daughter from a demonic attack. He breaks off the horn from the creature's head and slays the monster with it, nearly dying himself in the process. Recovering with the aid of a traveling gleaman and Lore-Master, the lad finds himself at the center of a new great adventure while seeking to find out what he is becoming, and what fate the Weavers have in store for him. The first chronological story of Weaver's World. Sex contents: Some Sex Genre: Romantic Fantasy Codes: High Fantasy, MF, FF, Slow, Tears, Adventure, Oral, Anal Originally Posted at SOL: 2010-03-12 ****** A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 01 Together, these misfortunes blunted their love rather significantly, but still didn't quite fully stop these two young, frustrated lovers from sharing a few stolen moments together, to dream and ponder their uncertain fates. ************ Once the order for the horseshoes was completed and the forge banked low for the night, Rowan declared the work-day to be done, and his eager apprentices raced to tidy up the smithy and make sure that everything was clean and quite in its proper place. Master Gorge was still away down at the village factorage, negotiating to ship a barrel of nails down to the City of Apeleia, or now more often called simply Applewood, down at the southern end of Crystal Lake. Also, the Master might be already negotiating for the purchase of a large shipment of iron ore to arrive sometime after the fall rains swelled the Emerald River enough for such heavy bulk cargo, as he did regularly twice a year in both the early spring and fall. The price would undoubtedly be steep, but in turn their smithy forge was large, and the workers were skilled enough to melt and cast ingots for use by other blacksmiths and ironworkers, further west on the smaller settlements that dotted southern Crystal Lake. With profits from the resale of half of this raw iron, our smithy would have virtually free material to craft with until our next large shipment about six months later. As a result, the master enjoyed good profits and didn't begrudge any use of raw metal that would result in the training of his workers, or production of items, which could be sold locally or shipped either east or west via the factorage for a profit. Making nails and horse shoes was boring to Rowan, and it was definitely now a fitting task for young apprentices, but it was good training for them and these products were always in demand. If there were no other orders or customers, they made nails. Already they had another half of a barrel of nails completed and, if the next week or so remained quiet at the smithy, they could possibly fill this barrel up to the top and the master could ready it for sale as well. Some lesser smithies might cast their nails from molds, and while this method was indeed much faster and cheaper to the customer it didn't produce good quality nails. Master Gorge produced nothing but the best and the nails that left his smithy could always be sold for a higher premium price and they were even shipped far away from the Duchy to other kingdoms and lands. The housekeeping done, Rowan released his charges from their duties, and, nearly to a man, they ran happily down the road past the stables and down to the shores of Lily Lake to bathe. Cleaning off the soot of the forge was probably not their only interest while loitering about the shallow waters, amidst the sea of green floating lily pads, with their bright summer blossoms of pink, yellow, blue and white flowers. Most, if not all of the young lads would also be hoping to see and enjoy the sights of a few feminine bare breasts, and perhaps other naked parts, of the local village young ladies, here along this side of the riverbank with them, or perhaps a peek instead at the lovely ladies that attended the Lady Ayleth across the river, such as Rowan's own beloved Cedany, or several other of the prettier local girls. The Lady had been present at her father's castle on his small river island for nearly a month now, enjoying the island's many gardens and the mild gently flowing waters here, where the Emerald River became shallow and placid, and warmed delightfully under the summer sun. Her father still remained back in the City of Tellismere, from where he normally ruled this Duchy, but he was expected to join his daughter, at their pleasant ducal island summer estate quite soon. While there were few, if any, local nudity taboos concerning the villagers bathing in the river, a sport which both the young ladies and men of the village quite often enjoyed together, by custom (and to avoid the definite displeasure of the Duke), bathing and sunning on the shores on the Duke's island was quite forbidden to Swanford village men, and firmly enforced. This area was reserved solely for the use of his daughter and her female attendants. To ensure some bounds of propriety, it was also customary that villagers bathing in Lily Lake should not venture any further than half way towards the very nearby island, across this shallow pond, which was no deeper, at any point, than the shoulders of a tall man. While this didn't quite stop lovers from meeting in the middle of the river halfway, often under the cover of darkness, it did provide certain discouragements for 'inappropriate' intermingling of the social classes, at least during the hours of daylight, when the Lady's attendants were under watchful eyes. The separated bathing parties of men and women could, and usually did, spend a great deal of time watching each other, and preening themselves at the delicious thought that they, themselves, were also being watched. Rowan briefly thought about joining the younger apprentices at play, but decided that, due to the lateness of the hour, he would instead wait in the smithy for his friend Boyle to be released from his labors as well, so that the two of them could go together down to the Goblin's Head to have a bit of supper and enjoy a pint of two of Ypreth's ordinary, which was still a fairly exceptional beer, in Rowan's, rather limited, experience and opinion. Since it was Fivthday, or 'fifth-day', the normal end of the full days of work for the week, it was the young lads' custom to share a meal out together, usually at the local inn. While Master Gorge did provide full meals (usually quite decent ones) and board for his apprentices and journeymen, it was always nice to have a bit of a change. Tomorrow, Mondæ, or Moon-Day, would be the usual only half a day of labor, so he would have plenty of time, later in the afternoon, to enjoy a swim and maybe even some sunbathing on a quiet secluded spot along the river, perhaps even with Cedany! If not, then certainly on the following day, Freo, a 'free' day that ended the week, they should be allowed to find some quality time alone together. ********** It didn't take him long to make certain that every tool was locked safely away in the forge strong-chest, double-check that his charges hadn't neglected any aspect of their cleaning, and verify that indeed all was in order. After a second, more complete inspection, Rowan gave up and sat himself down on an outside tree stump, to wait for his tardy friend. Sunset came and passed and it was soon quite dark before his errant friend, Boyle, lumbered across the dirt road from the stables and tardily greeted his friend. "Hullo, Ro! Wus'up?" The stout lad enquired and smiled at his friend. The lads had been the closest of friends since Rowan arrived in Swanford about fifteen years, with never a cross word said between them. Boyle looked his friend over and sadly shook his head. "And go change your jerkin and give your arms another wash... you've still got soot all over you! I swear you have absolutely no fashion sense!" He added. "You should talk!" Rowan laughed as he stripped to his waist to give himself another scrub to clean away the dirt of the forge. "You're the one that smells of horse shit from being in the stables all day!" "True, but it's a noble smell. I heard a story once that the old Duke, the miser's father, intenti0nally built his working study over the castle stables in Tellismere, and then he even drilled holes into the floor so that the aroma of horse shit could better penetrate. Supposedly he thought that the smell of horse manure quickened his thoughts and made him cleverer!" "Well, it would certainly keep his advisors from bothering him in there, or at least for long!" Rowan donned a mostly clean shirt and gave his face and hair a quick look in a bit of broken mirror fastened next to the washbasin. He was a tall lad, the tallest young man in the village and only Boyle had broader and beefier shoulders. He wore his long red hair tied with a rawhide thong into a ponytail that hung just below his shoulders. He tried letting it run free and loose sometimes but it tended to be unruly and curl up in random odd places, not to mention it always blocked his face when he worked and then it would get singed by the heat of the forge. His face was fairly thin but it had both a good nose and a strong well-formed chin that still defied his every effort to grow a reasonable beard. Too many patches and holes in its growth for his taste, so he kept it shaved it clean a couple days a week whenever it began to itch. Cedany preferred his features smooth as well, so his dreams of someday having a proper beard would remain just that for the foreseeable future. His stomach was lean and marbled with solid muscle and if he had an ounce of fat in his body it was perhaps only in his thighs, which were also fairly muscled from his habit of regular swimming. He told himself often that he really need do some running as well for additional exercise but he rarely found the mood or time to do this. Despite the freckles on his arms and a multitude of small scars from his years of working with hot iron, he was accounted to be a handsome young man and a prize catch for any of the young village women. If he had any fault it was that Rowan never smiled very much and he normally kept his thoughts pretty much to himself. He had been a serious boy who had grown up to be an overly serious young man. Boyle and Cedany were always trying to get him to lighten up, to live more for the moment... or to at least enjoy the fun moments of life when they happened, but even Rowan had to admit that this was very much a work in progress. Boyle, in turn, was accounted by all to be a most jovial and likeable soul, well favored in looks and nearly as tall and strong as Rowan. He was of a stockier build and nearly all of it was muscle, but already some of it was slowly turning into fat around his midsection despite his being nearly a year younger in age than Rowan. He kept his corn-yellow hair cropped short on top of his freckled round face that usually exhibited a silly grin from ear to ear. Most folks didn't credit him for possessing much in the way of smarts, but if he cared at all, the cheerful lad never showed it. Boyle normally moved, talked and appeared to think quite slowly, but he really wasn't particularly stupid, let alone 'simple'. Like the Emerald River, once it reached the Duke's island and Lily Lake, his mental processes dawdled, and were a bit deliberate and measured. If you were patient and didn't hurry him, the stocky tall lad could be quite as rational and thoughtful as any other young man in town, and his unique perspectives often gave him interesting, and usually correct, insights into the subtleties of their quiet village life. His mental waters didn't run fast, but sometimes they did run fairly deep. For fun, he often liked to talk like a rural bumpkin, but normally he could speak just the same as everyone else. Boyle was amused quite easily, and playing the act of the village idiot often amused him greatly. "There is sometimes great advantage," the lad often said, "to being completely misunderstood and overlooked. Especially by trade factors and merchants! I've made a lot of coin over the years making investments with Frigrast, our head-factor, that I've only learned of because no one keeps any secrets within my hearing, as they all think I'm an idiot! The jingle of my purse should tell them otherwise!" Boyle worked across the road at the stables handling and shoeing the horses. The job didn't pay well and he could have easily chosen a different and more challenging profession, but Boyle liked the routine work and he usually had plenty of time to be nearly as lazy as his drunken boss. The one benefit that the stout lad enjoyed was the free and ample meals from the rather pricey inn next door and thus rarely ever had to spend an unnecessary coin. True to his boasting, the allegedly simple lad understood trade and commerce far better than his older friend did, and shared his gains with his friend by usually paying for their occasional meals at the village tavern! Boyle was already a near-legendary trencherman and the food there was plentiful, hot and good. Already, he was starting to build a stomach and unlike his friend Rowan, Boyle didn't care much for any real exercise other than lifting and shoveling hay to reduce it. ********* Cleaned up and refreshed, Rowan joined his friend for their walk down to the local tavern. "Not much happened today," he said, "just another quiet day at the forge. The Master was gone for the afternoon and I had to look after the apprentices and the forge. Cegred's horseshoe order is complete -- I had young Jimson run it over to the stable right before we shut down for the afternoon. Did he, or did you, get it?" Boyle laughed. "The only thing our stable-master got this afternoon was two pitchers of Guv' Hunuwald's best ale into his belly, after which my esteemed master had 'imself his usual long afternoon nap up in the hayloft. The good may it do 'im! But yes, I got the shoes and they're ready for me to mount in the morning." Kelvin Hunuwald ran the Green Sails, the large inn next door to the stables, which catered to the traveling factors, merchants, and sailors at the nearby docks just down the road. His ale was quite adequate, in Rowan's opinion, but overpriced by village standards, and the surly tapster rarely ever pulled a proper full pint to measure. The innkeeper was a relative newcomer to the village, having arrived here about five years ago, and was of a surly and rather private disposition and didn't go out of his way to make any friends with the locals. Cegred was intimate with the inn's cook and she managed to keep his thirst quenched on a far too regular basis. The local lads, and indeed most of the villagers, nearly always took their custom to the Goblin's Head Tavern, further down the road, on the southern side of Crossroads, just past the stone bridge and guard tower that led across to the Duke's island and the small castle that was his family's usual summer residence. "Good. The last time, when he drunkenly mislaid our freshly completed order of shoes, and then accused my Master of not making them, was an experience that I could well do without repeating. He's lucky that Gorge didn't increase his price by a few more pence this time... and he certainly will, the next time that sort of thing occurs. Why does Kelvin put up with him managing the stables?" "Well, he's too stupid to steal, usually too drunk to make any sort of other problems, and 'e works cheap. I don't think 'e gets much more in his pay sack than I do, mores' the pity! Can't say that I'm itching to have the extra responsibility for much the same money, so he can keep the job." "Can't say as I blame you. Ready to get something to eat?" "Always! Besides, taking like a bumpkin always builds up a thirst for the gov's rather fine ale!" His stout friend exclaimed, and the two lads started the walk down the river road to the Goblin's Head, barely over five minutes walk away. ************ It was fairly dark already, that early summer's evening, as the moon was just barely at a crescent, as usual for this early time in the month. The New Moon always marked the first day of each new month, and the start of the next full moon, as usual, would be marked on the mid-days of the month, the thirteenth and fourteenth, until the last slivers of the moon disappeared on the twenty-fifth and sixth; the last days of the month, and the two customary holiday and holy days honoring the named God of the month. This month, Lígfýr, after the God of Fire, was an apt choice, since it started the true heat of summer. At the end of this month the Summer Solstice festival would be held, one of the most important holidays of the year. The priests of Yfelde Soð, the God of Justice, had tried to ban the use old calendar, or at least rename the other months now that the rest of The Seven had been banished, but popular resistance was stubborn, even in cities in towns where the prelates and bishops of this stern, and sole remaining God had many followers, and even some temporal power. Apprentices, who received their pay quarterly, on the solstice festivals, would be especially glad to see the holidays come, eager to spend their coins on treats, a wanted luxury or two at the market, or perhaps spent instead on courting a lover. As skilled craft and tradesmen, both lads received their pay at the end of each month, usually on Freo-twā, the second 'free-day' at the end of the month, just before the two holy days honoring the God or Goddess that ended each month. This four day holiday from work, at the end of each month, was usually much enjoyed by all, and eagerly anticipated. As this was just last weekend, both of their purses still jingled with coins. Passing by the warehouses that lined the river side of the road, near the docks, the chums greeted and waved at Sedric, the Warehouse-Master, who acknowledged their greeting with a curt nod. Sedric was as dependable and stolid as a man could get, but like the surly innkeeper, the older man kept much to his own counsel and was never public with his affections. Still, he performed his duties well and it was always best to stay on his good side. Next they stopped, for a moment, by the bridge guard tower and the lads waited a few moments for one of their other friends, Bryce, a young guardsman. Oddly, although he worked the day shift, tonight he was still being held on duty, long after sunset, when he should have been normally released for the night. The head of the night-watch guard for the bridge, Sergeant Arard, was more than a little concerned that the evening trade caravan, up from Haldyne, was apparently more than a bit delayed. In the long days of summer, when the caravan wagons started off at the very crack of dawn, it was usual for the waggoner's and teamsters to make the twenty-five mile or so trip by no later than mid-afternoon, especially when the dirt road was hard and dry, as it currently was. Even considering for some misfortune, like a broken wagon wheel or axle, the daily trade caravan should have already arrived... but it still had not. Still, the lads regarded the night sergeant, like his daytime counterpart Lieutenant Robrick, as a pretty good sort of egg, who was a decent but dutiful boss to his troops and never allowed his men to start any problems with the local Swanford villagers. Arard waved Bryce on, and told him that he could take a few minutes off for dinner, but that he would need to return as soon as possible, unless the situation changed. Their fellowship time was now rather limited, so the three young men hurried down the river road the final one hundred or so feet to the Púca Cápa, or better known locally as the Goblin's Head Tavern. Once there was in fact a real Goblin's head mounted on a pike outside of the village tavern, killed allegedly by the innkeeper's father, who was once said to have done some adventuring in his youth. The preserved head had eventually decayed from its exposure to the elements, and Ypreth, who inherited the tavern from his father, had it replaced by a carved and painted wooden replica. The taproom was quite crowded with villagers and off-duty guardsmen from the castle, and the main topic of conversation was very definitely the overly delayed caravan. Most of the elders and masters, including Rowan's master, Gorge, were seated together at one long table nearest the serving counter, where the village headsman, Vainard Miller, father of Rowan's beloved Cedany, was holding court. While Rowan tried his best to be respectful to the man who someday would probably be his father, the pompous windbag was a difficult man to like, or even sometimes tolerate. Even the Duke wasn't even thought to be terribly fond of him, but that equally weak man was always a ready victim to any sort of flattery, which the experienced headsman could lay on endlessly, like mortar upon bricks. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 01 Tonight Gorge was remaining largely silent and mostly just listened to the others instead of being in the center of the debate, as was his normal wont. The conversation, which was becoming quite loud, degraded into a heated argument between the head trading factor, Frigrast, and the headsman Vainard. Just to rub salt into the growing wounds, the beady-eyed and always suppliant village priest, Father Lankfred, took every opportunity to side with the pompous headman. If there was a single most disliked person in the village by nearly everyone, it was the priest. Father Lankfred was in his early middle years of life and the reality that he was likely to remain a small village priest for the remainder of his years ate away at him like a cancer. He burned with desire to somehow make a name for himself so that he could become a bishop or a prelate in a bigger town or city. Or perhaps even a Vicar General, one of the holiest and most devout who travel the world to root out sin. There was so much sin everywhere he looked; even right here in this village. No matter how much wickedness he exposed to the light of truth, the village elders never did anything about it, and even his ally the headsman seemed to hold little sway over the sinful habits of his flock. Why they even respected and still worshiped the forbidden Banished Gods, the ones that his divine master had driven from this world, like the Infernals! Someday, he swore, the village would be purified -- even if he had to burn it down to the ground himself in order to save it! ********** "It has to be dangers on the road!" Frigrast insisted, pounding his fist onto the table hard enough that most of the blackjacks of ale bounced and nearly fell over. "There has been no rain in weeks, so the road couldn't have been washed away. It has to be either bandits... or else something worse. The Duke should have paved this road with stone years ago! It would have sped up the wagons, and made them much less vulnerable to either mischief or poor weather. Also, why is there no cavalry available to patrol the roads regularly, or even to escort the wagons? Sure it would cost some extra gold and bags of silver in taxes to maintain it, but wouldn't it be worth it, to all of us?" "Try not to be more frightened of things in the dark than you normally are tradesman! The trade road is sound and secure and will remain so!" Vainard insisted, also pounding the table a few times, for good measure as his anger grew. 'Stupid greedy traders!' he thought to himself; always wanting the Duke to spend good coin so that the merchants could grow richer. Why doesn't anyone else show any sense or backbone, he wondered. The more sensible masters, like Gorge, lifted up their blackjacks from the wooden table, before another outburst of fury could spill them all over the table. "And you, Headman, try not to have your head any further up the good Duke's ass than is necessary! The coastal road between Haldyne and Swanford is our single, most vulnerable lifeline of trade. We've tried flatboats in the past, but the river in-between is a little too swift and much too shallow, not to mention all of the ever-changing and dangerous sandbars at the river gap past the Haldyne docks. Every single bit of trade both east and west must pass up and down that lonely road, with the forests being not even a full bows-shot distance away. That's another issue! The Duke's foresters are supposed to keep the tree line safely back from the roadway, but this has not been done since the days of the old Duke. Surely there is some petition that was signed and agreed to, which we can bring before the Duke to gently remind him of his duties." "The Duchy, as everyone knows, is a poor one and the good Duke doesn't have the coins to frivolously spend on non-essential duties. He himself should be arriving here in but a few days, and he will certainly examine the situation for himself and take measured and appropriate actions. It should be more than enough that he fully maintains the soldiers and guardsmen for the northern forts and our local watchtowers. These alone are more than sufficient to keep us safely from unpleasant advances of the night-creatures. The Goblins and other legendary creatures of the northern mountains are far too craven to intrude themselves onto the Duke's lands." "The Púcel, it is admitted, are but a small threat here, south of the river. They are a craven lot and hunt rarely, if ever, by day and are an unlikely menace to a fast moving and well-armed caravan, especially in bright summer daylight. They are more thieves than soldiers and are rarely a threat even to small homesteads. That is one threat that we can fairly safely discount. If it is not mundane banditry, then it is of the Boar-Men that I must speak, but they are far from the legendary or imaginary danger you believe them to be. River traders, of late, have made frequent mention of unusual activity along the river, especially on the northern bank. Soldiers have reported that scouts have been finding unusual large tracks that were not made by men, and in great numbers... and some scouts do not return to report at all." "Twaddle and utter nonsense!" The sharp-faced priest of Yfelde Soð, the God of Justice loudly interrupted; his voice snapped with disgust and outrage. "The Eorfleode are but creatures of legend, destroyed utterly, over a hundred years ago, when the false Gods were banished, and my Divine Lord assumed the sole responsibility for the protection of our race and people. They are but old wives tales, empty shadows from history, that are suitable only for frightening foolish old women and young children. Which are you, O faithless factor?" "Once again, O simple parish priest, you let the zeal of your heart overcome your limited senses. It is indeed foolish to speak of things about which you have absolutely no direct knowledge. Large and inhuman creatures are roaming freely in our northern forests... and, perhaps now, even in our eastern and southern ones as well. These unwelcome events are the avowed statements of many our loyal and skilled scouts and veteran guardsmen, and I would not lightly gainsay their expert evaluation of our present security." 'Utter nonsense!" The headsman agreed, nodding with concurrence at the views of his friend, the priest. "I swear that the reports of the scouts are true! I have seen them and heard my Captain comment upon them. He is most unsettled." A soldier from the castle then said, rising from his seat in the taproom and offering his sword hand raised in truth-oath. "I, too, will swear that the Boar-Men, or some new evil much like them, have returned in number to the north." Another guardsman stationed at the village watchtowers sternly stated, also making a hand oath-sign. "My friend, the veteran scout Gilias, is stationed at the main northern River Guard Tower and he has made many reports of strange incursions into our lands, by many unusual creatures. I would swear any oath that his reports are, indeed, true." The meeting, from then on, descended into loud angry chaos and the two factions argued loudly. Tankards of wine and blackjacks of good ale were indeed spilled, and blows might even have been struck if a messenger from the southern guard tower had not suddenly entered the tavern. "The caravan has arrived!" He loudly shouted inside the doorway. "It was sorely set-upon by bandits, and there are some injuries, but it has now safely arrived! His Grace the Duke is in attendance with them as well!" That announcement finished the debate, at least for now and nearly everyone hurriedly left the tavern to wait for the ducal carriage to pass. Rowan, Boyle, and Bryce took this opportunity to hurriedly finish their roasted chickens and their ale. Their coins were too hard earned to waste anything from a dinner eaten away from home. ********** "Do you think that the Duke will actually ever pave that road? It would make it much safer." Boyle asked of Bryce, who, as a trusted young veteran guard, heard most of the castle gossip. "Not a chance in seven hells!" He replied. "The Duke is as cheap and penny pinching as they come. I don't know what he spends the money on back in Tellismere, but bandits or not, not an extra farthing will go to cut back a single tree or lay down any stones on that lonely road." "Not good." Boyle muttered, and he was in fact quite right. "This is going to badly hurt the river trade." Rowan pondered. "Certainly cargos can sail out of Crystal Lake either west to the sea at Tellismere, or down the Bekingham River, much further south to the coast at Evesham where the river meets the Great Western Sea, but that adds many days of travel, for even simple cargos. Also, we depend upon the ores that sail west from the hills of Everdun, and the bales of wool and linen cloth, produced in the Lloan Valley. They, in turn, depend upon the finished goods from our cities and towns, and many require the surplus food from our villages." "So if Boar-Men are indeed crossing over the river, or amassing in great numbers to do so..." Bryce mused. "Then river trade is, or will soon be, cut off, and the Duchy must rise up to war for the first time since our grandfather's days, or perhaps even theirs." Rowan answered with a frown. Tellismere had been a quiet and peaceful land for as long as anyone could remember, largely because it had little in the way of raw materials, other than lumber, that anyone else would possibly covet. Their southern neighbors Broadmore and Drakland were often quite constantly at war, seemingly every couple of years or so, but their longstanding hatred of each other never boiled over onto Tellismere's borders, except at sea. "Not good at all." Boyle muttered, again quite correctly. In peacetime, there were enough volunteers for military service to avoid the need for conscription. In addition, minor lawbreakers in the larger cities were often given the option for a term of military service, instead of a sentence to hard labor. But if war was likely, conscription would indeed swiftly follow. The recruiting drum and their eager sergeants would gather every available young lad and man who could be spared, from every town and village in the Duchy. In fact, once the news of war and conscription was announced, some of the young men would be eager to voluntarily enlist at the earliest moment, hopeful of an early advance promotion to brevet-guardsman, and to gain seniority before the flocks of newly conscripted recruits arrived. For a lad without other economic opportunities, a military life, even here on the frontier, had many advantages, and not everyone who heard the tidings of war would be saddened. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 02 The young friends finished their meal and parted ways for the evening. Bryce was needed back at the bridge guard tower for duty, until the caravan was unloaded down at the southern warehouse, and Boyle wanted to be back at the stables to look over the horses. He would have a busy night attending to them, especially the injured ones, and he would likely also spend much, if not all, of his day tomorrow helping to repair any damage to the wagons. Half-day of scheduled work or not, Boyle was likely to be kept quite busy until Free-day, the day after next, and without the hope of a few extra coins to make up for his overtime. Perhaps he'd hear some more merchants discussing trade secrets while the horses were being unhitched. Boyle always seemed to find a way to turn adversity into profit, or at least amusement. Rowan, himself, had other plans for his free time, hopefully with the lovely Cedany. Since her work schedule with the Lady was much more uncertain than his, she regularly sent short written notes to the bridge guard tower, where Bryce or another of Rowan's friends could deliver the message to him. Returning to the bridge guard tower, he asked Lieutenant Robrick, who was checking on the reports of the caravan with Sergeant Arard, if there had been any message from her today, sent from the castle. Bryce often said that his boss was a good leader and a veteran of many fights in the savage wilderness. Originally born as a mere peasant himself, Robrick never let his promotion to an officer give him any airs, and he was an always pleasant visitor whenever Rowan saw him in the village. Usually, when just 'amongst the lads' his carefully learned, polished city-speak devolved back into the plain normal rural speaking habits he had been born with. "Indeed so, in fact, the messenger bought it not ten minutes ago." The kindly Lieutenant stated. "The Duke himself rode past not a minute after that, and ordered everything locked down tight! He was in a right fearful state. Bandits on the road, he said. One of 'em had the nerve even to put a few arrows into the side of his private coach. Cheeky bastards! I hope they have the sense to move-on and stay gone. The Duke will be in a right 'orrible temper, if there are any further attacks. He's going to have to send near every man he can find, as it is, to send up to the north of the lake. Captain heard that something burned down Greave's Fort, right up next to the falls, on the night before. Killed every soldier and burned the place down, they did. Lots of blood in pools left there, they say... but no bodies. Not a one, they're all gone. Mind that you don't go about repeating that story in town just yet. The Duke wants the whole mess kept quiet until 'e can decide what to do. Young Bryce thinks highly of you, and I think rather highly of him. He's going to make Sergeant in another year or two, if I have any say in the matter. If the Duke were in any right proper state of mind to think, he ought to be calling up the army and grabbing conscripts, and he'll get around to that idea in another day or two. You go enjoy your evening with your pretty little gal, 'cause things is gonna be getting plenty ugly around here soon! War! And a bad one, my gut be tellin' me... one to tell your children and grandchildren about if you get lucky and survive it all. So enjoy your lovely lady while you can, 'cause in another week or two it's gonna be boots, a sword and army rations for you, if you're not so lucky." He gave Rowan a leer and a wink and then a bit of a salute to bid the puzzled lad a good night. ********** Rowan walked back to the tavern to sit and think for a few minutes, and to digest the sudden news that he had received. The Lieutenant didn't quite rank highly enough to hear the Duke's counsels directly, but his boss, Captain Thierd did... and couldn't keep a secret if his life depended upon it. His wife, Uma, was, in fact, the primary village source for gossip about anything and everything that was happening inside the castle. If Robrick said it was true, then even the most obstinate gambler in town wouldn't have bet against his news. If one of the northern coastal lake forts had been sacked, then war was certain. Either in a few days or a few weeks at most; even the dithering Duke couldn't postpone for long that important of a decision. Cedany would need to be told that he would be likely to be conscripted, hopefully to labor as a weapon or armor smith rather than as a common soldier, but even that relatively safe duty could most seriously interfere with their already interrupted wedding plans even more! Her note to him was quite short, but it bore happy news. ~ "The Duke has returned tonight, and the Lady Ayleth should soon release me and her other attendants for the night. She will not require me any further this evening, so what time I have is yours. Meet you at the usual place, after my bath, which I hope to head towards at once." ~ This was most happy news, indeed. The Lady often required a companion or two, often Cedany, who was one of her most favorites, to remain with her at night in her bedchamber. Most other nights, she was often required to remain nearby in an adjoining bedroom, to be available for assistance with the Lady's early morning ablutions and dress. Her mention of a bath was his cue to meet her soon for a swim together in the middle of Lily Lake, their favorite trysting spot this summer. Hopefully, her father would not be expecting her home this evening... or at least not soon. ************** In the near total darkness of the lake shoreline, Rowan swiftly undressed himself and, nearly effortlessly and with almost no discernable sound, he slid into the river. With a quick prayer of thanks that the moon was dim, he swam slowly and nearly effortlessly through the ever-present clumps of water lilies until he reached the center of the very slow moving, torpid and quite shallow river, which was still quite warm from the day's heat. He was a very strong swimmer and often enjoyed early morning and late evening swims for both cleanliness, pleasure, and a stout bit of exercise to loosen his tired arms and shoulders after a long hard day at the forge. The village side of the river shoreline at night, was a common place for the young lovers to meet to court (and often bed) their loved ones. Rowan was not the only suitor in the river that night, as he heard some loud splashing from further downstream closer to the bridge. This spot, near the start of the shallows that pooled into the lake near the furthest northeastern dock, was a relatively private section little used by other couples. He and Cedany should have all of the privacy they could want. After about ten minutes of quiet floating and contemplation, Rowan now heard some faint splashing from the darkness of the further shore, and a few minutes later the tired, but happy, face of Cedany bobbed out of the water before him, and the two lovers embraced into a long and slow kiss. Like him, she was naked and her soft and smallish breasts pressed firmly against him. He fancied that he could even feel her soft and sparse pubic hair pressed up against his flaccid cock. The lovers held and kissed, and gently murmured their sighs of affection and love for each other. Soon their hands delved under the water, to caress and fondle the other in their more private places. For now, they were and still remained virgins to each other's most intimate embrace, but their passion and ardor was hot, scarcely cooled at all by the gentle flowing river waters. Cedany wanted nothing more than to leap up into her lover's arms and wrap her legs firmly about his waist, gently causing him to enter her and take that last remaining tiny bit of her love that he did not already possess, but instead, she held to her purpose and duty and broke away from their clutch, before her erotic needs became too overpowering. With a giggle, she splashed away from him, teasing her lover to follow and chase her. As Rowan was the much stronger swimmer, he could have easily caught her... but that would have spoiled the game. They chased each other, embraced again and quietly laughed and kissed, and when their patience was exhausted they scampered out of the water and onto the grassy riverbank to caress and hold each other more firmly and intimately. As they had not dared to publically declare their troth-vows, due to the opposition of both her father and the great Lady that she served, the lovers had never dared to consume their love via vaginal intercourse, due to the fears of what harm a pregnancy out of marriage could do to them. Cedany knew of a certain leaf that when chewed tended to discourage the conception of children, and at the age of nineteen, this drug was considered relatively safe to use, but she didn't trust that a mishap still might occur. Both her father and her mistress were of a spiteful nature at times, and it was not at all unlikely that, in the event of an accidental pregnancy, both could be expelled from the village nearly penniless, and without Rowan's final Master's certification. Independent as he was, Master Gorge would not dare to directly defy both the vengeful headsman and the Duke's only daughter as well, if their anger was great. Instead, the lovers had found other, safer means of satisfying their physical needs and token means of reaffirming their love and physical affection for the other. Falling as nearly one to the warm soft grass, Cedany wasted little time in taking Rowan's engorged cock into her hands and expertly stroking it with her small delicate fingers until it was as hard and thick as she could make it. Often, if they were publically having just a quick casual meeting during the day in the river, she could, and often would, stroke him skillfully under the waters until he ejaculated, and he would do much the same for her at the same time, with his fingers twiddling her small but very responsive clit. While public nudity was commonplace, open and conspicuous public sex in daylight was a different matter and considered to be quite rude. Tonight, alone under the cover of darkness, they would be free to fully express their love, in any manner that they wished. It was not considered a disgrace for a woman to not still be a virgin for her wedding, at least not according to most of the villagers and past tradition, other than the whim of Father Lankfred, who considered sex, even in marriage, to be a terrible sin against his stern and unforgiving God. Oral sex was quite common among the unmarried youths of the village, and this act was not regarded as an especially serious or irrevocable step in a relationship. If a couple wished to extend their sexual activities and formalize their relationship further, then usually anal sex was the next stage, rather than vaginal intercourse. Swanford's talented local wise-woman Ethrell, aptly handled most of the feminine health complaints and other midwife duties, but she normally frowned upon providing contraceptive leaf, or worse abortive herbs to the younger ladies, who had not been having their courses for at least three years, and for health concerns she thought that at least five years would be even better and safer still. Some lads obtained cock sheaths made from pig or lamb intestines, much like sausage casings, but Cedany didn't quite trust them either to keep her womb secure from bearing a child prematurely, and without the proper consideration that such an important step was due. Custom in the Southern Duchies was that a male lover could avail himself of no more than two of a woman's orifices without a declaration of troth, formal or otherwise implied. Upon her very oath that her lover had taken her in every possible manner, the couple could be declared as married by the common law, despite the claims or wishes of her new husband. If her lover then swore an oath to the contrary, the matter would be settled by the village elders or town judge. So far, Cedany and Rowan had remained content with just oral and anal sex. Soon Rowan's cock had swollen to its fullest, and it was indeed one of the very largest manhood specimens that Cedany had ever seen in the village, from her casual knowledge of watching of other men at bath or at furtive play with their own lovers. It was too large, in fact, for her to comfortably accommodate inside of her bottom. On special occasions, such as holy days, she allowed Rowan to penetrate and use her ass for his pleasure, but the experience was always one of discomfort rather than enjoyment to her, and Rowan never insisted upon this special treat as a regular habit. Still, she was more than willing to do this service for him that he might have other means of pleasure with her. Tonight, she had other simpler and more normal delights in mind, and she slowly swirled her tongue around his cock in ever wider and slower circles until at last, when his member was twitching with overstimulation, she lowered her mouth over his cockhead, and she began to vigorously suck him to his first orgasm. As the lovers could only meet irregularly during this summer, while the Lady was in residence at the castle, it usually didn't take much stimulus or sucking for Rowan to spurt his first load of semen into her mouth and onto her eager waiting tongue. With a pert kiss on his cockhead, and then his stomach, Cedany smiled and audibly swallowed his cum-load with pleasure and obvious delight. Then, with a giggle, she rolled onto her back and spread her legs wide, so that Rowan could return the favor by eating her. Like his first ejaculation of the evening, it never took long at all for her to achieve orgasm, and, within minutes, she had to bite her fingers hard in order to avoid loudly screaming out her pleasure, for anyone else nearby to hear. Far from stopping, Rowan's tongue only worked her clit over harder and faster, now, until she had two further smaller but equally satisfying releases almost in a row, one right after the other. With an equally loving kiss upon her clit and slight pubic mound, he snuggled up into her arms once more, and the two lovers kissed and held each for happily for quite a long time. "Do you need to be home soon?" He asked. "No. Father will spend half of the night commiserating with the Duke that the raid on the caravan was just a slight, singular misfortune, unlikely to ever be repeated, so no further measures or actions will need to be taken. My father is such an ass... and a blind fool sometimes!" "Have you spoken to him about us recently?" "Not since we last met last weekend, over the holy days. He is still adamant and resolved that I shall marry some noble, squire or minor knight of the Duchy - anything else would be an unforgiveable travesty in his eyes. I'm worried, now that the Duke has come for the rest of the summer, that father will soon bend him to his mind on this matter, and that the two of them will have me married off before the autumn solstice. The Lady Ayleth is already hinting that in the fall I will accompany her back to their castle in Tellismere, that I am to join her official ladies-in-waiting there as well." "Well, that would be a great honor for you." Rowan said with approval that he didn't honestly feel. "You will be given some sort of minor title, a honorarium or perhaps some small lands that will earn coin for you, not to mention all of the silk dresses and gowns. You would become truly a Lady!" "And I would be at least a hundred leagues away from you, and see you but a few months next summer... assuming the treacherous witch doesn't force me to marry some army officer before then! No, my love... I would far rather remain near you!" "Knowing your father and the weaknesses of the Duke, I wouldn't at all be surprised at this. But what can we do? Father Lankfred is also dead against our marriage as well, and I can easily see that bitter priest joining in lock-step with any plan that would marry you out of this village, and out of the erotic temptation of its men, at the earliest possible moment. You're so beautiful that he feels it must be a terrible sin against his stern and unforgiving God. You know he calls you a 'harlot' and a 'wanton whore' behind your back, despite my threats to beat him soundly for the insult." "He does..., but he's just a wicked little petty man, who is angry that he is stuck in a small village far away from anything important. He believes that we all still fervently worship all of the old banished Gods, more devoutly than his own grim God..., and we probably do. From all I have heard or read, they were mostly a kindlier lot than the sour and paranoid one we are left with now. Still, we must prepare for the worst. I would defy my father and my Lady's orders as well, if you but asked it of me. With you by my side, I would gladly accept exile from our village and together we could eventually find or make a new home far from here in another land." "I would indeed ask, and in but a moment, if I knew for certain that I had a way of providing our daily meals and something for a roof over your lovely blond head. You are too good and sweet to me, to suffer a vagabond's life of poverty and uncertainty on the road." "You have said that Master Gorge would allow you to forge your master's-piece at any time of your choosing. I know you wished to wait until next spring, when you expected to have all of the silver you would need to establish a new forge and smithy of your own elsewhere, but even if you could gather half of this needed sum, as a guild licensed master you could work nearly anywhere, far from this Duchy. We could travel to any of the larger towns and cities in other Duchies, where I could temporarily go back into service to another gentlewoman or Lady, while you worked for fee at another's forge. The final needed sum could then be gained then in little time, and we would be complete, united together in happiness." "That is indeed a serviceable thought, and by far a better option than defying the Duke publically, when your hand is offered to another. When possible, I shall discuss this option at length with Master Gorge. Perhaps it is indeed best to flee and only tarry here but for just a little longer, because undoubtedly our soon and rapid flight from here might indeed be needful. No, I could not at all, bear to be parted from you more than we already are! Besides, there are now terrible rumors of war, of great dangers encroaching from the wilderness. If we must indeed flee from here, perhaps sooner would be much better than later, if we are to flee the wrath of your father, your Lady and the growing rumors of war." "Indeed, also the Lady Ayleth has much increased need for me these days, as both her constant attendant during the day, and also as her preferred nightly companion, where she has other significant, but not entirely unpleasant duties for me to perform. It becomes increasing difficult to find any moments free from her, to evade her growing demands and her wanton desires, especially now that I have such greater growing desires of my own... with you." ******* This was as gentle a hint as Cedany could manage that, while Rowan was her heart-song and lover, she did in fact regularly provide sexual comfort for her noble mistress, as did the Lady's other young and beautiful attendants. Bisexuality and love-play between young unmarried women was not only common and unremarkable, but it was even often even encouraged... especially at the higher classes of society. It was a safe and quite suitable means for channeling the growing sexual urges of young women of the nobility in a more constructive manner, rather than if they instead formed 'unsuitable' attachments with young men of a lower social status. The Duke and the priests might grind their teeth about the custom, but there was very lengthy precedent for the tradition in the Southern Duchies. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 02 In fact, in the Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire, and especially in its capitol city of Corælyn, same sex relationships were often candidly, frankly and often scandalously public, and regularly a matter of popular gossip, usually without any derogative intent, unless the class difference was too great between the ladies, or the male lovers to be encouraged or even condoned. Corælyn in particular was held to be the most licentious and shamelessly immoral city in the known world, where scandal was just another facet of society, putting even the legendary debaucheries of Caestor quite to shame. One of their poets once remarked in a famous quote, 'Non cuivis homini contingit adire Corælynum. — It is not every man's lot to go to Corælyn'. Such intimate associations were not to be flaunted here in the Duchy of Tellismere however, and normally any especially attached couplings were broken off, forcibly if necessary, before firmer lasting life pairings could be formed. Among the rich and powerful, daughters still primarily served the purpose of political currency, to be marrying as advantageously as possible to form dynastic alliances with other equally rich and powerful houses, and nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of that. Lesbianism might be enjoyable for the young noble ladies, but once they were married their duty was to close their eyes and if necessary to think of the good of the Duchy, and to bear sons for the continuation of the family lines. As her current favorite and preferred feminine lover, Cedany had commented before that the Lady Ayleth was both very enthusiastic and extremely demanding in her sexual needs. While her lower-born attendant might be often required to spend several hours pleasuring her Lady's cunt, she had never once, in fact, ever returned the favor to her or anyone else. Often instead, she would have another of her attendants attend to Cedany's erotic needs, and she greatly enjoyed watching pairs of her ladies in a mutual loving embrace, while each licked the others' clit and cunt, as she masturbated herself near endlessly until everyone was tired and satisfied... for now. Her daytime sexual requirements seemed to be nearly as intense. At the start of the summer on the shore of their island, the Lady had ordered for a large pavilion tent to be erected, for the use of her and her ladies, while they basked nude, or nearly so, in the sun and bathed in the placid waters of Lily Lake, right across from the favorite village bathing area, across the river. Naturally, this led to a good bit of mutual exhibition and voyeurism, especially since the attending ladies were usually fully nude. To maintain propriety, the Lady herself always wore at least a linen loincloth when she was outside of the tent, but she often stripped nude, along with her attendants, when inside the tent in privacy. Her guards knew well to keep their distance and where not to let their eyes linger. Already at her young age of just nineteen, The Lady Ayleth already had a growing reputation for having a wickedly nasty and vicious sense of humor, and being prone to excessive and unfortunately cruel punishments for those attendants, courtiers, and guards that even remotely had displeased her. Along the riverbank of their private island, the ladies enjoyed teasing the soldiers and the village men shamelessly, but in the privacy of their tent, the ladies resolved their sexual frustrations with each other, often in a large group where the Lady could watch her maidens lick and devour each other's cunts, in a large circle; partners to be switched and rotated, as her ladyship demanded. ********* Rowan knew that it was pointless to object to the extra sexual fun that his lover was having; the whims of The Lady could not be questioned. He knew Cedany reserved her love for him, and him alone. Everything else he supposed was just harmless feminine exercise. Envisioning the sweet tiny mouth of his lover servicing the clit of the highborn lady excited him; he admitted it, and he would have also confessed that he would not have minded watching the ladies at their private play, on some future occasion. In fact, this fantasy often gave him private thoughts of pleasure late at night when he was alone in bed, and if he couldn't get to sleep, he'd then used this daydream memory to stimulate and relax him, whenever he occasionally masturbated in private. Once again engorged with a suitable erection, the lovers then moved so that each could lick and suckle the other's genitals with their mouths. With Cedany firmly and comfortably resting on top of him, together they worked their tongues in a complicated rhythm designed so that each could, in time, cum once again in the mouth of the other, while in a deep and very long lasting sixty-nine. At length, with his cock as deeply into her mouth as she could manage it, he exploded another large load of semen into her mouth, almost but not quite, into her throat. Like anal sex, Cedany usually had difficulty forcing his large cockhead past the overly tight opening of her throat. She was slowly improving at this skill, but she had not yet mastered the ability to take every single inch of him in her mouth and into her throat, with just her nose left to press hard and fast against his balls. She longed to do this simple but loving duty for him someday, and it seemed that every time she tried her nose managed to get just a little closer. Someday, perhaps after Rowan was her husband, she hoped she could learn to relax her throat enough to allow him full passage into her throat, so that she could love every single inch of him even better. Cedany's needs were not neglected either, and long after she had lovingly licked away the last traces of his semen load, her lover was still trying to entice yet one further orgasm from her. At length he succeeded, and the two very tired, but happy, lovers fell once more into each other's arms. Normally, about this point, the couple would reluctantly separate, and Cedany would return to swim back across the lake, to gather her clothes and then sadly return to her room with the other attendants, in the nearby castle. Tonight she was unwilling to move away from her lover at all. Before each was aware of it, they had drifted into a soothing and deep slumber together, firmly intertwined in each other's arms, on the soft, high, sweet smelling, summer grass. ************* About an hour or so before dawn, Rowan woke up from his deep happy sleep with a start, and he immediately poked Cedany awake. She had been restless and moaning in her sleep, as if she was having a bad nightmare, and she was sluggish to awaken. He was used to getting up early just before dawn, and well before breakfast, to make sure that an apprentice had arisen and begun to properly heat up the forge for the day's work. Usually they did so without his intervention, but Rowan was always present to make sure that this task was done properly and on time. Master Gorge would be extremely unhappy to find a cold forge after his morning breakfast, and it was during the early hours of the morning that often, they could get the most work done, while their arms were fresh, and before any friends or customers arrived to interrupt their labors. After a good morning kiss, Cedany trembled unhappily in his arms, and held on to him even more tightly. She had had a bad dream, she admitted; something to do with the pavilion tent and fresh, bright red blood flowing in a pond all over the green grass nearby. More than that she would not say, but she continued to kiss and mash him ever more tightly. He was now mostly on top of her, kissing her lips and her small, but pert breasts, which he loved feeling underneath his fingers. Without quite realizing it, Rowan felt Cedany spread her thighs, and she started to wrap her legs around his hips and butt. "Make love to me... real love to me. Fill me now! Let me completely belong to you and be your geféra, your wife in name and heart, or even as your concubina, your bedded common lover! After my bad dream, and the ill-omens of this dark night, I feel that I can never laugh or smile again until I have felt your love within me. I must be yours, entirely without limitation. I shall defy my father and defy my Lady, and also I shall defy the Weaver's to take me and cut my thread before my time... or at least before I have felt your seed flow within me, and the burning heat of your passionate kisses, to burn away this darkness from my soul. Here, now... I belong to you, and I beg you to take what I freely offer!" Rowan kissed her yet still, another time or two, but her legs wrapped around him yet tighter. He then felt her delicate fingers take his cock, and lift it up to meet the opening of her vaginal lips, and there she pressed him into her, gently but firmly, at first, until, with a slight hesitation, her maidenhead was reached. As Cedany muttered 'Please!', Rowan began his first vaginal thrust into the formerly virginal tightness of his lover and she let out a slight cry of momentary discomfort as she bit her lip to avoid crying out in pain. Within a few strokes, all resistance and discomfort was gone, and their pubic mounds now met and caressed each other, as the young lovers truly fucked for the first time. Experiencing Cedany's most intimate tightness for the first time, Rowan felt that she was a taut but increasingly comfortable fit for his large member. She quickly lubricated his cock shaft, so that he could thrust ever deeper and harder inside of her. When he thought he was starting to get close to orgasm, he slowed down, and tried to pull out from Cedany's fertile cunt before he could explode inside of her, but she just wrapped her legs around him even tighter. "Cum inside of me... may I bear your child with joy!" She whispered in panting breath while keeping her eyes closed. He had wanted to look deep into her eyes, as his sperm spurted deeply inside of her for the first time, but they remained closed to him, and her face still retained a touch of her earlier sadness, as she gently kissed him afterwards with the first hints of sunrise now appearing on the horizon. Even after their lovemaking was done, she would not quite look at him, nor did their eyes meet afterwards. Try as he might, she looked away from him and arose to begin her departure. "I love you!" They said to each other, as they at last parted, but as Cedany began her slow swim back across the river, to retrieve her clothes and start another new day in the service to her mistress, she soon stopped and turned to sadly whisper one last request to her lover. "My love, I feel that we are soon to be separated by cruel fate, but if I am to be taken from you, you must in return do everything that the Lady Ayleth begs of you, afterwards. She will need much from you in the dark days ahead, and however much she riles you, you must lend her your aid or everyone else we know and love shall fall with me into shadow. Her minstrel and Foole, the Histrio and gléaman, who is visiting the castle will know the wise steps from the foolish, and you must trust him, although he keeps many secrets and is not entirely whom he appears to be. I feel that he will be your sturdy left arm, during the many dark days that follow, even though he travels other more distant roads unseen. I saw this all in my dream and I know that it is but a foreshadowing of your future, all-too soon to come, but without me by your side. Trust him, love... and serve her, and yet all may be well. I will have your oath on this my beloved, before we take our final farewell." Her last words seemed as but tricks of the wind, but they burned themselves into his heart forever, their words forever on the tips of his lips. Rowan stood and swore that oath, to the disappearing form of his lover and she nodded in acceptance. When she was mostly gone from sight, he slowly dressed and watched the final glimpse of Cedany waving farewell to him from the far shore, as she turned to head to the castle. Then, with a fearful wrenching sadness in his heart that he couldn't quite understand, he turned to head to the smithy, to start his own day of labor. A half-day of labor or not, there would be very much to do today. ********** Even several hours later, while the hammers rang loud in the smith, as they worked hard to forge new parts or repair old ones, to mend the damage done to the caravan wagons, Rowan couldn't shake the shadowy feeling that everything that they had worked and planned for was about to go all terribly wrong, and that he would indeed never see Cedany again. Even the happiness at receiving a handful of good coins in payment for the repaired parts did not settle his uneasiness in the slightest. Late that afternoon, just as Master Gorge was about to release his workers early for the weekend, the sudden sounds of horn sounding an alarm from the riverbank convinced Rowan that not only something terrible could happen, but that something dreadfully awful had indeed already occurred. The sounding of that horn was as a warning of doom to him, and it made him feel suddenly cold to the very marrow of his bones. Somehow he knew that the rest of his life would never be entirely the same, ever again. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 03 The alarm was first raised by Juro, a local fisherman who had a small fishing hut on log poles in one of the shallow corners of the river near the edge of Lily Lake. He then nearly at once attracted the attention of Àcheram, the Dockmaster, who then began blowing the horn he always kept by his side, as if he were trying to rouse all of Tellismere itself. The Dockmaster had the keenest eyes in the village, and could smell trouble even further away, it was said. He was now blowing his horn with all of his strength, not just the usual short toots he used to communicate, with incoming and outgoing vessels on the river, but deep long soundings that conveyed a much more desperate meaning. Rowan dropped his hammer and tongs, and the rest of the smithy started to also fall silent as everyone stopped in turn also to listen. "Why is the Dockmaster calling out an alarm? Is a boat about to crash into the docks? Or is there trouble on the river?" Ignold, Gorge's nephew and the junior journeyman smith wondered out loud. "I think not." Rowan replied with a confidence he didn't feel. "That has happened before, most recently about three years ago, and he used just loud short and fast notes then. This is different and new... some other problem entirely. Can anyone hear another horn from the direction north river watchtower? If there was trouble coming from down the river, surely Duflyl would have sounded an alarm from there as well. We're certainly close enough to hear it clearly from here!" Walking outside of the smithy onto the river road, everyone stopped to listen more carefully. Whatever the trouble was, the River Watch alarm had not sounded their alarm, nor had the Crossroads Bridge Guard sounded their alarm either. The East Tower watch post, further south on the eastern forest edge of the village, was also silent as well, but if this was not an attack, then what was wrong? Rowan started to trot past the stable, across the road, towards the docks to get a better look at the situation when Boyle came barreling around the corner and nearly collided into his friend, nearly out of breath and his blue eyes wide with alarm. "There's big trouble across the river, on the Duke's island..., right where his daughter has her big tent. You can hear screaming over there from the docks, and I could see something big moving behind her tent... something really big!" He panted. Boyle might be just a little slow of wit, but no one had ever accused him of being over-imaginative... and there was nothing at all wrong with his eyes either. If he saw something bigger than a twelve foot tall pavilion tent, then it was real. "Cedany and the other attendant ladies must be in danger!" He wheezed, panting for breath. With a sudden jolt of thought, Rowan suddenly realized that his beloved was in perhaps in mortal danger from this huge menace, and that he had already dithered and waited far too long. In a blink he was gone, running as fast as he could, running as if for his very life... and that of Cedany's, down the hill towards the docks, leaving a panting Boyle soon far behind him. For a brief moment, he had considered running down the road to the bridge and crossing there, but he knew that would take nearly five minutes, even at a dash. No, he felt that every second was precious, now. Running as fast as he had ever run before, Rowan sped down the slope of the riverbank and down the length of the nearest dock, and when he reached the end of the wooden planks, he dove swiftly into the river and swam for the island shore, with fast crisp chopping strokes. He knew that he was a fast and strong swimmer, and he was sure that he could cross the river here to the island, across the lily covered lake, faster than he could have run the distance around it, but every stroke and breath that he took seemed to be one too many. At exercise, he often had swum this distance in about three minutes, but now even taking just two minutes would mean disaster. Of this he was sure. Now in almost a blind, terrified panic, he arose when the water became too shallow to swim, and hastily splashed his way the final twenty yards to shore, scattering lily pads, ducks and swans alike in his hasty dread. With a swift glimpse behind him across the river, he could see that Boyle was starting his own, much slower, swim across the river and that more sounds of alarm were now coming from the river bridge guard tower. Help was coming, but probably much too late now to help the ladies. Now that he was on shore on the Duke's island, he at last got his first clear look at the situation he now faced, and if anything, his heart was even more filled with dread and terror. Boyle had certainly not exaggerated the size of the creature that he had seen, and now, at fairly close range, the monster seemed to be even larger. It was certainly near the height of three grown men; fifteen feet tall at minimum, maybe even a foot or two more. Just the sight of the huge monster caused Rowan's blood to freeze in his veins. The creature was man-shaped, but had cloven hooves for both of its two goat-like feet, and black coarse fur that covered its body up to its neck. The hands were tipped with great black pointed claws that appeared to be able to easily rend and shred armor, gauging by the sickening sight of the pile of guardsman and female bodies strewn all over the grass around the monster. Its head was much like that of an especially angry goat, except it had but a single long and straight horn on its forehead that appeared to have a black menacing glow to it. The Lady Ayleth, and her few surviving attendants, were fair nearly trapped out in the open of the field behind their pavilion; quite cornered and unable to either escape or retreat. The demonic creature was faster... and far stronger. In fact, the only thing that appeared to be saving them, at the moment, was that the Lady's Foole, dressed in his comical motley jacket and colorful pantaloons with his jester's belled cap, was standing protectively in front of her, loudly chanting a prayer of protection. That and perhaps the evil creature considered that it was in no danger whatsoever here, and was enjoying itself, not wanting to rush its sport. Already it had been gruesomely busy as blood was literally dripping from its clawed hands to the ground. Then it laughed; a terrible awful sound that Rowan never, ever wished to hear uttered again. It echoed of hell, and of a thousand horrible dooms, and all that heard it shivered and some of the ladies near the Foole obviously lost bladder control and pissed down the front of their thin white linen shifts. It had to be a Daemon, Rowan thought; one of the legendary near-immortal infernal creatures of the past, from the evil days of the Dragon Wars, of an age past. Look as he might, with hope and fervent prayer, he did not see Cedany; she was not present with the Lady or her few remaining attendants. He prayed that she had made it to safety, or had fled; perhaps to summon guardsmen earlier, but his heart fell... he knew that Cedany would never leave her mistress' side willingly. Perhaps she now lay among the fallen, hopefully only wounded... but Rowan had no time to commence a search for her. Bodies were scattered everywhere, and there was blood... pools of it, just as Cedany had foreseen. One of Ayleth's remaining attendant ladies could no longer stand the horror anymore, and she made a terrified dash for freedom. The Daemon was much faster. In a single lightning fast grab, it seized the horrified girl and tore away her brief white linen shift. When she was naked and helpless in its arms, she was nearly at once then brutally impaled upon the creature's gigantic phallus. It was a monstrous rape, but almost fortunately for its victim, his titanic sized member was far too huge for any mortal woman to hope to accommodate such an assault, and it didn't last long. Upon her violent impalement, her womb, bowels, and gut all burst outwards nearly at once, as her lower body, from her groin to her stomach, virtually exploded in a visceral cloud of rain of blood and tissue from the massive irresistible internal pressure. After a few moments the creature grunted and then uttered another vile laugh as the Daemon's massive cock erupted a flood of dark semen throughout the ravaged innards and it soon discarded his bloody quivering and soon to be lifeless plaything and victim to the ground. The sight of its black smoky ejaculate, mixed with the flowing blood of the ravaged maiden, was just an unspeakably terrible a sight to behold, and Rowan didn't think that she had been the Daemon's first unwilling victim to be torn apart in such an unwholesome and horrific manner. Corpses littered the grassy field; dozens of them, both guardsman and soft naked and utterly violated female flesh was strewn all about the area, as if it had become an abattoir; a slaughterhouse. Blood was everywhere, in pools and in small trickling streams that now slowly were flowing down to the river. Far, far too much blood covered the green grass, all over the field. A trio of young guardsmen stood off at a distance, waiting and watching in despair. They knew they were no match alone for this terror, and they had seen their friends and barracks-mates casually dismembered and slaughtered, without any injury done in return to the foul creature. Their only hope was reinforcements; as many soldiers and guards as could be summoned to help... but it would take time. Time that the Lady Ayleth and her few surviving friends did not have. When the monster smiled and started to take a step towards the Foole, the Lady, and their remaining companions, Rowan knew that he had to act. He needed to do something, anything, to give the guards just a little more time to assemble and find their courage. It wouldn't be enough, of that he was certain, but still he needed to do something to delay the inevitable. Perhaps his death would buy the Lady a few precious moments with which to escape. Once again he dashed into a full run and he sped towards the monster, and when he reached it Rowan leaped at the last moment and dove up upon the creature's broad hairy back. With a jerk and a lift, he was able to wrap his strong left arm around the monsters neck, and with his free right hand, he drew his small belt knife. It was a very poor weapon for such an undertaking, but it was the only one that he had on-hand. It didn't much matter anyway, since his knife blade instantly snapped against the seemingly impossibly rock hard skin and flesh of the monster. Seemingly, his one and only chance was gone. Looking at the ground he could see other broken weapons near the Daemon's feet. Obviously some magical or pure blessed-silver weapon was needed to harm this foe and he hoped that someone from the castle was hurrying here with one, and would hopefully be arriving soon or else the blood pools would soon become even deeper. The Daemon paused a moment, seeming uncertain about whether it should first dislodge this pesky mortal now riding his back, or else instead grab the terrified Lady that was now just within his reach. It was at this moment that another guard arrived, in full armor, and without waiting for his three dithering companions, bravely threw himself alone against the creature. In but a moment, his sword, alas a normal and very un-magical one, was shattered as well against its seemingly impervious skin, and with a single vicious swipe of an awful razer sharp claw, his brave head was severed from his body, and rolled away from his body for some great distance on the blood covered grass. As the helmet flew from the severed head, Rowan saw, in a flash, that it was his friend, Lieutenant Robrick, who had boldly given his life, to give him another moment's protection, and to aid in the rescue of the Lady. It was for nothing... but it was the bravest thing that Rowan had ever seen in his life and he swore under his breath that somehow he would avenge him. Staggered nearly off balance for a moment, as the Daemon gave Robrick's mangled and headless body a vicious kick to knock it away from him, Rowan took the moment to make one last try to subdue the creature, with his bare hands even if necessary. He was the strongest man in the village beyond a doubt, with arms coiled tight with hard muscles from wielding the hammer endlessly against the unyielding forge, and he decided to risk everything, in an attempt to snap the creature's neck, since its skin was too tough to be cut with swords and spears, or even be choked into submission. "This is probably going to hurt... bad, but I'll likely not live long enough to regret it!" Rowan thought to himself, as he lifted himself up further on the creatures broad back, so that he actually soon stood on top of the Daemon's shoulders. With a prayer to Árfæsliss, the Goddess of Mercy, and Gléagerád, the God of Wisdom and Fools on his lips, he wrapped both of his mighty hands around the terrible black glowing horn on its forehead. The pain from merely touching the horn was unimaginable, like red hot skewers going into every part of his body at once. His hands felt like they were on fire; fully ablaze as if they had been immersed into molten iron straight from a furnace. At first he thought that they had indeed been utterly burned away to the very bone, but after opening his pain-stabbed eyes for a moment, he could see that they were both apparently undamaged and his grip upon the infernal horn was tight. With all of his mortal strength, Rowan pulled back on the horn, trying to snap the creature's neck, and held his grip iron tight despite the agonizing soul-wrenching pain. Alarmed, the Daemon now tried to claw and shake his captor loose, but despite the wounds, Rowan held on firm. The Lady was inching away now, once again just barely out of reach. When his legs flew away free from on top of the monster's shoulders, he instead now wrapped them both tightly around the Daemon's neck so that not even its vile claws could now dislodge him no matter how hard the claws raked and tore into his flesh. His blood flowed like a river down the infernal monster's chest and fell like a gruesome crimson rain to the ground. Still the creature's neck was too strong and thick to be broke. His eyes clouded with exertion and stabbing pain, Rowan looked up to see that his friend Boyle had now arrived and appeared ready to fight, bravely but unarmed. Taking advantage of the distraction, the stout lad was ordering the trio of uncertain guardsmen to go forth with him. As several new reinforcements also belated came at last to assist in the battle, the group of guardsmen at last found their courage and followed Boyle into the fray. Their weapons proved impotent, just like all of the others, but at least now they were an additional distraction for the Daemon, and this allowed the Foole to now attempt to lead the women he was protecting further away to safety. With a last desperate and inhumanly fast lunge forward, the Daemon reached out to grab the Duke's daughter, who was obviously still his original intended prey, right from the very start, but with his head and neck immobilized by Rowan's grasp, his claw swing at her was just out of range and insufficient to grasp and hold her. She had nearly gotten well enough away and out of his reach for good, until suddenly and totally unexpectedly, the daemonic horn snapped cleanly off from the base of its skull and Rowan, black horn still firmly in hand, flew backwards off of the creature to fall to the blood soaked killing ground. Freed at last, the Daemon leapt forward at an astonishing speed and at once snatched up the Lady Ayleth into both of his bloody clawed hands and he held her fast. As Rowan woozily got back onto his bloody feet, he could see the Lady's gown being torn away with its sharp fanged teeth and the Lady's thin white gown fell away in bloody tatters to the ground, leaving her naked and defenseless in its arms. In a matter of moments, she was naked and helpless in its demonic grasp, It cried out an awful, terrible cry of triumph and it was quite clear that the horror now intended to debauch and dispatch his new noble victim exactly as he had done the earlier maidens; to use his improbably massive phallus to rip deeply inside of her and to use it to eviscerate her and soil her with his infernal seed, just as he had done to her other attendants. Its arms carried her screaming but helplessly, down to press her bare cunt right up against the tip of his monstrous barbed and leathery cock. He toyed with his phallus, rubbing it against her smooth pubic mound and her flat stomach and her ripe breasts, toying with her. Then back once again to press its cockhead firmly against her helpless vaginal lips, which were now ripe for just a single remorseless thrust to execute her unspeakable final outrage and doom. With not a second left to lose, Rowan once again leapt back onto the Daemon's back, but this time he had a weapon that could absolutely indeed pierce this otherwise invulnerable hide. With a desperate mighty stab, he drove the Daemon's own horn deep into the center of the evil creatures back, halting forever that fatal thrust that would have impaled the young Lady upon its horrible barbed phallus, rending and rupturing her entrails and guts fatally. Not yet mortally wounded, the monster instead decided to more certainly and quickly instead dispatch its victim, and it attempted instead to bite off the Lady's head, but another strong stabbing of the horn removed most of the strength and accuracy from the bite of its long fangs. In a spray of blood the Lady flew free from the monster's hand and was flung onto the grass and to relative safety with but relatively minor injuries. Now, perhaps direly wounded, the Daemon rolled free and crouched upon the ground on all fours, as if it were a injured black leopard preparing for one last final murderous leap upon its foe. With an awful howl of anger and pain, it pounced upon a weary and sorely wounded Rowan, who had just barely the strength to have arisen back onto his feet to meet this final onslaught. From the corner of his eye he could see Boyle and the guardsmen, all also knocked to the ground and quite stunned, but otherwise more or less hale and hearty. Rowan could see that Boyle, with a determined scowl of his face was struggling to regain his feet, to help aid his friend from the terrible assault that was about to come, but that he just couldn't manage it in time. Alone, Rowan held the Daemon horn firmly in his right hand, and he tried to duck under the creature's deadly leap. He mostly succeeded. ********* Rowan could never clearly remember the next few remaining moments. He felt terrible pain and the flow of fresh newly flowing blood, but not quite all of it was his own. In a desperate frenzy, he just kept plunging that Daemon horn over and over, as deeply as he could, into the chest of the now mortally wounded and loudly bellowing infernal monstrosity, until at last, everything was silent, quiet, and still, and the last drops of blood flowed onto the formerly green grassy field amidst the hushed voices of the pitifully few handful of survivors. ************* He lived, he thought, but Rowan found that it hurt too much to move, and that his strength was quite gone. In the darkness, he thought he could hear the sound of women singing, and of a weaving loom shuttle moving, but when he opened his eyes to see if he had, indeed, entered the Shadowlands. He, instead, saw that he was lying in a great pool of blood. When his eyes cleared and focused a little more, he could now see Cedany's face quite near to his own. She was smiling at him; happy even, but why was her face so very pale? Her skin was now alabaster white, and as pale as a corpse's, and while her lovely green eyes looked deeply into his, they were entirely without reaction and unblinking. The gapping wound across her throat was terrible to behold and it would desperately need a medicus' care right away at once, except that the blood had long since stopped flowing and her dreadful wound was now dry. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 03 With the very last of his strength, Rowan raised a hand to gently close his beloved's beautiful green dead eyes, after he looked into them for the last and final time, and he didn't even have the strength to howl out even a single tear for his awful loss. When he shut his eyes again, he collapsed into the darkness of an abyss, and he never expected to ever open them again. ************ When Rowan next opened his eyes, they hurt with so much pain that he quickly clinched them tightly closed again. He wanted to call out with pain and sob for the loss of his beloved, now forever taken from him to the Shadowlands, but he did not have the strength to even whimper, and the first tear of sorrow and despair just would not come. Still, what he had briefly seen was encouraging. He was in a good bed, with a glass window that clearly let in the strong morning sun, and several people were hovering over him in attendance. Only a few villagers in Swanford had homes with plate glass for windows. The Headsman had glass windows, as did Frigrast the head trading factor, and even the zealous priest Lankfred had a few in his home as well, but none of these places felt quite right. "Where am I?" He weakly whispered. "Good morning young hero! You're in Madame Ethrell's house, and she and I are tending to your wounds, of which I might say you had a great many. The worst of your injuries are mostly healed, but a few matters still require careful attending to. Still, we have very hopeful and encouraging expectations!" Rowan managed to get his eyes opened again, a little wider this time, and ignoring the pain, he squinted to take a closer look at his tenders. Now that he could focus a little, he could clearly make out the stout, but petite form of Ethrell. She fancied herself as the local Wise-Woman, and often tended to the minor and not so minor hurts and illnesses of the village, and was popular with nearly everyone. Father Frigrast had once publicly condemned her as a witch, but let the matter drop once he learned that absolutely no one was inclined to gather faggots to burn her at a stake. Village opinion was that once you were safely into her hands for care, your odds for a full and speedy recovery were exceedingly good. Unlike the more skilled and rare travelling Moon-Women, Ethrell had no magical abilities or the gift of prophecy, but she knew her herbs and healing skills more than adequately. The other man, who stood towering next to her, was a stranger that Rowan did not know, but he had a vague guess as to his identity. "And you are the Duke's Foole? I think I saw you on the pavilion green, sheltering the Lady and her attendants." "Quite so. Gléager Oddtus is my name, but I just usually go by Oddtus for casual simplicity, and while I'm not actually the Duke's Foole, he manages that job well enough on his own, without my help, I'm visiting with him for the summer. I'm a fully accredited Histrio or Lore-Master, and also quite a skilled gléaman or joculator, and I'm also a moderately talented poet and skald that has performed in every royal and Ducal court in these lands, near or far. Furthermore, I'm rather a deft hand on more than four dozen musical instruments, but I hate being called a mere simple mestier or a mundane minstrel. All of these skills are quite at your service, but I need to state now and for the record that I do not do pantomime... and all mimus should in fact be gathered up and taken off to Caestor, to be fed to some hungry lions in one of their arenas! "Gléager... that's the name of one of the banished Gods, isn't it." "Partially. That God's name is Gléagerád, the God of Mirth and Wisdom. Both qualities of which have been in very short supply on this world, in recent years. All true Lore-Masters take some part of the God's name; it's traditional and I have it on very good terms that the God doesn't mind sharing. The God also watches after fools, which covers both of us nicely. It's suicide to run into battle against even some of the minor Internals without a magic weapon, or good silver to affect it, but you somehow managed the impossible against one of the greater Daemons with naught but your bare hands. That is true foolishness indeed!" "Good terms... you have spoken with the Gods?" "Of course not, they're all Banished... just how old do you take me for? Besides, if the God has any objections to my name, he can politely ask me to stop using it, and I'll cheerfully take another one. Like colorful gléaman clothing, and a stupid story that's been told too many times to still be funny, it's good to gather a few extra names and give them a frequent good airing out. They get so worn out and tattered after traveling!" "Oh... well, how badly am I hurt... and is the Lady Ayleth quite alright?" "The worst of your wounds have closed and should heal up nicely, and very soon, but you'll have several interesting scars left to show for the experience. That and your ribs may likely be tender still for another week or two. You broke over half of them during the battle. As for the temperamental Lady Ayleth, she did not receive any significant debilitating injuries, except, perhaps, to her pride, but since that portion of her was already badly oversized and swollen, a good lancing of that boil will be most efficacious for everyone. Her father the Duke has taken her back to Tellismere, the city, to be treated there. I think he will find that her minor bodily wounds will heal fast and clean, but that the fang scars on her face will be far more difficult to treat. It is possible that she might remain scarred for life, and that could be a rather bad thing for everyone concerned." "Everyone? How so? From what little I know of her, her pride and attitude towards her lessers could use some adjusting. Perhaps this disfigurement will wean her of her pride." "On the contrary, such a personal scarring might probably instead lead to even greater scorn, and her treatment of others could even descend into base cruelty. Mentally, she had an extremely close call with a rather appallingly lethal deflowering as well, and she'll remember that experience in her dreams for some long time yet to come I fear. As the only child of the Duke, she may yet become the Duchess upon his death... especially as his health has never been especially good... weak mind equals a weak body, or is it the other way around? Or so they say. Even should she take a powerful husband that is her social equal, as Duke's daughters tend to do, she might then provide him with wicked counsel and influence him in other unwholesome ways. In every likely eventuality, this Duchy and its people would suffer as a result." "But you apparently already have a plan for an alternative?" "Of course I do, but this isn't the time or the place to discuss it. When you are fit and healthy, we will be paying the Duke a casual visit. He wants to meet and honor the man that saved his daughter. Well... perhaps not really, but he really should meet you anyway, so that gives us awhile to ponder useful alternatives. Now, you've rested in bed quite long enough, and you've got a very long bath to take now. You should also have a bowl or two of soup, as well, if you've got the stomach for some. You've been in a drugged sleep for just over two full weeks now, while the worst of your wounds were healing and until we thought it was safe enough to wake you." "Two weeks? A bath? I don't see any blood on me anymore." "It's not that kind of bath. Up with you young Sir! You've already been in bed long enough for now. Tomorrow is the Hāligdæg-tū and the Summer Solstice. A doubly auspicious day for many undertakings, and you'll need to be fit and hale to see it through!" "Cedany!" Rowan suddenly remembered his beloved and nearly bolted up out of the bed. Hoping against hope, he prayed that she would be near him, to soon be again by his side... but he recalled her murdered, but un-violated corpse in the field of blood and he sadly sat on the bed with his head in his hands, weak from the memory. "Gone lad. Buried in the village death-field and well on her way to the Shadowlands. We all did want to wait for you to be up, to be there at her grave to offer your prayers for her safe final journey, but it's high summer... and she needed to be put to rest quickly. I've talked to her father and tried to give him comfort, but he doesn't quite understand. He's angry and blames everyone, except perhaps the Daemon, and perhaps he always will. He has died in his heart, but you have still so very much to live for. Now up with you, your bath awaits and it really can't be postponed any further." It took both of his nurses to get Rowan standing up on his feet, and now that he had arisen, he felt as if he was sick with a heavy fever, as if by a strong winter flu. He felt wrong, and his head and body spun with dizziness and alternating pulses of burning heat and odd sudden chills. Oddtus managed to get Rowan into a very large, beaten copper tub outdoors on a patio, which was filled with cool well water, and very oddly, a great amount of picked water lilies blossoms, all of a light blue color. As Rowan entered the chilly water, nearly at once the bright flowers began to fade and wilt into dark dry and empty husks. Their life and beauty entirely sucked out of them. "More! Bring more blue lilies!" Oddtus bellowed. "I don't care if you have to pick every single one of them from out of the river, but pick them fast and bring them here! Run!" The wise gléaman had apparently gathered up nearly every single boy, girl and youth in the entire village, to pick the blue lily flowers for him. Near the tub where several baskets of flowers, but it was obviously that they weren't going to last very long. "I still don't see why we are seeping the taint out of him with Peace Lilies." The kindly healer Ethrell asked of Oddtus. "I would have thought that Ash-salt would have been better." "Perhaps, but how much of it do you have? Less than a pound probably?" She nodded. "Well then, we would not have had nearly enough. Twenty pounds would be needed, at minimum, and forty would be even better, so we must use what we have available. Do you have any yauron-weed, fresh or dried, or perhaps even some nalsamic oil? No? Well then, since Peace Lilies is what we have, then that is what we must use! Daemon's blood is always poisonous and quite fatal to the touch, but somehow this lad has survived its tainted infernal blood mingling into his own bloody wounds. Probably, it is his possession of the horn that protects him, which he can still not let go of. Now have the lads fetch more lilies, for we will have need of a great many before the day is over!" Use them they did. For what seemed like hours, a never-ending cycle of new blue flowers were added into the water, as the used wilted and desiccated blooms were carefully pulled out of the bath, to be then carefully thrown for destruction onto a hot burning bonfire in the yard outside. Soon the formerly chilly water became too warm for Rowan to stand, as the flowers slowly extracted the daemonic taint from his body, and released its infernal heat into the now hot water, as well. Five times the water was drained, and cold fresh, deep well water was added, until Rowan's lips were as blue as the flowers that ever-so slowly now, still faded and died in his bath. At frequent intervals all day, a fresh mug of hot soup or hunk of bread was placed into his left hand and he was encouraged to drink it all down, which he did. Not even the slightly portly Boyle could have eaten this much in a single day, but somehow Rowan managed to eat it all. Once in the early afternoon, his big friend came by to check on him, but Oddtus quickly pushed him away. The infernal taint was far too dangerous still, and Boyle reluctantly wandered back off to his stables. Shortly before dusk, the water at last remained cool, and finally the terrible daemon-horn fell from Rowan's icy fingertips onto the ground. The flowers continued to retain their bloom, and at length, the healer and the Lore-Master determined that the last of the taint had been removed from his body. They let the horn remain on the floor where it fell, and Rowan was taken from his long purifying bath, and gently put back to bed, where he fell into a deep but dreamless sleep. Still, the Lore-Master was not quite yet done. He gave his helpers their assignments for the morrow, telling them that yet more peace lilies would be required, and that the smithy forge must be ready for use, by the very first crack of daylight, tomorrow morning. "Is it wise to push him so fast, so soon after the start of his recovery? His ribs might yet be too sore to even lift, let alone wield a hammer, and the exertion will certain reopen some, if not most, of his wounds." Ethrell whispered as the last lamp was extinguished in the house and she bade the Foole goodnight. "Of course not, this is one of the most foolish undertakings I've ever become involved in! But it is necessary. I clearly see the weaving in every part of this. Young Rowan has become their servant now, and there are still deeds that he must perform for them yet; great deeds, heroic deeds that must be arrayed, in a fitting manner, to prose and saga and sung about until the end of days. No, none of this is wise... but there is no other choice. He must do, and soon, what needs to be done, and he can take his deserved rest afterwards." "Heroic deeds usually mean doing something utterly insanely foolish that saner or wiser men would never dare. Will you remain with him, to offer prudent advice, at the very least?" "Wise advice from a Foole? Unlikely, but I shall nevertheless do my best! We have all been woven into this story by the weavers, and we are threaded together. I'll stand with him until the final words have been woven. I shall be his guide, his word-weaver, and I hope his friend. Perhaps yet, some great good shall result from all of this. In the end, who then is the greater fool, the Foole giving the advice or the lad that takes it?" "Bah! I am no Moon-Woman, the future is only darkness to me, but it is far more likely that a lot of good folks are going to soon end up dead... or worse. But, perhaps if some of the right sort of 'bad folks' get it too, in the process, then I'd say it would conceivably be all for the better in the end. Bless you, Foole!" "And you good lady, for the morrow beckons and the world, at this time tomorrow, will be a different sort of place, for good or ill!" ************ At the very first glow of the pre-dawn, Rowan was awakened, and quite startled to find that he was now much recovered and he felt a good portion of his normal usual strength had returned. His sleep had been black and dreamless, but sometimes during it he thought he could hear a voice whispering to him. His dream world had been all darkness except for a faint near-unperceivable orange light that seemed to beckon to him, laughing at him, as Rowan never seemed to get any closer to it. What the dream-omen meant, Rowan wasn't at all sure and soon the memory of it was lost in the thoughts of wakefulness. Today was important, Oddtus had said. There was still something very important that must be done today, and apparently it involved disposing of the infernal daemon-horn, hopefully forever. After a brief drink of some well-watered wine, to clear his mouth and head, Rowan was handed a pair of his forge tongs and directed to pick up the horn, which was still lying on the floor where he had dropped it yesterday. The horn gathered, Oddtus then directed the lad to quickly return to his smithy, where everything would be waiting in readiness for him, for the dawn was coming soon. Indeed, the smithy was already nearly packed, with friends and most of the village youngsters, who were already gathering more heaps of the blue peace lily flowers and placing them into waiting dry bins and barrels. The flowers also filled the quenching trough to overflowing with them as well. Without instruction, Rowan knew to place the horn upon the anvil, but he found that there was already a large bright strip of metal which had been placed there on top of the anvil. He looked towards Gorge, but his master's eyes were fixed upon the Foole's, as were everyone else's there. "This is a good sheet of pure silver." The Lore-Master said. "Your priest didn't want to offer it up to us, but I 'borrowed' it from him in the name of the Duke and of the Gods. It has been properly blessed, and it is very suitable for our purposes. Place the horn upon this sheet and beat the horn flat with your heaviest hammer, until the two materials are one mixed sheet layer, uniform and smooth. The horn will seem as a very hard metal to your hammer and you must work it hard, yet smoothly for it must not break, crack or shatter, else your work shall be for naught! As you work, always place a lily flower between your hammer and the material, and do not be concerned as the flowers wilt and become corrupted, but always strike upon a new fresh one for the next blow. Your fellow forge workers will assist you, but you yourself must beat every single blow of the hammer into the metals. When the first ray of light of the rising sun touches this anvil, you must begin! May the Weavers and The Seven guide your hands!" With the first ray of light, it was his Master Gorge, who with a pair of light tongs, placed the first flower over the horn. It wilted nearly immediately, but already Rowan's first firm hammer stroke rang upon the horn. It made a loud high pitched metal sound, as the flower covered hammer struck, and it resounded like a bell... a mournful sound, much like a lonely church bell, tolling across a dreary moor. Again and again the horn tolled its sound, but slowly and perceptibly it began to slowly flatten, until, by mid-morning, the horn was just a smooth flat layer of dark, but faintly glowing, metal, about equal in size to the layer of pure, bright silver underneath it. Oddtus briefly examined the layers of metal and nodded his approval, while one of the apprentices offered the already weary smith with a drink of weak wine. His friend Boyle moved to offer Rowan a bit of cheese to eat, but the Histrio lifted his hands in warning to prevent this. "Unfortunately the smith must fast during this undertaking. His body will be weak, but his spirit will be insurmountable, and he shall surely forge his master's-piece!" Rowan was now directed to fold over this large sheet of the combined layers of contrasting metal, and beat them together onto themselves smooth, both the silver and the daemonic iron, folding over and, yet, over again, countless times, beating through the ever-present flowers. In his mind he could hear the cries of the infernal cries of the horn as it was forced into permanent contact with the blest silver, touching together in a million places, forever. The horn was still somehow alive with Daemonic power, but now bound and imprisoned into the metal. Rowan's hammer rose and fell and the blend of horn and silver melded together in near infinite layers until about noontime, when the Lore-Master and the Master Smith each agreed that the metals had been well and truly combined. Now it was time to add the hot iron. Gorge and his other journeyman, his nephew, had been working a fresh lot of their purest molten iron for several days, working and turning it slowly into their finest forged steel, and a bar of this red-hot metal had now been placed upon another anvil and repeatedly worked all morning long, until the last trace of any impurities had been beaten out of it. At last at noon, this metal was reheated and worked, so that it was approximately twice the width of the silver-horn block of metal, ready for Rowan's use. Now, after his brief rest and a last long drink of water, Rowan was directed to fold this new steel around the bar of merged metals, to wrap them together, much as he had done earlier, with constant folding of the three metals. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 03 The folding of the steel with its silver/Daemon horn core continued until near mid-afternoon, but the resulting single bar, with the innumerable layers of the three metals, had been folded over and over onto itself many hundreds of times, until the resulting bar, now heating once more in the forge, was perfectly sized for the forging of a sword. The three metals that had been worked together rippled with an unusually silvery glow, as all of the thousands or millions of layers, of the different distinct metals, now shown individually and distinctly, like tiny ripples on a pond. For a moment, Rowan stood there, hammer in hand, but uncertain as to how to proceed further. While he had repaired several swords on occasion, for the riverboat or caravan guards, he had never actually forged a blade, or any other weapon, from scratch. Oh, he had some faint ideas as how to start, but he worried that he did not possess the skill or the knowledge to succeed. Confused, he looked to the Foole for guidance. "Trust in your heart and the Weaver's." The Histrio told the lad. "Let them both guide you. You are faint and weary, for the task that you are doing tears at your very soul, as you hammer, but if your hands should grow too faint, with your bitter task yet incomplete, recall then the memories of your lost love... your Cedany -- and how she was cruelly taken from you, by that evil which you are now imprisoning forever. Beat your love of her into this sword, and let her shadowy hands yet guide yours. Be filled with the joys of your love for her, and let that love, and her spirit, fill yours, so that her terrible loss will not have been for nothing, and some greater good can indeed result from this tragedy." Slightly refreshed, and with a new confidence he wasn't entirely certain of, he started his final task, the forging of a great sword that would capture the essence and evil of the Daemon forever, perhaps even to channel and focus its might into a weapon for the cause of good. Or so he desperately hoped and prayed. That long, hot, summer afternoon, being the Summer Solstice, was indeed the longest day of the year, but as Rowan toiled in ever greater fatigue, he feared that he could not finish his task in time and his pace with the hammer faltered. Slowly he began to wobble unsteadily, obviously in utter exhaustion, but it was his ever loyal friend, Boyle, who saved him. "Remember Cedany!" He whispered and placed his hand upon the weary smith's back in love and friendship. "Do it for her!" "Remember Cedany!" replied the chorus of his watchers and helpers, as everyone murmured along, as a mantra... a prayer to the Weavers, that her spirit might return for, but a moment, from the Shadowlands, and bring comfort and peace to her lover. Rowan's hands clinched in anger, and a new fresh determination filled him. His hammer beat again, faster and harder, and then ever faster still, until soon he was hammering as if in a trance, with his tearful eyes closed, seemingly aware, but yet unaware of the world around him. His hammer had never struck with such speed before, or such accurate skill. His marks fell exactly where he wished, but as to why that blow should have been struck, then and there, he did not know. As earlier, when he had nearly succumb to his wounds on the battlefield, he once again, faintly, heard the clicking of a shuttle on a loom, both fast and certain, and his hammer, too, now picked up this rhythm and it beat in tune with the shuttle. Once, all too briefly, he felt Cedany by his side, gently touching his shoulder, as his hammer fell, and he could feel her love and agony at her loss, but all too soon, she was gone. As his hammer struck his last final blows, he thought he heard her voice repeating faintly once again what she had said that final early morning at dawn in the river. "Trust him, love... and serve her, and all may, yet, be well. I have, and will hold you to your oath, my beloved... forever." ************** Gently, his Master, Gorge took the hammer from the near unconscious smith's hand. It was growing dark and nearly sunset, and the last light was fading in the trees. The sword had been forged, but still the work was not quite yet completely finished. "You have indeed forged your Master's Piece!" He gently said while helping to hold his former journeyman upright on his numb exhausted feet. "Your task is very nearly done, but now you must take up the sword and quench it into the flowery waters, before the last light is gone, and then all will be done, and you can take your rest and assuage your grief." The hot metal sword beckoned to him, and as Rowan reached over to lift it up with his heavy tongs, the Lore-Master bade him to wait but just a moment, as he seemingly had one final task to perform first. Taking out a tiny, clear, crystal vial that was filled with, but a trace, of a reddish-golden liquid, the knowledgeable Histrio quickly painted with a tiny brush, seven rune characters along the fuller of the top side of the blade. With Gorge and Boyle on either side of him, they helped to hold him upright and steady his hand, as Rowan discarded his tongs and instead touched the still near red-hot metal of the sword at its tang with his bare hands. Somehow he knew that the heat would not harm him, and as he lifted the blade up, it somehow come alive in his hands, which were quite unburned by the searing heat. With it held in firmly in his hands, he turned the blade over to its other side so that Oddtus could paint another seven cryptic symbols on this side, as well. Quietly the Lore-Master's lips moved with a prayer to The Seven, whose holy rune-names now adorned the blade. Although Rowan's hands were quite unharmed by the intense heat of the red-hot un-tempered metal, a black mark, much like one of the Lore-Master's runes, now appeared on the palm of his hand. It didn't hurt, but there was a brief tingle in his hand as he held the sword. He had forged the blade and now it had claimed and marked him in return. At first the hot metal blade of the sword glowed with a bright malevolent black darkness, but as the symbols of The Seven glowed, then its light turned more to a grey color, and then it shown with a clear bright silvery light, until it finally it burst into orange magical flames in his hand. Everyone was stunned with amazement. Then Rowan thrust the flaming sword into the cold, quenching water, to temper the blade, and as one, every lily in the barrel, hundreds of them, withered and crumbled as the water boiled rapidly away, turning into a powder that quickly turned the remaining water into a dark thickening sludge, from which the finished and cooled blade could only be removed with some effort. The metal of the tempered sword shone now with a clear steady silver gleaming of its own in Rowan's hand. Holding it in both of his hands the blade now caught the final sunset rays from the sun, as it passed into darkness behind the trees, past Crystal Lake, and into the Great Western Sea, beyond the white towers of the City of Tellismere. As the light then faded into growing darkness, the glowing of the sword appeared ever more marvelous; the way that the fourteen painted runic characters had melded into the blade, as if they were engravings, and the matter in which they now glowed with a bright, orange fiery light, all of their own. For a moment he thought he could hear the sword laugh, exactly as the orange glow had done in his dark dream of the night before. With a wan smile, Rowan crumpled into an exhausted sleep, from which he could not be aroused, and was at once put into his normal bed near the smithy. His sword remained firmly in his hands; the placing of the hilt-guard, grip and pommel could wait for another day, as could the finding a suitable scabbard. The metalwork of the sword was done, except for some trivial polishing and sharpening. At the Lore-Master's request, the murky sludge that remained at the bottom of the quenching barrel was carefully poured off and drained, without spilling a drop. After lengthy boiling, and then baking in the forge in several moulds, three good sized whetstones resulted. Each was of the hardest stone and gently preserved the swords perpetual razor sharp edge with the slightest wipe. The first stone was placed into Rowan's pack, with his other limited possessions. The second stone was later buried with some reverence late one night by Rowan and Oddtus under a stone in the corner of the forge, to be found in time of later need. The final stone just disappeared. Rowan privately thought that the Lore-Master had kept it for himself, but never once asked about it, or checked the gléaman's own packs. He was content to leave that final bit of the puzzle a mystery. ********** 'Time, at last, might be now on our side!' The wise Foole thought, as he watched his young charge sleep in exhaustion. Perhaps soon it would become a world fit for laughter and once merriment again, The Seven restored and the Weaver's will done once more. He smiled. Rowan could sleep well for a day or two, and then once he awoke he'd eat enough to feed an entire garrison of troops, and then probably return to sleep, yet again. This was good and healthy, and he would need his full strength back all too soon, the Histrio decided. There would be time for the lad's ribs to heal and his wounds to close tight and sound before they might find danger again. This adventure wasn't over, by a long shot, but now they were ready for the dangers that were sure to come. Of this, the wise old fool was certain, and with a jug of wine he went with a smile to his own bed, contented and at peace for the first time in a great many years. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 04 It was the sixth of Lagufæ, the late-mid summer month of the Goddess of the Sea, before Rowan had regained much of his strength once again and realized probably for the first time that his old life here in this village was now over for good. His master's-piece done, his relationship with his old master Gorge was now rather different; not strained, but things were indeed now a bit different between the two men. Sitting here and sharing a pint of beer at the Goblin's Head with him at the same table was definitely quite a new and rather strange experience. Always before, Rowan had sat at a different table, with his friends and the other younger craftsmen, but now Rowan too was a Master and he now sat at their table as an equal. The beer wasn't really any tastier sitting at the master's table... but for a just a brief moment as he first sat down there it was in fact the most enjoyable beer he had ever drunk. With a brief toast to his old mentor, Rowan and Gorge sat and finished most of their first blackjack of ale in altogether silence. It was an odd moment for both of them as the old master-pupil relationship was finished and now the two men looked at each other to see if instead they could become now just old friends. In silence, the older smith delved into his purse and withdrew a pair of folded sheets of parchment and with a slight nod, handed them to his former pupil. "Rowan, my young friend," he haltingly said, "I have signed on three previous occasions Master's Affidavits for the guildhall in Tellismere, but never before with such pride and confidence as I now have in you. I think that for at least awhile, your path will keep you apart from the toils of smithing, but someday... hopefully soon, you will become a most renowned master of your own forge. Instead of the usual two copies of my certification of your talents to the guild, I have had Miletas, the village clerk copy out an extra one for you. Since I believe that the city of Tellismere will not be your final destination, this will give you a copy for the guild there, one for your own records and safekeeping, and an extra copy for the guild at whatever other great city you might find yourself in." "Thank you Gorge, old master... Sir." "I do not think we are saying goodbye forever, but I feel that the road you are about to set foot upon will be a long and perhaps an arduous one. It is always best in these sorts of matters to prepare for unexpected eventualities, whenever possible. I didn't begrudge the extra six silver spent for this additional copy in the slightest. Speaking of which, do you possess the one gold mark needed for filing your master's certification with the guildhall?" "I believe so Sir, but it shall all-but empty my purse." Currently a gold mark was worth nearly fourteen shillings or nearly three silver crowns, or about a hundred and sixty pence, and paying such a sum would indeed take well over half of Rowan's carefully hoarded savings. "I had thought as much. Perhaps there is a small way in which I can help with expense and add yet some additional weight to your purse. My good pair of heavy forge tongs is beginning to show its age just a bit and my remaining journeyman doesn't have to skill to make another to its exact measure. It was indeed a rather talented young man who is no longer in my service that crafted that tool for me several years ago." Gorge winked at Rowan and continued. "In fact, it would be well worth a gold mark to me if a certain new young master could forge another one for me before he takes his final leave." In no way was such a tool worthy of the cost of a small gold piece, but Rowan understood that his old master was making a very generous gesture to provide a simple opportunity for him to earn the entire cost of his guild master's fee in but a relatively simple days work. Touched, Rowan agreed and the two masters shook hands. The work was easily completed the next day and Gorge happily declared the new tongs to be at least as sturdy and well-crafted as the old ones had been. ********** It was rather odd to Rowan to now be hailed around the village as a hero. In fact he felt like anything but one! Seemingly, everyone around him was constantly thanking him, or congratulating him, and even pressing a gift or a handful of thin battered bronze or small silver coins into his hands anytime he set foot outside of the smithy. Even the relatively few remaining castle guards had done a whip-around and had collected nearly nine shillings for him. Gifts and contributions from the villagers equaled a bit over eight shillings more, for which his meager purse was more than thankful. Now, even after his travel expenses, he thought that he could easily afford to pay his guild fee and perhaps have some money left over with which to start a new life. Two other villagers, on the other hand, were much less impressed with the young hero. The headman and miller, Vainard, the father of his late beloved was in a brutal rage at just the sound of Rowan's name, and the one time that they crossed paths he swore an oath of violent vengeance against the lad. He, along with his sycophant parish priest, both loudly blamed him for every bit of the misfortune that had occurred on the pavilion green several weeks earlier. It was Rowan's fault, they cried, that the Lady Ayleth had been grievously hurt and that his own daughter Cedany had died, and no protestations of innocence or explanations by anyone would sooth them. Fortunately, their harsh and rather ill-chosen words fell largely upon deaf ears in the rest of the village, to their increasing unhappiness. After one encounter where they nearly come to angry blows, Boyle took to acting as Rowan's faithful bodyguard anytime the lad left the smithy. It didn't help at all that Rowan blamed himself as well. Comforting friends assured him that he had done everything humanly possible, that Cedany had been one of the very first ones to die in the earliest moments after the Daemon's arrival. She had been the first, and the only one of Lady Ayleth's attendants to deliberately put herself into harms way to protect her Lady, and to give her the brief opportunity to escape into the protective arms of the Foole. By every account of the survivors, Cedany was certainly already dead before Àcheram's horn at the docks had even begun to blow and long before Rowan had even left the forge. Still, Rowan felt that he should have somehow reacted sooner and faster. Even now, not even the combined mirth of the gléaman and his jovial friend Boyle could lighten his spirits. Always before quiet and reserved, the young hero became increasingly morose and sullen, despite the best efforts of the ever-humorous Boyle to cheer him up. Sometimes now Rowan felt that he was surrounded by jesters, with his young friend on one side of him and the gléaman at his other side, each competing to provide a glimmer of mirth and humor into the sadness that was Rowan's life, now that he was without his Cedany. Boyle was indeed in much good humor these days as he had received a hefty sack of silver from the personal hands of the Duke and was praised as a hero at least as equal as Rowan during that battle. Although he had not slain the monster, or even injured it any sort of way, it was his brave assault upon the Daemon without any weapon in hand that the Lady Ayleth had best remembered from the ordeal, and accordingly, in her view of the battle, was the most worthy of the credit. The other guardsmen in or near the battle saw things quite a bit differently and they publically praised Rowan's heroics as the unquestioned hero of the combat, but the Duke seemed to have been swayed to his daughter's viewpoint. There was no similar reward waiting for the brave young smith apparently. Rowan shrugged at the controversy; his friend had indeed been exceedingly brave and well deserved any offered reward. As for a reward for himself, he wanted and desired none... if he could no longer have Cedany, than nothing else was worth even a fraction of her loss to him. Even the apparent anger of the Duke meant little to him. Even now trapped forever within layers of steel and silver, as a sword now worn constantly at Rowan's side, the Lady and her father the Duke, had agreed with the counsel of his village headsman and his priest, that Rowan now was evermore tainted by his seizure and use of the Daemon-Horn... and the fact that it was now a Daemon-Horn blade wouldn't give any of them any comfort. If Boyle now worried that his morose friend was carrying a weapon forged from Infernal metal, he appeared to care not a fig! Under the mask of pain and self-misery, he could tell that the goodness of his old friend was still there waiting for the clouds of despair to clear. And if a sturdy mug of ale or three, at his expense, could lighten his friend's fearfully heavy load, then it was small coin very well spent indeed... despite the fact that Ypreth the innkeeper had told him quite firmly that his money was no longer any good here and for now at least, he and his friends would not pay even a farthing for drink in his taproom. ********** "So, we leave at dawn tomorrow morning with the caravan to Haldyne?" Boyle asked of Oddtus, the Lore-Master, while they somberly enjoyed a few beers the next evening in the Goblin's Head's taproom. "Indeed, but what is this 'we' that you speak of?" The Histrio laughed. "After perhaps a second sack of heavy silver as an additional reward from the hands of the Duke, or is our company just too mirthful to do without?" "If it is offered, certainly an additional reward is not to be declined, but my purse is nicely fat and heavy enough as it is. It is my friend I'm concerned about. He has lost his lady-love and now faces as well a new life of uncertainty and peril. As he is a good man worthy of much praise, and not just regarding the celebrated events of recent, I would desire to stand by his side for awhile yet to come, perhaps in merry fellowship or perhaps in mortal heated battle against impossible odds yet once again. They are all the same to me... besides, a good farrier can get work anywhere and I'm a wee bit tired of shoveling shit here for drunken old Cegred. It's a big world out there and my da' said to never sleep when opportunity is knocking!" Rowan laughed and hugged his friend. "Boyle, of course you can come with us... but I'm still not entirely sure as to why you, O Goode Foole, have volunteered yourself to my service, but I accept your assistance gratefully anyway. My beloved once told me that I could trust you, but I don't understand what interest you have in me? As I understand it, the Duke might or might not even wish to see me, now that I am recovered, but it is very uncertain what sort of welcome I shall receive from him. From the letters that Cedany's father and our wicked priest have surely sent him, the weak but great man will be much swayed by their ill-counsel. It is also quite uncertain what sort of thanks the Lady Ayleth will have for me? Praise or scorn? Shall I get tossed at once into some dark dungeon, or perhaps even the headsman axe shall await me, not that I care a fig at the moment." "Life is always uncertain, so drink your ale down first before starting your dinner and then pour yourself some more." The wise joculator spoke, draining his blackjack down swiftly but effortlessly and refreshed it from the large earthenware pitcher in the center of the table. "As to trust? Only a true fool would trust a Foole! But I shall offer my wisdom to you never the less, for you are the means of a song... a great wonderful song, and it would be a terrible shame for you to get your brave neck cut off by an angry Duke or a stealthy Goblin on the road, so I shall attempt to guide your path! We shall have songs, and merriment and an odd-tale or two for the road. We shall have good ale... and bad, soft beds or a blanket upon rocky ground, and whether in good company or bad we shall not quarrel... agreed?" Aroused to his feet, the gléaman raised his blackjack of ale high, and after refreshing his pipes, he burst out into an old familiar tavern song that everyone knew and could sing along to. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 04 "But what did the Daemons have to do with the Dragon Wars?" Boyle asked curiously. "What exactly do either of you two lads know about the Dragon Wars?" The Lore-Master asked suspiciously. The two lads just shook their heads. "Nothing much at all - only that you've mentioned this several times before in the past, very briefly." Rowan replied. Oddtus sighed. "Even the very wisest of men know little of those dark times over a thousand years ago. There are few surviving stone buildings, let alone writings from that period and even fewer manuscripts from that era that survive to this day. When that terrible war was over, no one wanted to remember the dark days that had passed. There are a few surviving songs from that period but they are sung hardly ever at all, except to pass them along to the next generation of joculators for them to learn and remember. The war against the ǽrost, the first-born, was so dreadful that even the winners felt that they had lost everything worth living for, and they all wanted to bury themselves in forgetfulness." "So who were the first-born? And did they fight the Dragons... or the Daemons?" Boyle wondered, scratching his short straw colored hair in puzzlement. Oddtus laughed, so long and so hard that at one point the lads thought that he was going to roll right out of the wagon and fall onto the road. "Lads, the Dragons were the first-born, the very first race created by the Gods, most particular by the God of Fire, Lígfýr, who was impatient to receive their worship, and acted nearly alone, with little help of the rest of The Seven. For a thousand years they flew the skies and ruled everything beneath them as the masters of this world and every living thing that lived under their proud and arrogant gaze. We... well the Gods, had created them too well, making them nearly Gods themselves, filled with near limitless power of their very own. They even created servant races, such as the goblins, and many of the Eotenas, the monster races to serve or amuse them by being hunted prey. When the second-born came, such as the Ylfe and Dweorg races, there was little peace between them right from the start and the divisions soon lead to war, with the Gods and Goddesses having to choose sides. "So the Gods themselves fought each other? Against the pattern of the weaving?" Rowan asked in amazement and wonder. They did, but rather indirectly. No God actually struck another in anger but they channeled their will through their intermediaries and their creations. They had greater strength of will in those days and the pattern of the Weavers was as of then uncertain. The world and the weaving were still new and no one could tell which was the proper way, or how things ought to be. Even my patron, Gléagerád, the wisest of the Gods, did not know then which paths should be taken and he even perhaps made his own share of unfortunate mistakes. As the first-born were well noted for their avarice, over-weaning pride and cruelty, most of rest of The Seven sided against the Fire-God and his race of dragons, but they never directly enforced their own hands or will against the other in battle. That had been expressly forbidden by the Weavers. Instead, via their proxies, the races of the second-born, and then later the races of the third-born, all fought against the Dragons and their lesser kin. It should have been a mildly difficult but short term affair, but somehow the first-born held on and even solidified their power against all odds. This lasted for several thousands of years." 'So, was the race of men part of the second-born?" Boyle wondered. "No, in fact they were the very last of the third-born, created in desperation by Yweorfan, the God of Cultivation, with assistance from several of the other Divinities, including also again my patron. It was also at this very bleak time that, Ámyrðria, the Goddess of Lies & Weal, offered another new ally against the Dragons for this war that appeared to have no end. It is unclear if she created the race of the Infernals herself or if she made contact with them in some other dark world, and in return for their help, offered them a home in ours. In any case, and most ill-advisedly, their assistance was accepted and soon regretted by nearly all. The evil they did upon this world was too terrible to be ignored for long. They were an ambivalent and fair-weather ally at best, much like their patron Goddess, and many believe still that they in fact actually secretly served the dragons right from the very start, or at least allied themselves with them. The second-born all loathed them and would have nothing to do with them. These divisions in their ranks prevented any unity from ending the war for at least another thousand years, until at length, finally the last of the Dragons were defeated, mostly due to the heroic efforts of men and the other third-born races, and of course the creation of the Wizards." "There was no magic in the world before that?" Boyle wondered. "There had always been magic, but it was subtle in those days; mostly minor innate powers given to the second-born, or wylde-magic that randomly appeared without order or reason, but it was Gældra, the Goddess of Spirit & Magic, who desperately risked nearly everything by giving up some of her very own power directly to a selected group of men that she trained to use magic, and they become the first of the race of Wizards. Some say she went to speak to the Weaver's directly for help in ending the war and in return for the powers she was given, she pledged the perpetual service of the Wizards to defend and protect the Weaving thereafter, as their sole primary duty. She deserves special credit for the victory, I think, as some say it was the Wizards who virtually on their own finally ended the war, and it was also the Wizards who broke the alliance with the Infernals and banished them from this world. Now, angered and betrayed, they constantly look for weaknesses in the shield that separates their world from ours, and seek to take back what was apparently promised to them." "That is a dreadful story!" Rowan exclaimed. "How could they make such an unspeakable bargain?" "Assuming in fact that they actually did so, it was certainly very unwise. But never forget that the Gods and Goddesses, now mostly lost to us, had much greater power and much greater responsibility in those days, but with little more actual wisdom and foresight than you or I. Their feet, like ours, were no strangers to missteps or even bad stumbles in the dark. I have heard it whispered as rumor that one of the reasons that Yfelde Soð, the God of Justice trapped and banished his brother and sister deities was their alleged support and contact with the evil race of Infernals, and to prevent this sort of bargain from ever occurring again. Whether this is truth or not, I cannot say, but his sole divine reign for these last hundred years has hardly been without blemish either." The lads nodded, terrible divine treason or not, the stern and unforgiving rule of the God of Justice was tempered by precious little mercy. Despite the darkening skies of the oncoming summer rainstorm, the caravan made it safely behind the high stone walls town of Haldyne early in the afternoon just before the first raindrops fell. ************* "What do they mean by 'there are no boats'?" Rowan blustered. "There are three ships right there in the harbor that I can see now! Surely the Duke has not sheltered the entire trade fleet back in Tellismere?" "Apparently he has." Oddtus stated gloomily. "The Duke is now finally and most properly becoming concerned about the attacks upon the forts at the northern sides of the lakes and he has ordered every ship to be made available for transferring soldiers, scouts and guardsmen up north. The southern garrisons, forts and towns are to be stripped of half of their troops for the campaign, so it looks like the guardsmen lost to the Daemon in Swanford won't be soon replaced anytime soon either. The three ships at dock have already been taken over by the Navy for ferrying troops and keeping the islands supplied. No ride for us there! Until further notice, it will be by road caravans only that trade goods will move across Tellismere, down around the southern roads of Crystal Lake." "Well, it could be worse." Boyle offered. "It already is, I think." Rowan muttered. "I overheard a different caravan master say that bandits are hitting the longer road between Haldyne and Lacestone. They're trying to run that route fast, to make the trip in a single long travel day, but just about every other caravan is getting hit. No cavalry guards are available for them either now; they're getting shipped up north to scout up there. I bet these are probably the same bandits that were near Swanford last month that raided the caravan the Duke was riding with." "Not good." Boyle grumbled. "We're going to need some horses then. That will be expensive, even for my purse." A just barely decent old riding horse was going to be a minimum of four or five crowns each under the best of circumstances, and with war threatening, finding something better, a good quality horse could and would cost several pounds of silver, something like a hundred to two hundred shillings each. Just for a single horse, let along saddle and tack. Horses had always been expensive and in times of trouble a good horse could cost as much as a good plot of land. "Ah, well I came prepared for that eventuality." The Foole smiled. "Boyle, take this letter and go visit the fort's stable-master. With most of his scouts going north, there's bound to be a few decent stabled horses that he'd rather not provision for the next month or two. This letter should gain us some assistance. Pick us out a couple of good ones that are up to several weeks of travel." Boyle took the parchment and looked at it quickly and then grinned. He then sped off eagerly to the stables. "Did the Duke really give you an Aide and Assistance letter? That's a precious gift! And quite unlike him." Rowan remarked. "Of course he didn't. He's a cheap and rather thoughtless old miserly bastard, but I've spent enough time around him to know his real needs, rather than his current thoughts, so I thoroughly prepared myself for this journey. His signature and his seal were easy for me to obtain; he'll sign anything you put in front of him as long as it doesn't involve him actually spending any money, and he's half-blind enough that he can't read anything put in front of him without a glass, and he's usually too vain to use it. This letter should get us horses easily enough, and even feed for them at any ducal stable along the way. For the moment we're allegedly official messengers of the Dukedom, with all of the rights and privileges thereof. He doesn't know it, but he does really want to see us, so we'll make him pay the brunt of the expenses to get there. I've even got a signed letter of credit or two we can use in a pinch if we need to!" The tricky gléaman said with a grin. True to his prediction, Boyle was delighted to report that he had obtained three good Duchy horses all ready for them to take in the morning, along with some packs of pressed grain cubes for them and even some dry camp rations for us. A quick examination of their food stocks showed that they were in a decent shape of preparation for a week or two on the road and with some coin in hand, Boyle raced off to head to the town market to buy some additional provisions before the sun set and the marketplace closed for the night. With the evening, the Foole had no difficulty at all earning them some bowls of stew and even a pint or two of respectable ale as he bargained his services for their upkeep, and he even added quite a few extra coins for his own purse, by singing and telling stories late until the taproom was ordered closed for service for the night. This was the first time they had seen the gléaman in his brightly colored motley costume and in performance, and he handled the sparse audience of soldiers and tradesmen spellbound with his antics, songs and stories for hours. Watching with some interest, Rowan's recent misfortunes seemed all but forgotten as he laughed and stomped his feet in applause. He was sure that the Foole had been showered with enough pence to earn well over a crown, or maybe two. Clearly a good Foole was worth well more than his weight in ale and even up to the proverbial hat full of silver. His new friend Oddtus was apparently really one of the very best. No wonder that he had kept a close association with the Duke and his family! With a warm bed in the barracks stables, the trio caught an abbreviated but good night's sleep after reviewing their needs and plans for the morrow. *********** The itinerant Lore-Master was already well-prepared for life on the road and he even had a small tent that the three of them could just barely squeeze into should it rain at night. Boyle had an old but very sturdy pack, now filled flush and tight with food supplies, some cookware and even a brand-new wool blanket wrapped around the top of the pack that suspiciously looked identical to an expensive foreign woven one that had hung in the Swanford stables for some time. Rowan decided that he wasn't curious enough to ask if it had been borrowed from his old boss Cegred. The old drunk would probably never notice it was missing anyway. Rowan, for his own pack, had an old but warm and well-loved blanket from his old bed in his former master's house. He also had a small set of ironworking tools that he had forged himself as a very young journeyman so that small repairs could be made while on the road at any campfire. Little else other than a few changes of fairly worn clothes filled his pack. He offered to take some of the extra load from Boyles, but the sturdy stout lad just laughed and shook his head. And he had his sword, ever at his side even as he slept, so at least he looked something like a young guardsman or scout. Boyle, while rummaging earlier in the stables had found a pair of short-bows for himself and Oddtus, some arrows with a quiver that could be strapped neatly to the sides of the saddle, and even a nice old cavalry long spear that he took an instant fancy to. An evening's work with some steel wool took off all of the rust and a few swipes of Rowan's whetstone made the spear point razor sharp. The gléaman had his old favorite decorated walking stick, complete with colored ribbons and bells and hinted with a smile that he was as mean of an old-cuss as anyone with his staff in hand in a dire situation. Having seen the old Foole in action fending off the approaches of the Daemon, Rowan had no doubts about his courage. If Rowan had any fears or doubts about his adventure, he was too tired and content to dwell upon them and instantly fell fast asleep. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 05 Oddly, the fear of running out of money during the long overland journey soon proved to be a chimerical concern. If anything, their coin purses just seemed to grow fatter and heavier with every stop that they made along the road! Right from the very start, Oddtus had made some sort of deal with a westward going caravan heading towards the big walled city of Apeleia (Applewood) offering to share his 'two personal guards' to help guard their caravan, for just a minor payment. With the fears of bandits in the area, the rumors of trouble to the north of Crystal Lake and the impending transfer of many of the regions soldiers and guardsmen, the traders accepted his offer with alacrity and some large silver crowns were quickly produced for each of the lads. Rowan thought he saw the flash of a gold mark or two go into the Foole's hands as well, if but for an instant. Soon the young lads found themselves riding as guards at the front on either side of the first wagon of the convoy, trying to look alert and belligerent. The plan had been for the caravan to speed south down the lake road and reach the walled town of Lacestone sometime late that evening, camping at its gates safely until dawn, but the mid-summer showers of yesterday had turned the brown dirt into mud and more steady rainfall early that afternoon also slowed the wagons pace even more. Quite a few nearby villages could be seen just off of the road while they were near Haldyne, but after a few hours there was nothing but thick forest to be seen on their left as they travelled. Much as Frigrast the trading factor in Swanford had accurately warned, the tree-line here was quite close to the road, well within easy range of even a short bow. The wagoneers and the merchants grumbled much about this and one trader mentioned that he had petitioned the Duke about this very problem several times, but he had never received any sort of response, let alone any promise to remedy the problem. Boyle, being an experienced horseman, rode lightly upon his mount and seemed quite at home in the saddle. Having spent almost none of his life on top of any horse, Rowan couldn't decided which problem was worse -- that his butt was now quite sore from his inexperience with riding, or that he thought he sometimes saw shadowy faces in the trees watching them, or that he was too far away to converse normally with his friend Boyle, except at a shout across the lead wagon. Still this was another new experience for him and he slowly began to feel and move along in concert with the saddle and horse underneath him. His clothes were wet to the skin and he belatedly decided that some silver spent for a good oilskin coat that he could wear in the saddle... and a broad hat that would keep the rain and sun out of his eyes might both be excellent expenses once he reached Lacestone, a town supposedly about the same size of Haldyne, which also acted as the regional fort for the smaller villages in the area. As they travelled that afternoon, the warm late summer rains fell harder and the road turned to mud under the wagon wheels and often the front wagons had to slow down or even stop to wait for the later following wagons to slowly catch up. The trees here along this stretch also grew even closer to the road, near enough that Rowan was sure he could easily hit the nearest thick clump of trees with a small rock. No wonder the merchants and traders were frightened! While being tired, sore and rather annoyed, he remained quite alert and he wasn't completely surprised when an arrow suddenly zipped right past his nose from some as of yet unseen archer hidden in the thick cover of the nearby trees. Other arrows soon followed from other hidden bowmen that concentrated their fire upon the lead wagon, seeking to slow or disable it, to trap and halt the entire caravan. Unluckily, one of the lead horses was hit hard upon one of its flanks and it tried to bolt with terror until in its panic it had tipped its wagon over onto its right side in the muddy ditch right next to the muddy roadway. With the rain now coming down harder and their primary goal of stopping the caravan achieved, the bow fire now ceased as their bowstrings started to became wet and unusable and a ragged line of bandits armed with swords or short spears soon appeared out of the tree-line charging the column of stalled wagons hoping to seize and plunder their trapped prey. Rowan muttered to himself as he gathered his courage to attack. "Well... this is what I've been paid for... to handle things like this, so I might as well stop worrying and see if I can frighten this rabble off before anyone gets hurt." His mount, being a trained cavalry horse, was quite used to this sort of situation and being of a rather excitable nature anyway, it made the decision to 'charge' several moments before his inexperienced rider had even considered the notion of kicking in his heels on his aggressive and overly enthusiastic mount. It was not a particularly auspicious cavalry charge for either of the lads. Rowan was caught quite off-balance and unprepared when his mount reared up for a moment before galloping off toward the foe and he soon found himself propelled off the side of his mount entirely and into the mud of the road somehow landing down face first in the mud. Boyle, albeit a far better horse-master, had received no prior training with using arms while mounted and quite missed entirely the first two ragged bandits that he tried to skewer with his long spear. Fortunately, their mates at the caravan had enough problems of their own dealing with panicking horses and they were now hastily grabbing weapons of their own rather than stopping to berate their less than veteran guards. Rising up from the mud, Rowan was quite sore, angry and thoroughly embarrassed... and pissed off beyond words. To match his mood, his now drawn sword exploded into a savage orange flame surrounding the blade and with hardly a single thought he sliced entirely in half the first bandit that reached him. His companion faired only slightly better as Rowan's infernal sword sliced entirely through the weak metal of his parrying sword blade and cut deeply in the shoulder and chest of the unfortunate man, who soon bled quite out in just a matter of moments. Terrified at this mud-covered terror wielding a flaming sword, the bandits all broke and retreated back for the safety of the woods and Rowan was more than happy to let them escape. Looking around at his feet he just saw blood, just like he had that sad terrible day last month. Once again the red blood covered wet green grass, but all too soon it was washed away in the rain... but the memory of the two dead bodies by his feet remained with him for much longer. Boyle, now spurred to greater measures of martial might, at last cornered one of the fleeing bandits and halted his mount with the spear pressed up tight against the man's throat. "Shall I show him mercy?" Boyle yelled to Rowan, who did not answer but instead was abstractly considering the color of the red rain-washed pool of blood mixed with rain water at his feet. The flames slowly died out and his sword was returned to its sheath, which had formerly belonged to his dead friend, the always dutiful Lieutenant Robrick, who had been slain by the Daemon. His sword, broken by the creature's impenetrable hide, left an empty scabbard, and his commander Captain Thierd had presented it to Rowan, in memory of the brave Lieutenant. It fit perfectly, as if it had been always been intended for this task. It was a good practical sheath for his infernal magical weapon, without possessing overly much decoration; a scabbard of function and practicality, and Rowan now wondered how many times during the rest of his life he would have to again draw this great and terrible weapon in anger. Seeing the blood on the ground in front of him, he thought that perhaps even once more would be a time too many. "Please, in the name of Árfæsliss, give me mercy, I beg of you!" The frightened bandit said as he knelt in supplication to his captor. At the mention of the Goddess of Mercy, Boyle lowered his spear but did not entirely put his weapon away. "Who are you and what are your deeds that I might offer you mercy from death, or a life spent as a slave laboring at the Duke's pleasure?" "I am Loren, formerly husband to the fair Sara, who has gone to the Shadowlands at the hands of a boarman, and father to two young sons, Nehman and Dillar. It was for their sake that I took to the iron-road, the path of banditry, as our village home near the Brittle Mountains in the north was sacked by Boar-Men and our escape further hindered by the wicked night-folk, who sought to steal what little else we still possessed. To further add to my needs, I have recently accepted the protection of a young woman who in better times I would ask to swear the consort-oath with, should I prove able to provide for her as the step-mother to my young sons." Boyle pondered at this, quite uncertain now as what to do. Clearly the man was ragged and thin with hunger, but the law was firm that all bandits must be either killed or sent into servitude for life. This might be justice, Boyle thought, but it was certainly not mercy. Fortunately, the wise gléaman was soon at his side and knew exactly what to do. "Summon your concubina, the woman you claim as your common-wife and your children, are they nearby in the woods?" The man nodded and called for them and after a few moments of indecision and fear, they came to his side. "Young mistress," The Lore-Master sternly asked, "your protector is in great peril of his life and freedom. Would you share his fate and accept his consort-oath and join your fate with his?" She fearfully nodded and took her lover's hand, his small children standing frightened at her feet nodded as well, as they clung to her skirts. "By my grant-oath I shall declare you two to become husband and wife and to care for each other within the Duke's peace, should you swear to forsake the iron-road forever and return to your homes to fight against those that have burned your dwellings and despoiled your lands." The former bandit willing agreed to these oaths and in a few minutes the Lore-Master witnessed and accepted their vows and released the young family to their freedom. "I thought only priests could accept a trothing-oath." Boyle asked with curiosity later. "Don't I directly serve a God? Gléagerád, the God of Mirth and Wisdom. Doesn't that make me a priest as well? When I play a tune I am not making a prayer?; when I sing a song to an audience am I not doing his will by singing a hymn or reciting lore as if in a church? When I juggle, do handstands or flips while telling silly jokes as a happy gléaman or as a foolish joculator, am I not directly serving my God and acting upon his behalf to bring mirth to the world?" "I would guess so." The puzzled lad decided. "Indeed. Mine is a stern duty on his behalf, to laugh when I would rather cry; to sing when I'd rather drink flowing wine instead; and to do stupid pratfalls when I'd rather be boning a comely maid-in-service. O! The life of the travelling Histrio is a hard and uncertain one... but the rewards are worth it!" ***************** The caravan, delayed by the muddy conditions of the road, repair of the overturned wagon and the injuries to several of the horses, camped for the night on the open road and made their destination, Lacestone by the middle of the next morning. The trio was gladly admitted to take their dinner at the large central cook fire that night, and if anyone had anything remotely snide or clever to say about the young lads initial difficulties at the start of the battle, not a hint was uttered. Once, a young horse groom did start to make a joke about another young man's first efforts to learn to ride but his elders quickly shushed him and told him to save the efforts at humor for the gléaman, who never failed to disappoint an eager audience and exploit it, and soon the camp was quite a merry one with all of their misfortunes quite forgotten. The sight of their young caravan guard driving away the band of bandits with a sword that burst into orange blaze of fire was a sight that they would never forget! The caravan and their guards separated ways once the threshold of the city gate was crossed, but not without promises of words of reference to the other caravan masters that they passed for the lad's good service. Indeed, within several hours the story of a brave young warrior facing off an army of bloodthirsty veteran cutthroats with a flaming sword was soon making the gossip rounds in the town marketplace. Faced with waiting for nearly a full day before another western going caravan could be joined, the trio separated for the afternoon to rest and spend some of their hard-won coins. Rowan soon placed the few pence and farthings that he had found in the two dead bandits purses into the hands of a few needy beggars in the marketplace, and with the assistance of a barefoot poor lad he soon found an appropriate outfitter that for a reasonable cost in silver provided him with a good leather coat and a heavy wool hat. Another expense of several shillings bought him an excellent leather pair of riding boots. A thicker pair of pants better suited to riding completed his purchases and he returned to their inn well-pleased. The gléaman's promise of a good night's entertainment, as usual, guaranteed them all a dry bed in the stables and meals at no charge. Boyle was already cheerfully tending to several rather neglected horses there, giving these as well as our own mounts, an expert currying and brushing. After their complimentary evening meal that night in the inn, the talented Foole earned himself another flood of silver as he performed to the inn-keepers delight to a full and happy house. Rowan and Boyle kept quiet and maintained a low profile at the back of the tap-room and they made fast friends with a young tap-maid who kept their blackjacks full... and probably filled from a better barrel of stock than the inn-keeper would have preferred that they drink from. If Rowan pretended to notice later in the evening that his stout friend had disappeared along with this very amenable maid for some exchanged comfort outside near the jakes hut, he paid no mind to it. Later when his friend returned, his clothes a little disheveled and with a smile than ran from ear to ear, the two just exchanged silly grins and gently bumped their leather blackjacks together in salute. Boyle had always had the far easier touch with the ladies, despite his broad round face, tall thick shoulders and slow drawl of speech. Or perhaps because of them. With his kindly face and a gentle voice he could charm a bird down from the trees, and he always apparently treated his lovers kindly and never took any temporary attachment overly seriously. Back in Swanford, Boyle had a stable of at least five young ladies that each wanted to be his sole love, and somehow the cheerful lad kept the all of the women happy and each amused in turn, somehow without unpleasantness. Rowan had always wondered why his friend never made any long term attachments but his friend would just say that he had never yet met the right girl at the right place or at the right time. Still, he rarely lacked feminine attention or comfort for very long. Rowan, who was a little taller and most definitely more muscular of build, was also much quieter and far shyer of disposition, and his own attempted imitation of his friend's amiable cheery grin did not seem to affect young women, especially in their small-clothes, the same way. He was best at being strong and silent and letting his past lovers, like Cedany, approach him first. Besides, even a long full month after her death, Rowan was still pained at the loss of her and he was not yet inclined to take any temporary comfort or start any meaningless dalliances. However, five days later at Roper's Ford on the Bekingham River, a certain determined young lady had some very different ideas. ******************** The two day journey from Lacestone to the walled city of Apeleia, now mostly called Applewood, had gone extremely smoothly, with relatively good weather, dry and smooth road conditions and no security threats to the new caravan they had agreed to accompany. The word had indeed spread quickly of the lad's prowess at defeating that earlier bandit attack, and they had even received an additional 'risk' bonus in good silver from the concerned teamsters and trade factors. Boyle was now joking that the caravan guard business was a pretty nice and lucrative occupation, and it was even better that he could still spend his days with horses, albeit now riding them instead of feeding, grooming and shoeing them. Hoping to catch a ship leaving west across the lake for Tellismere, they waited for several days in the city, enjoying the sights of the second largest city in the Duchy before giving up and accepting hire with another caravan leaving for the walled town of Glideuch, just across the western side of the river. Despite the fact that from a tall tower both the city and town were within in sight of each other across the Bekingham River, the currents here where the river flowed out of Crystal Lake were considered too swift and hazardous for most commercial small boat or heavy ferry traffic, especially heavily laden wagons. The nearest safe crossing was a day's travel south down the river road to Roper's Ford, where the river current south was slow enough to allow a ferry to safely transport the caravan wagons across. The skilled gléaman had raked in another small fortune during his stay in the city, entertaining at several of the finer inns, and he was in a fine humor when the caravan left the city westward and then continued to follow the road along the river south, past the great ruins of a colossal bridge that had once apparently crossed the river near where it flowed out of the great lake. Today he rode up in front with the two lads who were guarding the front of the caravan "That was once a mighty bridge indeed!" He muttered with a deep sigh to the curious lads. "Alas, the skills no longer exist that could rebuild it today, or if they did, the will to use them once more in such a mighty effort is certainly no longer there." "Who built that bridge? It was certainly was a great undertaking... and how did it fall into ruins?" Boyle asked. "The twāboren, the second-born created this marvel in their early days over four thousand years ago on behalf of their elders the dragons, that their kin and servants could safely cross here, for this channel of the river near the lake has always been hazardous. The Dweorg, Ylfen, Flotylfen and Arth-Lyften were all still very young races, eager to help their elders for the first and perhaps the last time ever. War between them began not a human generation afterwards and nearly all that had been created together was then destroyed, to be lost forever. Perhaps if the first-born had treated their younger kin as brothers and less like bondsmen or slaves, then that awful conflict could have been avoided." "I've heard of the races of the dwarves, who live in total seclusion mostly below the great central mountains, and of the elves, who are said to still lurk in the furthest remote and forbidden forests, and that both now have little to do with men, but who were the other two races that you spoke of?" Rowan enquired. "Ah, the race of sea-elves, like their shy woodland relatives, enjoy the solace of privacy and are little ever seen by the surface world, although it is said that a few of the bolder Corælyn sea captains have some limited trade with them. They fared poorly during the Dragon War and are said to still be relatively few in numbers. They also bear much resentment to their fellow surviving races, blaming their allies for the great misfortunes that they suffered during the long war. Of the race of the proud eagle-people, they suffered perhaps the worst misfortunes of any of the other races. They were said to be a very pompous and arrogant race, only little better regarded than the dragons, whose conceited manners they aped all too successfully. Only their most remote aerie-cities survived the first devastating assaults of the Dragons in the earliest days of the war, and it could well be said that the great war may have resulted largely from the enmity that those two flying races had for the other. It was only when the war soon turned to near certain and total annihilation for the Arth-Lyften that the rest of the second-born came to their aid in the war, albeit with some considerable reluctance. In a few high and very remote mountain places, their survivors yet live, but they are the most paranoid and secretive of all of the children of the Gods and I've heard that they are still a most arrogant and prideful race that regards men, and the other last-born races as utterly beneath their notice." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 05 "You've mentioned the last-born before, who else, other than the race of men was created?" Boyle asked. "It was only when the Gods feared that the Dragons would at last win and defeat the exhausted, devastated, demoralized and nearly annihilated races of the second-born, that the last races were created. First, in near desperation, Ámyrðria, the Goddess of Lies & Weal either created or summoned the infernal race of Daemons to assist them, but many believe that these wicked folk played both sides for advantages and their own benefit instead. They were certainly not good, valued or even useful allies, and many terrible and wicked things were done once they were loose on this world. Then, in dismay at the treachery of the Infernals, Aðbaernesa, the Goddess of Decay, Death & Rebirth, in her utter despair, created the Eorfleode, the brutal race of Boar-Men. I think I can now understand the misery and anguish that she must have felt then, and her feeling of utter desperation; she sought in haste to create a strong and powerful race that was yet dim-witted enough to be controlled so that the second-born could be saved. Alas, they too were only reluctant warriors for the Gods and soon they sought their own best advantage and in the end they openly joined with the dragons, causing a near total collapse of the remaining forces for good. It is said that the Goddess later renounced her protection of that race, but they still worship a dreadful male aspect of her, Ingui "The Boar that Destroys". "But what about the race of men?" Boyle impatiently interrupted. "I was just getting to that part!" The Lore-Master muttered, not entirely disgruntled at the disturbance. "Last of all, when final defeat seemed certain and defeat was all but inevitable, it was Yweorfan, the quiet and peaceable God of Cultivation, who created the human race of mankind... with some slight help from the other remaining Gods. This newly created race of men bred quickly and they understood the duties of honor and loyalty, some say too well, and most were quick to take up arms to avenge and defend their older brethren races. They dutifully and steadfastly fought the dragons and their servants, their kin the night-goers, the Infernals, the Boar-Men, and even some renegade tribes of humans as well, always against impossible odds... they didn't always win, but they never lost any final or decisive battle. They didn't quite win the war all alone, but they certainly changed the tide and restored some balance until the creation of the original seven great Wizards tipped the balance for good. When final victory was won several hundred years later, the second-born all retreated into hidden strongholds to lick their wounds and lament their irreplaceable losses of their kin -- but the race of men thrived, and now it is they that are the focus of the Weaver's and their will. Also after the war, Yfelde Soð began to take increasing credit for the success of the human race and he increasingly claimed them as his own chosen race. I am certain that this new affinity contributed to his Banishment of the other twelve remaining Gods, twenty-two years ago." "An unfortunate and sad story. But will the Gods ever return?" Boyle remarked. "It's not an entirely unfortunate sequence of events for us, the race of men!" Rowan suggested. "If the first ones attempted to enslave the later races, perhaps that would have been our fate as well, to either them, or perhaps to the races of the second ones, that still regard us with little but indifference." "Indeed, quite so. Men are now the undisputed rulers of this world, or at least of all of the parts that they now settle. There are rumors of new prophecies about the return of the Gods, and-or the downfall and punishment of the intemperate Justice God, but they are just that... rumors. I have never heard or read such a prophecy myself." The Foole mused, with a sad look upon his face. "Why then are Wizards considered a separate race, like the Infernals or the Boar-Men? Were they not then, as they are now, but mortal men? Albeit exceptionally gifted ones?" Rowan asked, with curious frown. "Well, they are but they aren't." Oddtus muttered, scratching his chin in thought. "Gældra, the Goddess of Spirit & Magic was one of the first to recognize the spirit and potential greatness of this last-born race of men, and she at first selected seven of the greatest humans to be her first disciples, to learn the gift of high magic directly from her feet. She soon learned that she could divide up her own power and channel it, and her will, directly through these first Wizards to evade the proscription against direct divine intervention in the war. It was largely by her power, conducted by the hands of those seven mortals that the Dragons, or the vast majority of them, were slain and their servants and allies subdued. Once the war was over, her seven disciples trained in turn new Wizards, and a magical bloodline of descendants with the ability to channel high magic was established. In penance perhaps, or under the direct will of the Weavers, the Goddess and her Wizards pledged to be the guardians of the balance between the Gods and their children, so that no future war between them could ever again occur." "But the Goddess of Magic is now dead, foully slain it is said." Boyle remarked. "Well, she is but she isn't. Nothing is ever absolute when you are dealing with the Gods, and some say that the Gods themselves are just an idea, and as long as that idea exists they can never be entirely destroyed. As she had learned to partition and separate parts of her essence and will, via the seven great magical artifacts given to her original disciples, in fact the seven bright stones of her necklace, parts of herself remain in the world still today. Upon her apparent death, her necklace scattered and the seven stones were strewn across the furthest places of the world. Exactly how and why she was killed remains a mystery. The original seven Wizards were now long gone, and their own disciples in turn lost much of their power accordingly. For the last hundred years since then, most of these petty wizards fell under the sway of either local rulers, such as the great academy of magic in Caestor, where they are now effectively slaves of the Empire, or else they made their own path in the world. There are several great prophecies that she will return and the balance again set aright, but whether they will happen in the late days of this age or in the next is uncertain." "If Gældra was able to create divine artifacts to divide and partition her power in the hands of mortals, did any of the other Gods manage to do the same? Perhaps some of the divine, weakened but alive, also manage to walk the earth among us also, defying the will of Yfelde Soð?" Boyle wondered with a look of awe on his bright round face. "That would indeed be a wondrous and a most dangerous thing!" The Histrio muttered, as much to himself as to the lads. "But if only the Gods could create a new people, how could the dragons create the night-folk, like the goblins?" Boyle still wondered. "Ah... well... despite their power, being the first and most beloved of the Gods and possessing of great magic gifts, occasionally some... help... was occasionally required, as the dragons did create many different servant and monster races to serve them. This was in the early days still, before the second-born, when the dragons and their kin did pay some slight obedience to the will of the Weaver's and the Gods... and several of them were willing, and even eager to assist their only worshipers." "So, which God or Goddess... helped to create the Goblins? I'd like to give them a kick in the nads... if you can kick one of the Divine in a spot that would get their attention!" Boyle muttered. "I can't say..." The Lore-Master replied with an unusually red blushing face and then he pointedly stuck his long-nosed face into a scroll to read in silence for a very while, gradually letting his horse fall back into the column of caravan wagons. Rowan realized later that 'I can't say' isn't quite the same thing as, 'I don't know'. It was just as well that the history lesson ended when it did, as Boyle had been just about to ask the now disinclined Lore-Master if the Gods had ever bred children with human men and women. Rowan was very sure that he really didn't want to know that answer. He'd heard enough quite enough disturbing things for one day! ************** Arriving at Roper's Ford in the mid-afternoon of an especially hot day, the lads were a bit disappointed that they just couldn't just take an immediate long break for a refreshing swim. They still had their duties and would soon have to split up so that each could guard both banks of the river as the caravan began to be shuttled across the ford on a pair of large flatboats tied by sturdy rope on both sides of the river. No menace or threat to the caravan was likely, but until the wagons were all safely across the river just before sunset, both Rowan and Boyle were still on watchful duty. Once the caravan was settled down for the night on the western shore of the river in a large well-cleared camping area that had been used regularly for years, Rowan grabbed a quick bite to eat and walked up-river for a bit to find a quiet private place to swim and bathe himself in the growing gloom. Here the river remained fairly shallow, as Rowan could easily hold his breath and dive down to reach the bottom, and the current was also reasonably slow, not much faster than the Emerald River was as it flowed into the placid shallows of Lily Lake. Even here at the ford, the water was still deep enough most months for trade and merchant ships traveled up and down the river, from Crystal Lake to the towns south where the river met the Great Western Ocean at the port city of Evesham. Testing the waters carefully, he found that he could easily swim and keep up with the current so that there was no risk of being swept away dangerously further downstream. With a deep sigh of pleasure at being able to exercise his tired and sore limbs and saddle sores, he began to swim briskly back across to the other side of the river, which was still fairly wide here. That took him about fifteen minutes and refreshed he started once again to swim back to the western shore where his clothes were. Halfway across the river, Rowan discovered that he wasn't alone in the river and he was startled nearly beyond words when the smiling form of a young lady appeared in the water right in front of him. "You're a pretty fair to strong swimmer." She said. "Care for a race back over to the other side? Loser owes the winner a slight boon?" Her eyes twinkled with mischief and Rowan's first impulse was to back up a little away from her and make some sort of excuse. He wasn't sure at all what her game was, or even where she'd come from. "Um... where did you come from?" He stammered, still a bit surprised and at a loss for words. His suspicion that she was also naked, like him, was confirmed when she playfully bumped up against him and he could feel her wet bare breasts for just a moment. "I saw you earlier with the caravan that came in this evening, across the ford. Tall and strong in the saddle but never talking to anyone. I like strong and silent, and if you really care, my name is Arila. Now, head back to that eastern riverbank as fast as you can! I'll even let you start first! Just think, if you win... and you're ever so much stronger than I am, you'll have me then at your mercy and I'll have to obey. I'm sure there are one or two things you could think of to demand of me!" With a wink from her pretty face, she turned Rowan around to face the far riverbank and gave his bare ass a pinch with her finger. "Oooo, nice and tight and firm! I definitely know a thing or two I'd demand from you! Get your ass moving, or with a head-start or not I'll beat you to the other side!" With a shrug, Rowan started a strong stroke back to the other bank and he figured that he'd have no difficulty at all in beating her, but to his astonishment she soon caught right up to him! She was lithe and swum through the water like a fish and although she was much smaller, she could seemingly take two strokes for every one of his own. He pushed himself to go even faster but she easily kept up and remained next to him in the water. Once he could see the riverbank about a minute away she suddenly burst into full speed and she glided nearly on top of the water and easily beat him to the shoreline. Climbing mostly out of the water, Arila stood on the river's edge and regarded her prey. Rowan in turn could now well admire her trim but shapely nude form in the rising moonlight. "For the next hour or two, unless you are an honor-less cad and a scalawag, I will have some not unpleasant duties for you to attend to, certainly starting with feeling your lips pressed against mine." Confused at this rather forward young lady, Rowan did have to admit that he'd been bested quite handily. If a kiss or three would content her, then that was a price he was well able to pay. He smiled at her and climbed out of the water to meet her. Putting his strong arms around her, he let her kiss him, and it was a more than adequate kiss. Nearly from the start, Arila's hands began to fondle him, her left hand caressing his tight firm ass and her right hand already stroking his flaccid but still substantial sized cock. Automatically, he in turn began to caress her small firm breasts but fearing that he was being too forward, too fast, he withdrew them. She in turn grabbed his hands and placed them back onto her breasts with a smile. "Ok, we can add shy to strong and silent... and slower than an ox in the water as well! Well, I'll get some exercise from you yet... but your prick is staying strong but silent as well. Doesn't it like girls?" "Sorry... yes it does like girls; usually very much indeed, but I recently lost my intended. We were to marry... and I still keenly feel her loss. I have been rude, for which I apologize. My name is Rowan. I used to be a blacksmith in a village called Swanford, just on the Emerald River up to the northeast." "I accept your apology, Rowan de Swanford. I'm the eldest daughter of the ford-keepers' and I was watching you from the house windows. Mother usually keeps us away from the passing caravans but she lets me go out for a swim in the evening before bed as long as I promise to stay well away from the camp areas. Indeed, I did go the opposite way from it! You can however still kiss me some more until I find a more interesting a delicate place for you to place your mouth and tongue. I can't make you forget her, but with a little bit of effort I'm sure I can make you think of some other things instead for awhile." And indeed she could! Her kisses began to warm Rowan all over and the emotional cold that he had been feeling since Cedany's death began to most definitely thaw. Grasping his cock now with both hands, she began to stroke and pump it and when blood began to start to flow into it a few moments later, he began his first erection since her death and his cock began to swell in her hands to its fullest size. "Ah, you do like girls! You have a very nice sized cock already and I'm not half done with you!" With that she pulled him down to the grass on the riverbank and took him nearly at once into her mouth. Arila apparently had a good deal of experience sucking cocks and Rowan had to admit that she was slightly more talented with her oral skills than his beloved Cedany was. Cedany loved to mostly just swirl her tongue around the top of his cockhead but Arila was a bit better at using her hands and the rest of her mouth in a unified and coordinated assault. Like Cedany, Arila couldn't manage to get his engorged cockhead past the opening to her throat, but she gave it a good try. When Rowan warned her that he was about to cum, Arila pulled her mouth off of his cock and let it rest for a moment, teasing his shaft and balls with her fingertips. "Can you cum again, more than once, and soon?" She enquired and Rowan nodded and smiled. "Sure, if you have the time and patience." He thought that she was going to suck him off into mouth, as Cedany enjoyed doing, but Arila's preferences were different. She wanted to watch his ejaculate shoot... and the higher and further the better, so she was stroking his shaft hard with both hands and concentrating on licking just the underside of his sensitive cockhead. When his load blew, she lifted up her head to watch it sail up through the night air in a great arc and then land onto his belly and chest. Even Rowan had to admit that it was a pretty good cum spurt as they laughed while she gently massaged his cum load into his skin. For her own pleasure, she liked to be licked much in the same way Cedany had, but Arila liked her pleasure just a little faster and firmer with his fingers also stroking inside of her while his tongue thrashed her clit hard. When she came it took a bit longer than Cedany would have, but it also seemed more intense and Arila was too sensitive afterwards to be licked for any further pleasure. Looking at the moon, Arila muttered that she would soon have to leave, but first she wanted Rowan to penetrate her, right into her cunt. She had contraceptive herb tea, she whispered and wanted his cock deep inside of her, but she warned him not to cum there. She lay on her back for him to mount her and placed her ankles high up upon his shoulders so that he could take her as deeply as possible. She was no virgin and was well experienced at this sort of love as well, and knew how to move her ass to meet his pelvic thrusts. She was also less tight than Cedany and Rowan had a moment that caused him much remorse later when he thought that Arila was actually a better and nicer vaginal fit for his large sized cock. Still, as he began to thrust harder, his new lover gave him a sudden warning. "I've got the medicine herb to prevent the growth of a child and I also think I'm safe right now at this moon-cycle, but just to be sure, I want you to pull out at the last minute and cum all over my stomach and tits, or my face if you can do it!" Rowan was in fact very close to cumming, and after a few more thrusts he did pull out and after giving his cock a few swift strokes in his right hand he did quite cum all over Arila's pretty but slender hips and stomach. A few bold spurts did land further up on her breasts, nearly up to her neck. With delight she massaged the semen into her skin and after a brief kiss she got up to her feet. "Fun's fun, but I've got to get on home. Race you back across the river and you can owe me some fun again later sometime when or if you come back this way again!" She laughed. Rowan swam his hardest, but the race wasn't even close. By the time he reached the shoreline she was already dressed and was blowing him a kiss farewell. She easily beat him back to her home as well and Rowan did not see her again that evening, or the next morning when the caravan pulled out early on the coast road heading north to the coast fort and town of Glideuch. *********** Back at the camp that night, Boyle didn't ask him where he had been for the last few hours. He had seen the delicate smile on Rowan's face and recognized it at once for what it was. "So, was she better or worse than Cedany... or just different? I saw her sneak out of the ford-house hot upon your heels when you left for your swim. As far as I know, you'd never even kissed another girl other than Cedany before." Boyle asked, giving his pal a laughing poke. "Mostly just different." Rowan admitted. "I'd traded some fun with a few other gals before Cedany," he admitted, "but never anything serious. When Cedany chose me I was content to never even look at another woman again. It was... different than it had been with her. Skill and experience counts, I guess. I enjoyed it while it happened... but now I'm starting to feel guilty, as if I had forsaken my former beloved. I know she wanted me to go on with enjoying life, but I just didn't think it would be this soon. I don't regret doing it really... but yet I sort of do, like I should have held out longer in her memory, or something." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 05 "Don't be a fool!" Boyle said, laughingly hitting Rowan with a rolled up shirt he was using for a pillow. "We already have a professional Foole, and you'd be a very poor substitute indeed! With your jokes, no one would ever pay us some much as a clipped farthing! Go to sleep and dream of pretty and very willing young ladies! It's not your fault they mostly all prefer bedding me rather than you! Think of it as your luck beginning to change - and thank the Goddess Aðbaernesa for it!" Traditionally, it was thought that the Goddess of Decay, Death and Rebirth also ruled the luck of men, but this duty was more folk-fable than religious creed. Rowan closed his eyes and rested for a moment but sleep still eluded him. "Boyle, why is it that you never had a true sweetheart back in Swanford. I can think of at least three young women who would have taken you for keeps if you have but crooked a little finger at them." "And I can think of about another dozen girls as well who enjoyed at least one more ride on my magic pony and who would have liked to have regularly enjoyed having me, and many further repeat experiences, all to themselves. One or two of them might have even made fine consorts... but I already think I know whom I shall eventually marry, more or less, and if you promise not to laugh, I shall tell you!" Rowan promised, but he was certain that the revelation would be amusing. "In fact, I'm not actually at all entirely certain who I am fated to wed, but my mother took me with 'er once when I was a child when she visited the tent of a traveling Moon-Woman, who was said to be skilled at prophecy. My mother wished to know what man she would take as 'er third consort. She had broken her first consorting, and 'er second, with my father, had recently ended with his illness and death. The Moon-Woman swore that my mother would never again consort, and indeed she did n'a up to the time of her own illness and passing, a few years later. She did however look me over with 'er white-clouded eyes and announced that I, 'er only son, would enjoy a most happy match with the very girl of my dreams, who would be a favorite playmate of childhood!" "So, who them was your very favorite playmate of childhood, other than me? For I shall not ever offer to consort you!" Rowan laughed. "Nor would I accept, for I can do much better than the likes of ye!" Boyle giggled. "One likely choice would be a girl that lived next door to me named Ramona, now undoubtedly a fine young woman. Her family moved from Swanford when I was nine, just about the time that you came to the smithy and the village. So I suppose then I am fated to scour the earth now looking for her, to find her and perhaps rescue her, so that she will then rush into my arms forever. That would indeed be a fine thing!" "Indeed, might it become so! A very happy reunion it would be indeed." Rowan closed his eyes again and was asleep in moments. It was also the first night since the Daemon attack that he had slept without having the exact same dream; of the Daemon's horn -- now a Daemon-Horn blade, that burst into flames to smite the wicked and the godly alike, and of Cedany's pale dead face staring into his, admonishing him to hold to his oath to her. This night there were no dreams at all, and in the morning Rowan awoke refreshed and with a smile on his face that greeted the new day. Just maybe things were going to turn out alright after all! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 06 It took exactly a week to arrive in Tellismere from the crossing at the ford, and the towns of Glideuch and Ghasby came and went with little to remark about them to remain in Rowan's memory. At every stop they gained some fresh coins for their caravan guard fee, but nothing like the large sums they had earned earlier on the other side of the great river. Here nearer the capitol, things seemed safer and talk of war remained that, just talk. All of this land on the western side of the Duchy, on the western side of the Bekingham River and Crystal Lake seemed much more populated and prosperous than the lands they had traveled across in the eastern shire. Here the coastal road was well-paved with stone, done exactingly and at some considerable expense by an earlier Duke. The caravan was able to travel smoother and faster than it was ever able to on the plain dirt roads of the eastern side. Villages dotted the road and only rarely were there no traces at all of any nearby settlements. Here the trees were well cut back from the road and often the forest was quite distant, as villages had cleared the woods for large farms. Here in the west, the inhabitants were safer, Oddtus mentioned casually. On this side of the river the boar-men had not trod their feet in over a dozen generations and even the night-goers were just creatures of story and history, rather than an ever-present and lurking danger. Both the towns of Glideuch and Ghasby had old but stout walls around the town and sturdy keeps with soldiers to defend them, but most folks had the attitude that trouble would never come here during their lifetime. Rowan hoped that it would remain so! ************* Entering Tellismere, Rowan and Boyle both figured that they would be immediately reporting to the Duke's castle, on top of the northernmost hill of the city overlooking the rocky cliffs where the short but rapid Klure River flowed its last miles west past the city into the Great Western Sea. The Lore-Master had other ideas and bid them to contain their enthusiasm for another day or two. "Let's not borrow trouble just yet!" Oddtus advised. "We'll get a room at the finest inn in the city, get cleaned up from the road, rest a bit, listen to the town gossip a bit, and get dressed up into some clothes that won't make the fussy Ducal nose twitch with disgust at a pair of young uppity peasants intruding into his home. Oh, he'll want to see us alright... but I'm certain that we'll all regret the experience soon enough afterwards, but trust me... I'm certain that this is indeed the right thing to do!" Buying a nice outfit suitable for wearing before a Duke was easier than both Rowan and Boyle would have expected. After spending two weeks in the saddle, both lads looked tanned and much harder in appearance. That both lads had seen battle and bloodshed shown now in their eyes; both now had the look of roaring boys, dangerous men that were as comfortable with a sword in their hands as they would a soft slattern and a jack of ale. They were recommended to a good clothier that catered to the local nobility who possessed a suitable stock of ready-to-wear fashionable garments, and any disagreement the shop keeper might have had at their unkempt presence disappeared after the sight of some good silver in their hands and the sound of considerably more jingling in their purses. Technically, it was quite illegal and morally reprehensible for a pair of peasants to be dressed as nobles, but money had always resounded much louder than any words of law in most of the Southern Duchies. The offered coins were pocketed with lightning speed and not too much later the young lads left the clothiers dressed in the latest fashionable style and they now could have easily mistaken for a pair of young nobles. Their purses were lighter, it was true, but at least they thought they could make it past the Duke's castle guards now without getting a bucket full of night chamber waste tossed at them. ************ Money was certainly not one of their pressing problems at the moment. In fact Boyle joked if he had even suspected for a moment that they'd arrive two weeks later in Tellismere with much more silver in their pocket than when they'd started, he'd have made the trip here years earlier. Here in the one of the most prosperous inns in the city, the gléaman had obtained for them a fairly large room with a pair of beds in return for the usual promise of an evening of entertainment, and if the first nights take was any indication, he took in a least two full gold mark's value in silver coins. How the tight-fisted Histrio stored all of seemingly endless wealth was anyone's guess, he never seemed to have to dip into his purse for any cost. Boyle joked that over half of the Foole's pack had to be filled with coins, as his belt purse never seemed to get any heavier despite the lofty rewards he was getting for his services. Rowan largely stuck close by the inn as the city was overly bustling and noisy for his tastes and he could think of little to tempt him out of doors. That first day he caught up on his sleep and in the evening nursed his drinks in the inn's main taproom listening to the nobles, military officers, wealthy traders and factors debate current events, indulge in rumors and the growing rumors of war. No other coastal fort in the northern wildernesses of Crystal Lake had suffered attack, yet, but scouting parties reported trails of unknown creatures nearby, also scouting the forts. More troops from the south had indeed been transferred up north but most agreed that if this was a major invasion that those reinforcements would be quite insufficient. Even the great factors and nobles would agree to a conscription of the young men, most believed, but the Duke had yet to order this. Some praised his caution and frugality; but most moaned his indecision. There was one errand that Rowan did need to do, and the next morning he paid a pair of litter bearers a shilling to take him to the Hall of Guild-Masters and he was very surprised to find that this building was not but four blocks away from the inn, an easy walk in a safe prosperous neighborhood. Far from angered at being taken advantage of as a stranger, he immediately struck a deal to offer them an additional silver if they would wait for him outside for up to an hour, and then if they show him around this part of the city he'd offer to buy them lunch and a drink for their trouble as well. They heartily agreed. Rowan presented his Master's proclamation from Gorge and paid his one gold mark master's fee to the guild secretary and was told that if he came back tomorrow his master's certification and accreditation from the guild would be completed, ready for him to pick-up. Rowan agreed to return the next day, and pay the copyist fee of another eight pence for an additional second copy of the document. With plenty of time to spare that afternoon, Rowan enjoyed his guided tour of the highlights of the city and true to his word, provided his guides with a meal and several leather mugs of a very suitable ale at their favorite tavern, which was not too far distant on a good street from Rowan's inn, and he made a note to visit here again this evening to catch the news and gossip from the perspective of the towns middle-class and working men. The news there at this inn was about the same, and the rumors confirmed that war did appear to be very likely soon. Also most unfortunately, there were strong rumors that Broadmore, the Duchy to the south of them was already engaged in one of its regular on again, off again, border wars against the island Duchy of Drakland. If that wasn't enough misfortune, pirate ships from the Windswept Isles far to the north, often called the Pirate Kingdom, had been raiding around and south of Graymyst Island and the Great Northern Bay. The more cautious ship-masters were staying in port, they said, not sailing out either north or south through the strait to Corælyn for either love or any amount of silver. Graymyst Island was a good ways north, on the other side of the northern Brittle Mountains and all trade between them and the Southern Duchies had to travel by sea. No one, in their right minds or not, crossed the Brittle Mountains on foot, or if anyone did they had never lived to boast about it. The lands to the north were part of the ancient and former great kingdom of Vágráþrír, named after the Bay of Three Rivers, now called the Great Northern Bay. Today, their once great kingdom was broken apart into several more or less independent Duchies that changed rulers and names pretty much like erratic but still barely functioning clockwork. Graymyst was the rocky anchor for all of the northern trade and the lands to the west across the Great Western Sea, but they had no political or military power, or the will to bestir themselves even to defend what little they still possessed. Like impoverished Tellismere, most of the eastern parts of the Great Northern Bay were rugged and heavily forested with but few and largely independent settlements. Like the Southern Duchies, it was a place for a man to build something from the wilderness with his bare hands, or else to flee from oppression, or even rightful justice in their old lands. Boyle on the other hand, soon discovered that a certain notorious area of brothels and enterprising young ladies of the street was but a block or so away, inside a warren of alleys and side streets collectively called Grape Lane, but which the locals all referred to by its older and cruder name, 'Gropecunt' Lane. Nearly at once, the kindly large lad befriended a young lady who was relatively new to life on the streets and he gave her pimp a sound thrashing that he was unlikely to ever forget. For the next two days they kept each other highly amused and entertained in their personal and paid for small bedroom at the inn, rarely only coming out except to use the privy or snatch another beaker of wine or a meal. Rowan at first suspected that the two had formed some sort of attachment, as perhaps he had miraculously found his old childhood girlfriend, but instead he was surprised when she left for good on their third morning there. Boyle, the kind hearted fellow that he was, had put on his court clothes and looking his finest, went and paid a visit to the office of the local embroiders guild, where he then sought to find an apprenticeship for his young friend. She was quite old for normally starting such a craft position, but any and all objections ceased after Boyle crossed their palms with some silver. The young lady was accepted, and more than grateful for a new life off of the streets. "You know you're a fool yourself now!" Rowan laughing told his friend as they prepared to leave for the Duke's castle for their long overdue meeting later that morning after her departure. "Certainly not! Everyone in the end got exactly what they wanted! I got to enjoy the charms of a rather sweet young lady who was not at all a hardened whore and find a home for her off of the streets and in a career much to her liking. The guild in turn, thought they were doing a favor for someone placed very highly in the Duke's court and was happy to take a small bit of money and assign her an apprenticeship with a good mistress, so everyone was happy." "Still it cost you some silver for the private room and buying her apprenticeship." "Not as much as you might think and not enough for what she was worth! What's a little silver between friends! If you can't spend silver on your friends then what good is it for? My purse isn't that much lighter but my heart is, now that I've done somebody some good! Besides, she was sweet and all, but not the woman I intend to consort some day. It would have been rude then to buy her affection and then just leave her without some sort of an understanding otherwise." Rowan had to admit that his friend had a point. ******************** Reaching the castle on foot, dressed in their best, Oddtus, Rowan and Boyle announced themselves at the gatehouse. The Foole even had a short letter of introduction prepared to present to the castle steward, who came to examine them with considerable interest. Apparently, the events on the Duke's summer island near Swanford were already something of an open secret here in Tellismere; everyone knew something terrible had happened, but no one was making free with all of the particular details. The Lady Ayleth was still in seclusion in her chambers and a great number of medicus's, physicians, priests, wise-women and healers had come to visit her and left, apparently with their purses no heavier in silver than when they had arrived. After waiting a considerable length of time in a waiting room, the trio was finally admitted into one of the smaller reception rooms that featured a few hard chairs with little decoration or padding, a threadbare rug on the floor and four unadorned bare walls with small tables in each corner. Clearly this wasn't a place where the Duke met people he was kindly disposed towards. There in seclusion and silence they waited for several hours more before anyone came to meet them. Finally at last, two guards came in first to guard both doorways and for a moment or two Rowan was certain they were about to be escorted towards some cellar dungeon for an entirely different sort of rather uncomfortably direct questioning. But a few moments later an attendant arrived with a nicer, more comfortable chair for the Duke to sit upon and at last the great man himself, His Grace, Emdyn de Mosena, Duke of Tellismere entered the room and seated himself. The Duke, much like his reputation, was not much of a man to look at. He was of middle age, short and rather thin and weedy looking. His hair was nearly bald and he coughed often. His pale skin suggested that he only rarely if ever exposed himself to daylight and the flab of his arms and body suggested that he rarely if ever took exercise or practiced at arms. His weak dark eyes were too nervous to ever fix themselves for long on a single person or object and his hands had a slight tremor to them. Apparently, exactly as the Foole had remarked sometime earlier, the Duke enjoyed less than robust health, and was of quite a nervous and indecisive disposition. Definitely a man with a weak body to go with a weak mind. Oddtus, Rowan and Boyle all rose and bowed to His Grace, but the Duke was not terribly impressed with what he saw and said as much. "Like dogs to their vomit, the source of my misfortune has yet returned... undoubtedly to press my hands for silver to ill-repay the wickedness that they had bestowed upon me. Thrice damn thee! Why did you curse the sight of my eyes? Give me one reason why yours instead should not be burned out by hot irons that readily await you in my dungeons?" The Lore-Master, resplendent in his colorful motley gléaman's costume just smiled and bowed deeper. "Defame the poor dogs not, for their nature is that of a Foole, such I am, with their brains simple and naturally addled. For the canine will consume with glee the stool of their enemies the cat, and consider it to be fine fare indeed. This Foole is but little wiser, but would remind Your Grace of the great services that he did indeed perform in the protection of your daughter. Indeed the facts of this fateful matter should be well known to you!" "Desist pestilent Foole!" The Duke stormed, rising to his feet in anger. "Your actions are indeed known and you've received your purse of reward, as well has that stout young lad to your left. There is no more treasure to be gained here, nor any further goodwill to be sown for future harvest. And as to why that other and more particular cause of my misfortune was thought needful to be brought into my presence only shows that ill-fortune and malice guides your steps Foole." "It was no ill-fortune that bade this brave young man to slay the Daemon but a moment before your daughter could be befouled in its grasp, and it was greater fortune still that allowed his skilled hands to bind and consume the infernal forces of its horn into this very sword the brave lad now bears in your service. And it is further by his valiant undertakings that your daughter, marred and scarred by an evil infernal source forbidden from this world, shall be cured and restored! But if you have found other methods and require not our services to obtain this restoration, then we indeed wish His Grace well and we shall take our leave from you." Oddtus had only managed to take one step backwards before the indecisive and petulant Duke leapt forward out of his chair to grab the Foole's hand. His attitude now completely changed and he begged that the Foole speak his mind, which he did at great length, after refreshments had been provided. "It is true," the Duke sadly spoke with his eyes moistening into tears, "that no medicine, priestly prayers or supposedly magical cures have restored the pristine health and beauty of my beloved daughter. She is fated to marry one of the great Earls or Dukes, or perhaps even a king, but with the wounds she has suffered not even a stable boy would bend a knee in troth-oath to her. I have promised silver and lands to no result for any such cure as would restore her, but how can a Foole and two young lads of no family or of no especial skills other than courage, restore that which was infernally taken?" "My Duke, do you especially value those small wooden tables with the stone tops that are in each of the corners of this room?" The Duke, puzzled, shook his head. "If not, would Your Grace then command his two guardsmen to each strike the table closest to them with their swords? The wood may perhaps be old and weakened but those stone tops appear to be ísengrǽg, or grey ironstone to my eyes and should prove an interesting demonstration for which His Lordship might soon be much enlightened. With a nod of approval, the two guardsmen drew and swung their swords against the hard stone tops and sparks quickly flew from the impacts. One sword was soon dented into relatively uselessness and the other sword quickly shattered into two pieces. The stone tops were not much the worse for wear with but light scratches to show for the assault. The Duke scowled as the Lore-Master smiled. "With Your Grace's permission, Rowan, the slayer of the infernal creature and both the forger and master of the Daemon-Horn blade, shall draw that sword and give His Lordship a more suitable demonstration upon the other two unmarked tables." Upon the Duke's rather reluctant permission, Rowan drew his sword and the fourteen runes upon its blade began to glow at once with a soft but clearly distinguishable golden glow. With a single sword stroke the stone table top was cut cleanly in two and the halves of the table fell loudly to the floor. The Duke was plainly astonished speechless and Oddtus nodded for the lad to smite the other remaining unmarred table as well, and it immediately was split into twain with another single sword stroke. With a slight salute to the Duke, Rowan sheathed his glowing sword and resumed his seat next to the Foole, who was beaming like an elated cat that had just enjoyed a spectacularly relieving bowel movement in a delightfully forbidden place. "And so my Lord, our hero -- and the savior of your daughter, has not only protected her once before but he shall likely yet again! For it is only by the presence of this imprisoned Infernal, the sole remaining physical part of the creature that now remains, that the cure for her restoration shall be obtained. Apart and separate, no healing of man, feat of magic or the fervent prayers of even a hundred priests shall benefit her, if the sword... and her savior, are separated apart. Together with Her Ladyship, we must go to the Temple of Aðbaernesa in Corælyn. Only there can the most important part of the necessary cure be obtained." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 06 This statement confounded the Duke, and Rowan and Boyle were also equally caught by surprise. "Can't my daughter just stay here in safety until the necessary items are gathered and you then return back here?" The Duke asked in whiny tone as he wrung his hands together in misery. 'No, quite out of the question entirely. There are certain acts and rituals that must be performed along the way and her presence is absolutely vital and necessary at each step, else failure would surely result. Nor could one of your officers or trusted Lords take Rowan's sword in his place. As he alone forged that infernal weapon, he alone commands it to serve our will. It would never willingly accept any other hands, and surely great evil and misfortune would befall anyone else that tried to bend this weapon to their own will." At length convinced, the Duke's attitude toward the trio finally became one of cheerful partnership, and over dinner he then tried to convince the one final disobedient holdout to obey his commands. His surly and rather willful daughter, who much as the wise Foole had predicted, was lately of a rather vengeful and wicked temperament since her disfigurement. The marks were indeed quite terrible to behold; two angry red fang marks from the near-miss of its attempted bite were unmistakable across the right side of her face. One tear crossing her forehead from above her right brow, narrowly missing the eye itself, and across her nose, and the other crossing the center of her cheek to her jaw. Like angry red scars they disfigured her, in both body and spirit. "No and Hell No!" She replied. Repeated often, loudly and rather convincingly. Soon the lads feared that the willful Lady would once again bend her father's will to suit her own mind, as usual, but fortunately there was a most eventful interruption. Earlier in the day, to better gain an understanding of the necessity of this quest to restore his daughter, he had summoned a local Moon-Woman, a seeress who was said to be particular skilled at prophecy and foreseeing the will of the Weaver's, and their weaves of the future. Moon-Women, formally called Galdorfǽmne, were as rare as even the most minor of Wizards and seldom stayed for long in any one place. Like the path of the moon itself across the sky, they tended to travel the world visiting large cities and small villages alike, offering their visions and insights for silver. Even the Lore-Masters do not know from what source their powers originate, coming from either the Gods or directly from the Weaver's themselves, but it was a certainty that they would always speak the truth and that their advice should never be willfully disregarded or their prophecies deliberately thwarted, err disaster would most certainly occur. This particular Moon-Woman, a rather elderly crone with silvery white hair, bushy eyebrows, stooped shoulders and a limp that required a firm walking stick, didn't seem particular impressed by anyone present as well. She gave the Foole an especially dubious look and scrunched up her face a few times and grumbled before seating herself, quite without the Duke's permission in a large oversized chair in the corner, and quite shut her eyes entirely, as if she was overdue for a nap. "Honored Galdorfǽmne, I am glad that you could attend us this evening to offer your advice for a rather important undertaking." "Your Grace, I hear you but I do not mark you or your words, so please remain silent, as I have much to tell your daughter but I have little enthusiasm for the task. I would also have the Foole's tongue remain still as well. He is léaslic... a pain to my eyes." "What did that word mean?" Boyle quietly whispered to Oddtus, but the Foole kicked his shin hard to bid the lad to remain silent. "Vainglorious, arrogant and conceited young woman," the Moon-Woman sharply barked, with her eyes still closed but twitching, seeing apparently something of a vision within her mind as she spoke, "you will have but one chance alone to restore your beauty, your health and your soul... and it lies on a path of danger at every step. You will know pain, hunger, despair and fear... and that is if you are fortunate. Not only does this quest serve your supercilious needs but it also concerns the very survival of your land. If you do not learn to love and honor this land then you and your quest will fail. If you do not learn to love and honor your companions and fellow lands-men and women, then your quest will fail. If you continue to have no room in your heart for anyone but yourself, then your quest will fail. Not only will your quest fail, but your family will die, your companions will die, your lands-folk will die, the land itself will die... and if that is not quite enough misery for you, then you yourself will either certainly die as well, or you will suffer a fate so dreadful that death itself would be welcomed. If you can learn your lessons, and with your Champion at your side, you will find healing, love and even happiness, and you and your land will prosper. Do mark me girl?" "I do, Honored Galdorfǽmne, I understand." She quietly replied, and the Moon-Woman snorted in laughter and arose from the chair to leave. "No, you most certainly do not, young Lady... but someday before this year and age ends you will, much to your utter despair and deepest misery, and then you will but have one last final chance to set yourself right. May you do so!" The Moon-Woman then arose from her chair and after giving the young lads an appraising glance, she glared daggers at the astonished Foole and left the room at once without another word, or even taking the proffered sack of gold from the Duke's outstretched hand. Boyle never did get an answer to his question. ************** Prophecy or not, the Lady was still not quite committed to undertake the quest, and she loudly cried, bellowed and wheedled her father for a respite for much of the evening. Surprisingly, frightened to his core by the Moon-Woman's words, his mind was quite resolved... at least about this one particular matter. Still, eventually with the prospect of a complete cure, she agreed to go and even obey an officer of the guard that was now assigned to be her bodyguard. Along with the Foole and the young lads, he and a handful of guardsmen would accompany and protect her on the trip. Her officer, a rather condescending looking Lieutenant named Rothale, then in turn agreed to follow the Lore-Master's guidance, except in military matters. Rowan didn't much like the smug look on the fellows face and the obvious distain he held for this mission, but he hoped that he and the officer wouldn't need to cross swords in a disagreement... the tall dark-haired soldier looked to be highly proficient with his sword. ******** For the next few days, the Foole and the Duke spent much of their time coordinating their plans for the journey. Ideally, everyone had hoped to make the entire voyage to Corælyn quickly by sea, but instead there were more increasingly unfortunate and disturbing fresh news from the sea captains that sailed Great Western Sea. Broadmore and Drakland were indeed quite at war with each other once again, and the Drakland navy had a tight naval embargo across the relatively narrow channel strait that separated their shores. No ship from anywhere was getting through, the sea captains reported. As a very weak sea power, the Duke of Tellismere had very little resources and even fewer actual naval warships. Most of his ships weren't even especially suited for the unpredictable waters of the Great Western Sea, as they normally trafficked the much gentler and calmer waters of Crystal Lake. To make things worse still, the rumors of increased pirate activity in the area were quite accurate as well, and no sea captain was willing to risk his ship out of port for any amount of gold that the Duke was willing to offer. As the passage could not be forced by sea, the next safest measure was to return across Crystal Lake back to Swanford, and take the Emerald River east, upriver to either Everdun or somewhere in the eastern portion of the Duchy, past the northern Brittle Mountains where the odds of running into war related problems there or along on the northeastern border of Broadmore was thought to be unlikely. Unfortunately, even with a quick pace, such a river and then overland journey was likely to take at least a month and probably much more. For hours the Duke and the Foole looked over maps of possible routes and debated the best proper route to take. Each of the routes had obvious disadvantages. No one was much happy about any of the proposed routes, but the Duke and his daughter were now eager for the journey to begin and everyone agreed that that waiting months or even years for the naval situation to improve was unthinkable. It was decided with haste that the party would now leave as soon as an eastbound ship from the city could be found to take them back to Haldyne at the mouth of the Emerald River, and then up the road once again to Swanford, where an east-bound trading boat could be easily hired to take them as far east as was safe and prudent. If the Duke considered the reports of danger to the northern shore of the river and reports of incursions from the creatures that lived in those mountains near the river, he made no mention of his. Oddtus was oddly unconcerned as well. The alternative, a long slow overland trip along the coastal roads, even with horse and a carriage, was unthinkably dangerous and far slower than sailing the Emerald River east, with all of its possible dangers. The Lieutenant would be taking along a trusted sergeant and they would also have a trio of additional guardsmen as well. This provided adequate security, along with the two lads, for a group that wanted to be able to travel swiftly on horseback. They would be too big or fast for most bandit groups to bother, but small enough to be easy to provision and able to move at a maximum pace. Lieutenant Rothale was given a rather substantial and heavy purse, for the Lady's needs and requirements, and Rowan didn't quite like the way the wiry black-haired and dark-eyed officer smiled when he attached it next to his own purse on his war-belt. The Lady Ayleth was given a smaller purse for her more mundane expenses and her own amusement was equally disturbing. Rowan hoped that the Foole had received some additional monies of his own, or else at some point they might have to depend upon his and Boyle's purses for expenses as well. Boyle, ever able to make friends (and pocket money) wherever he went, found himself in a late night dice game in the stables where he cheerfully won the equivalent of several months pay from the squires, castle servants and stable boys. Unable to believe the rumors of his luck, he was challenged to another dice game the following night in the castle barracks and he won yet more silver from the guardsmen. To show that there were no hard feelings, the husky cheerful lad bought a small barrel of good wine for the soldiers to drink and he was toasted as being a most likeable fellow by the poorer, but happy guardsmen. Not quite trusting his own erratic luck, Rowan stayed close to the castle and used his time while waiting to check his gear and upgrade some of his travel clothing. A friendly quartermaster soon saw that the lad had some much better grade traveling garments and tack for his horse of a kind more suited for knights and young lords. While Rowan wasn't actually a knight, a good many folk in the castle were now treating him as such and he wasn't entirely sure why. He guessed that the story of his demonstration of his sword to the Duke had filtered through the gossip grapevine, or else his defeat of the Daemon was now more commonly known. Before their departure, Boyle, ever the expert on horses, determined that their current mounts were quite decidedly inferior to many of the ones in the Duke's personal stable, so he selected the three finest horses available and prepared them so that they could be taken on board the ship with them for the voyage to Haldyne. Taking a look at his assigned horse, Reedfah, named for his burnished red coat and thereafter commonly called just Red, the lad was astonished to find that they quickly became friends and Rowan resolved to visit the animal every day while it was down below in the cargo hold, and to even learn a bit more from Boyle about how to tend to its needs. *********** Finally on the morning of the last day of month, the Hāligdæg-tu, or the Second Day of the Holiday and Feast Day of the GodYfelde Soð, the day before the start of the first autumn month of Cennan, the God of Commerce, Crafts & Trade and the working of Order, their small trading ship sailed out of Tellismere harbor east, up the short Klure River to its entrance into Crystal Lake. With cliff faces on both sides of the river, Rowan didn't see much that he thought would hold his attention so he was about to head down to the hold to visit his horse Red when Oddtus put a hand to his shoulder and bade him to wait for yet awhile longer. His patience was rewarded. Near the mouth of the river a great stone bridge crossed over some relatively low bluffs of stone that rose from out of the river. The bridge was old and not quite as magnificent as the destroyed one across the Bekingham River had been, but as the bridge past over the sails of the ship he could tell that the workmanship was still quite excellent. "Built by the Dweorg," Oddtus said quietly, "just after the end of the Dragon War, in gratitude to the many men that fought and died here during the war and in honor of the first Duke of Tellismere, who built his first stone keep near here and began to settle this wild land. Ever had it before been a stronghold for the dragons and their kin and the wresting of it from them had stained more fields and hills with blood than you could ever possibly imagine. Even still, there are some old ruins from the days before and during the war. Some forgotten with time, others still reminders of a most terrible past." "I've heard that one of the islands in the center of Crystal Lake is dotted with old ruins and that still no one ever lands upon its shores." Rowan mused. "Quite so. Beran Island, or Bear Island as it's called now, as well as its western companion Osweleg, or Oswyn's Island, both have some barrows, monuments and ruins from past ages, but the villages on both are quite safe and secure in these days. The other, Hanna Island, the 'forbidden' island is the smaller of those three central islands and the one furthest south. It has many ruins, great and small, and they say it is still haunted to this day. Perhaps rightfully so. No one lives on that island even now and perhaps no one ever will, and the other island fisherman will not drop their nets close to its shores either. Terrible things were done there in the old days... awful things that the world and most Lore-Masters thought should remain safely forgotten. But some do still tell their students in whispers of things that should be never forgotten, lest they someday ever become likely to reoccur. Some of the infamous and unspeakable deeds of the Infernals were done there, it is said. So I know... and remember, but I shall not speak of those horrors to you or to anyone, save to my own sworn apprentice someday... and may that day be not at all soon!" "What of the waterfalls at the north of the lake that abide and conduct all of the mountain rains and snows into the lake?" Boyle asked. "What of them? They flow over the cliffs that reach over the waters of the lake like a rainbow of water, pure and crystal clear. This is why the lake is so named, since near the falls the water is so pure and without sediment that one can see far down to the very lake bottom in many places. The fishing there is excellent, as I'm sure that you have heard. It is said that much of this water originates from a plateau deep inside the mountains where the water is forced out from the depths of the earth. I have never seen that place, as the journey to reach that forbidden plateau would be an adventure of a lifetime all on its own. There would be countless dangers... too many for my own personal taste, and I'm not yet weary enough with life to undertake that quest! By early tomorrow we should pass to the south of that accursed and forbidden island and I am of no mind to catch any remote glimpse of it, so I shall keep to my rest below and rejoin you once we sail safely into port." Indeed, early the next day when they sailed to just within sight of that cursed forbidden island, the Lore-Master remained below decks to rest in their small cabin until the notorious island was long gone, lost far behind them in the ship's wake beyond the western horizon. ********* Late that afternoon their ship arrived safely at the docks of Haldyne and the party and their mounts were glad to be once again on firm land ashore. With a strong late summer wind pushing them across the lake, they had made the voyage in two days instead of the nearly two weeks it had taken them earlier on horseback with the caravans. Rowan and Boyle managed to get their horses unloaded first and they then took their new mounts outside of the town gates for a brief bit of exercise before the sunset warning for the closing of the gates was sounded. The lads remained well within sight of the gates and they had given the gate guards a few farthings to sound the warning properly, and to not shut the gate on them prematurely, leaving them locked outside of the town walls for the night. Rowan was certain that he heard Lady Ayleth mutter with derision, 'Boys!' as they rode off, away from the ship. The Lady had kept her distance during the entire voyage and had in fact been hardly seen at all by anyone the entire time. She had mostly stayed in her cabin below deck, even taking her meals there, but frankly no one at all had missed her presence. Her fury about being forced into this journey had simmered down to mere incandescent rage, and no one had received a civil word from her since her father the Duke had ordered his guards to forcibly carry her kicking and screaming onto the ship. The lads quietly agreed to keep their distance from her just on normal principle; it was going to be a long trip and she was going to be certain to wear hard upon their nerves, so it was better to enjoy the relative peace and quiet while they still could. Despite being kept below deck for three days, the mounts were eager for their exercise, and they raced each other in a circle at near full speed until Boyle slowed their pace down. Since Rowan had lived on horseback for the earlier two week journey, the lessons he had learned about riding nearly at once returned. Now he was now getting much better about feeling intuitively how his mount was going react and move and soon, and almost right from the start, he started to feel a rapport with Red that he had never shared with his old unnamed scout horse from the caravan journey. Red was smarter apparently, and eager to work together with his new master and rider in cooperation. Rowan hoped that he himself would be smart enough to learn along with the animal before the next moment of crisis occurred, when horse and rider needed to act together as one. Boyle's horse Flash, was a bit larger and sturdier for the slightly stout lad's frame but still nearly as fast as Rowan's horse Reed. Flash had a propensity to show-off and perhaps take a more creative path than its rider would have preferred. Both horse and rider amused themselves far too easily, but they too soon bonded during the short half-day's ride up to Swanford. While in the City of Tellismere, Boyle had taken his old spear to have a new longer shaft made for it. Oddtus had told the lad that the finely engraved and elaborately cut-out and shaped steel spearhead was an old one, perhaps even an antique from the days of the Dragon Wars, but still it was sturdy and sound, ready now for another age of use as the cheerful lad now practiced cavalry charges with his improved lance upon defenseless bushes and shrubs outside of the town. Rowan gave his sword a few similar practice swings, but he was mostly now just in the mood for a quiet ride until the night horn sounded. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 07 ********* CHAPTER SEVEN As the Duke's carriage was back in its normal place in the stables of Haldyne, the Ducal Lady ordered it prepared to carry her back to Swanford the next morning. This wasn't unexpected, and frankly didn't slow down her companions too much at all. Her two white horses were fast and strong and knew the road northeast to the village well. Her guard escort had wanted to move swiftly up the road at a much faster pace than wagons, or carriages could go, but the relatively short trip to the village didn't tax any of their mounts. Alternating a fast trot, a gallop for a mile or so with short 'rest breaks' where the horses just walked, the party soon travelled the miles until the village was reached and petulant Lady was safely escorted into her room at the Green Sails Inn a few hours before evening. She had wanted to stay in her own bedroom at the castle for the night instead, but she was eventually convinced to stay close with the others, as they would have an early morning departure hopefully the next day. ********** Home once again, the two lads along with the gléaman greeted old friends and plenty of friendly townsmen back over at the Goblin's Head Tavern, as they discovered once again that their pints of good local ale were still being provided entirely gratis by Ypreth the tavern keeper. The lads kept their tongues as quiet as possible and merely mentioned that they were escorting the Lady Ayleth east, keeping the details unspoken. They were sure that they were heading into certain danger, but didn't really want to frighten their friends. "Bring me back a real Goblin's head!" Ypreth shouted and the other townsmen in the taproom cheered with approval. As adventurers off on some sort of heroic quest straight from fables and gléaman's stories, they were going to do what nearly no one in their village had done in a generation, since Ypreth's father had travelled the world; to travel off to strange lands and meet strange peoples and perhaps find themselves in mortal peril at every step along the way. Recent traveler's tales had been full of accounts of Boar-Men raiding across the Emerald River and the night-goers had been reported in many parts of the eastern part of Duchy, driving many like the luckless bandit Loren out of their lands and homes. Even the northeastern-most station of the river watch was now reporting odd sightings along both banks of the river, and their old friend Bryce had many barracks stories to tell about the slow smoldering forest war of attrition that was now occurring in the great northern woods. The lads had to reluctantly report that still the Duke had not yet made up his mind about ordering conscription, but that they felt it would soon become a necessary, and perhaps even absolutely essential. Rowan's old master Gorge nodded his head, and said that already he had received a large order from the castle for weapons, and muttered that it was too bad that his best smith at forging swords had but recently left. The laughter in the tap-room helped clear some of the cloud of depression that had hung over the villagers. But a pair of men were not so easily soothed from their own personal anger. "Murderer!" Vainard Miller, the headsman shouted out to the entire packed audience in the tap-room. The beady-eyed village priest Lankfred arose as well and added his own hand in accusation. "Stuff and nonsense!" Boyle cried, with his blackjack of ale in hand perilously in danger of being splashed all over his companions in his anger. "Rowan slew the foul creature that had murdered your daughter! She fell long in fact before he had even set foot upon the island in his brave attempt to defend and protect her. Instead, unable to save his own love, he risked his life and his very soul defeating that infernal monster and forging its very horn into a magic sword, now dutifully sworn to the cause of goodness... to help protect The Lady Ayleth from peril, and to even protect this land against the many hidden terrors that seem to be lurking close to us!" "What utter lies and filth you spew, stable boy!" The infuriated village priest snarled. "Like the shit you were raised in! Be still while your elders and betters speak, for like your iniquitous friend, your filthy hands lend themselves only to wickedness and vile undertakings. It is instead the pair of you malevolent lads that this village should fear, rather than vaporous and inconsequential shadows that weak frightened soldiers now fear in the darkness, like pathetic children needing a candle to ward off the gloom of sleep. You are accursed -- and my God shall surely smite thee!" "No, you are as usual quite mistaken." Rowan quietly said, standing up and unsheathing his sword, which soon began to glow in the dim candlelight of the tavern. "My sword shall be raised only to serve the good of this land, its Lady and its people, to smite its enemies and restore our Duchy to peace. Of this I swear, by my truth-oath, and before the eyes of the Gods." With this his sword began to burn brightly and shown like the very light of the sun within the tavern, and each of the men arose to make acceptance and bow to honor Rowan's oath, except for the headsman and his priest, who cast their eyes away from the lad in terror. As Rowan sheathed his sword and accepted the love and camaraderie of his friends and former villagers, the Lore-Master, who had hitherto been quiet that evening, arose to face the anger and scorn of the two stubborn and obdurate leaders of the village, and with a deep sigh he reached into his jacket for a bit of parchment. "Foolish, foolish headsman and priest. Your stubbornness against all reason and logic, or even a modicum of common sense ill becomes you or your duties. Sometimes a Foole cannot see what is right in front of him, but you are both too blind even to see the noses on your faces. The Duchy is on the very cusp of descending into a terrible war that cannot be avoid, ignored or wished away with shut eyes and the whistling of a merry tune. The time for obstinacy is quite over, and it is clearly apparent that the performance of your current duties are quite beyond your means. This village, and those hamlets and holdings nearby must be armed with both weapons and vigilance. The young men must prepare themselves for war and plans must be made for defending, sheltering or evacuating the elderly, and the women and children. This must be done at once, without delay or prevarication." Now Oddtus unfolded the parchment and began to read from it. "Since your headsman, the Vainard the Miller, had proven himself unfortunately not at all up to the challenge of his current duties, it is with but slight regret that our Duke, His Grace Emdyn de Mosena, Duke of Tellismere accepts the resignation of the headsman of Swanford village from all of his assigned duties, pending the election of his duly voted successor. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The Duke's signature and seal confirm this order, effective as of just a few days ago. Do we have any volunteers for the job? No one could certain perform the duties any worse than the previous headsman performed it!" With that, Oddtus tossed the signed order from the Duke onto the master's drinking table, where there was a great surge of eager hands to grab and reread the letter, the contents of which were indeed quite as the Lore-Master had stated. How the clever Foole had arranged to get the Duke's actual signature and seal for this order quite surprised the lads, but genuine it indeed was. "Don't look so dour, Priest!" Oddtus added with a bit of a smile. "A quite similar letter I'm certain has been already delivered to the Bishop of Tellismere, stating your zealous desire to do something far more important with the remains of your life. I'm positive that a certain rather remote monastery is about to receive instructions to cheerfully receive you, and that a few decades of pulling rocks out of poor mountain garden soil will do much to restore your kindly soul and its love of all mankind." The priest snarled and fled from the tavern, to the ridicule and laughter of nearly everyone present. His friend the headsman was now reading the Duke's letter for himself, weeping with tears for his lost ambitions. Far too late he was realizing that he had not a single friend left in the entire village. He would still be a very wealthy man, but without a daughter or potential son, even one that was a lowly smith, or a single friend in the world, his wealth was about to become an extremely hollow pleasure. ******** Making an early evening of it, they gave their friends a last final toast for goodbye and they made their way back to the Green Sails Inn, and it was with more than a sigh of regret that Rowan passed by his old smithy. If Boyle had any regrets of his own about leaving the stable next door once again, then he certainly didn't show it. "Let have a last tankard of ale from that cheapskate Kelvin Hunuwald!" He said with a grin. "I bet you that the tankard is 'alf foam and still not a full proper drawn pint, but at least it will be taken from someone else's pence. The Lady takes right after her father and she looks constipated every time she has to draw out a single coin!" The Foole laughed but contented himself with a large beaker of wine, drawn from Hunuwald's finest select vintage keg, and then he seated himself at the table with the Lady Ayleth and her officer, Lieutenant Rothale, and the captain of the boat that they intended to hire. Soon, what had been already a heated discussion turned into a rather loud and angry one. Listening in carefully, the two lads nursed their rather inadequate sized but still excellent pints of ale, and the lads got to listen to their betters argue for the next half an hour until everyone finally clasped hands together in some sort of agreement. The river was dangerous now, the ship's captain insisted, and no boat-master was willing to take anyone up-river, especially past Dead-Tree Junction, without a very sizeable 'danger bonus'. Left to the final choice of riding out from here to make the entire journey on horseback or paying a goodly amount of extra silver, even her guardian the Lt. Rothale was urging the Lady to stop acting like her father and just agree to pay the money - if speed was at all necessary, and at length she did so. *********** Their new boat-master, Coryn was the owner and Captain of a sleek two-masted river schooner called The Lady Ellyn that could be creatively rigged to speed upstream against the river no matter what course the wind blew except for head on. He claimed it could outrun or outfight any smaller or larger boats of river pirates that threatened danger on the river. He was a short wiry man of well-past middle years that had spent his entire life trading up and down the river and he laughed that he could guide his boat safely virtually blindfolded by feel alone, but that running the river at night was a foolhardy risk not worth taking at any price. He had a small but very experienced crew and the Lady, her bodyguard and the Foole were assured that they were well-armed and well-prepared for any sort of trouble... assuming that the pay was good, and with the promised payment of a substantial danger bonus, it now quite seemed to be quite so. Everyone now seemed to be happy, even the horses, who didn't yet know that they would be spending another week or even more trapped below decks in the ship's spacious cargo hold. Undoubtedly, just like the Lady Ayleth, they would be plotting at getting their dire revenge sometime later on. ********* Coins and handshakes were exchanged and everyone sat back for one final glass of refreshment. Rowan and Boyle settled for another pint of ale, or at least it was almost nearly a pint, and silently toasted their good fortune. Their boat captain appeared to be a sound and sober one and they hoped they'd make good time going east up the river, although their next destination seemed to still be indeterminate. From what the lads could tell, conditions on the river were dangerous right now but that the captain hoped to get them at least half-way up the river, and hopefully to the big mining town of Orshold, right on the border of Everdun, near the end of the river. If the river proved too dangerous, especially near or past the infamous Dead Tree Island Junction in the river, a different large river tributary, the Elm River could be taken south to the large town of Elmcrygh. This route was frankly now suspect as well due to its close proximity to the Juniper Mountains, just to the west. In addition to all of the rumors of Boar-Men incursions south of the Emerald River, the Púcel seemed to be restless as well and the captain had heard several rumors of suspected goblin activity near there that made this choice dangerous well. At worst, it was decided, that the party could be dropped of with their mounts as far east as possible so that they could ride southeast through the Lloan Valley to either Everdun to the east or instead down the good stone road that started from Everdun west to Orshold, then south and gently east through Samhold, Lydleford and then eventually the great free-city of Dragontooth on the great coastal mountain that divided the borders from Broadmore, Everdun and the Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire. By going either east or south they could reach the coast and get another ship to take them to Corælyn, well away from the fighting in or near Broadmore, or the threat of the Boar-Men. One way or another, the lads figured they would be seeing a lot of very distant places no matter which way they ended up travelling once they embarked on the boat early the next morning. ****************** When The Lady Ellyn sailed past the furthest river watch guard tower, past Swanford, Rowan knew that the adventure had now really begun in earnest. The faces of the guards were grim, and they didn't smile as they waved sadly to the ship. One particularly pessimistic guardsman even shook his head, and made a cut-throat gesture with his hand. The lads didn't find that especially encouraging, but the crew pretended not to notice... they knew the river was dangerous, and didn't need any additional reminders. As Captain Coryn had insinuated, his crew did, indeed, appear to be a good well-trained one. Tory, the First Mate, was young for the post, just a few years older than Rowan and Boyle, and he seemed a bit brash and impulsive, but fortunately this tendency was tempered by the patience and council of his consort, Beryl, who was the Second Mate of the ship. She was the solid anchor of the boat, to whom everyone looked for most routine guidance and instructions. The rest of the crew, Daren & Tashyl were young lads and quite able sailors, who handled most of the deck duties, while a trio of young lasses, Brenga, Gaylyn & Leresia, handled most of the mast riggings, and could scamper up and down the two masts and the ropes like lovely monkeys. It also didn't hurt, in the slightest, that the young lady sailors quickly scampered out of their dockside attire, the moment they were out of sight from the town, and performed their duties, thereafter, in just a brief linen loincloth tied around their waists. Even Beryl let her well tanned breasts go bare, but left on a comfortable old pair of old ragged shorts to cover her bottom. The male sailors stripped down to just a loincloth, as well, for their own work attire. Apparently, as the young Swanford lads discovered, even in the early autumn, it is hot work to handle a boat on the humid and steamy Emerald River, and certainly no one was complaining about the view. Rowan and Boyle were indeed most delighted by the view, as were the Lady's three simple guardsman, Slaryle, Kelven, & Fenenin, who took their orders primarily from Lieutenant Rothale's assistant, Sergeant Worrel. The Sergeant was a taciturn man who rarely smiled, and when he did, it just looked wicked and unpleasant. His arms and chest showed the signs and scars of a soldier who had a long and dangerous career, and he and his commanding officer appeared to be long acquaintances. The Lady, quite alone in this concern, put on the pretention of being outraged by the moral laxity of the crew, but was politely told to mind her own business by Beryl, and thereafter, she kept to herself in her small cabin below deck. She learned quickly that, while Coryn might be the captain and pilot of the boat, the true running of the ship was left to the two consorted mates. The captain could always be found in his small pilot house in the front of the schooner, manning the ship's wheel, his eyes and concentration always fixed at least a hundred yards up ahead of the boat, and he was nearly oblivious to whatever was happening on deck. The Emerald River was 'tricky and dangerous' he muttered once to Rowan, when the lad climbed up to pay the captain a visit. New sandbars and nearly sunken tree logs were an ever-present danger, and only a truly experienced captain could recognize a nearly submerged underwater obstacle in time to avoid a ramming, and possible a near fatal breech in the hull below the waterline. The other dangers of the river bore equally sharp watchfulness. At all times, at least one of the crew was up forward, armed with a bow and charged with keeping a constant watch to both shores. Another of the female crewmembers, usually Gaylyn, who seemed to have the keenest eyes, kept a watch from a perch atop of the foremast, scanning the skies, and especially the trees, for trouble up there. Rowan thought that it would be rather odd to worry about trouble from the trees, but the sailors laughed and told him about several varieties of large tree dwelling monkeys and large birds that were all quite territorial, and prone to defending their colonies. The aggressive birds, it was true, were merely a nuisance, but some of the apes, if annoyed, could be quite accurate with their missiles thrown from the trees, quite heavy sticks and hard thrown rocks with nearly the force of a sling, and it was best to give their nesting colonies a wide passage, if possible. There were other dangers in the water, as well. In particular, a rather aggressive large gar-fish, and a smaller silver barracuda fish, with sharp teeth and razor sharp fins, which hunted in schools, and could easily take down larger prey found in, even relatively shallow, waters. The dangers of the large river alligators went without saying. They rarely came far enough downriver to enter Lily Lake, but, occasionally, they had, and Àcheram the Dockmaster, or one of the regular fishermen, like old Juro, kept a keen watch for them, and caught them promptly with nets or great iron grappling hooks to pull them on-shore, so that the guards might then easily kill them. All other dangers notwithstanding, the perils of either Boar-Men or night-goers, such as Goblins, were the single greatest danger to the boat, and they tried to prepare for it. Extra bows and quivers of arrows were brought on-deck and placed where they could be grabbed in haste. Sharp wicked looking bill-hooks were also staged at intervals along the deck railing, so that they could be wielded at a moment's notice, to repel boarders from smaller boats in the river. For additional security, it was decided that at least one of the Lady's guardsman would help patrol the deck to keep an extra watch to the shores. Boyle also tended to keep forward, and helped to watch the riverbank, as well, for most of the day. Rowan kept his own watch, to the stern, usually the quietest place on the boat, and he was finding himself becoming increasingly morose, the further the ship sailed. Suddenly, the new adventure didn't quite seem as interesting to him. When the boat moored itself for the evening at a relatively secure spot, by an open field on the south side of the riverbank, the lads were surprised to find that each of the crewmen took the time to practice with their bows for at least fifteen minutes, and they were all, in fact, much better shots than either of the lads, or most of the guardsmen. Embarrassed, they each resolved to join in the practice every evening, until their skills with the bow became at least acceptable. For the first few nights, their skills were woeful to say the very least, but they grit their teeth and kept practicing. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 07 ************* The Lady Ayleth, indeed, spent the first couple of days of the voyage mostly below, alone in her tiny cabin, but, at length, she became bored enough that she at least pretended to forget that she was offended by the near total nudity of the crew. At first she approached Rowan for conversation, but the two soon found that they aggravated the other's nerves, quite beyond measure. Wearied, at last, with her self-indulgent whining and complaining, he soon gave her the full measure of his pent-up anger he had been holding inside of him, since Cedany's death. "I have sworn an oath to help restore the alleged comeliness that the Daemon was said to have taken from you by his attack, but frankly I have never seen any trace of beauty or grandeur in you, even from those carefree years before the attack. Although our paths seldom crossed during your summer visits, and we have never once before spoken, in terms of friendship, I have found much in your manner and behavior to object to, particularly in your callous treatment of your lady attendants. My Cedany was more worthy of life than you are, and I begrudge that she willingly sacrificed her life, at once and without doubt or reflection, to protect and save yours. That most of your other maidens also gave their lives, in such a sad and terrible manner by your side, while you have never once shed a single tear in pity and sorrow for them, galls me beyond words. Are you really such a cold, cruel, and heartless bitch that you have no regrets at all for their loss? How can you not lament their deaths, as the pointless acts that they were, at the hands of a horrific creature, frankly, only summoned in a fit of despair by an otherwise probably worthy young lady that you had tormented beyond all common bounds of decency and respect?" The Lady Ayleth was speechless with shock, and found no words with which to defend herself. Unchallenged, Rowan continued his tirade. "Lady, your station might be one of the loftiest in this land, but I find your manner and behavior only suitable for one of the meanest harlots, in one of the lowest flesh-dives. Your beauty, such as you might claim to have had, was clearly shallow and but a layer of makeup that you painted on each day, hiding your greater perverse and wickedly obstinate soul. True beauty shines from within, and that quality you do not possess. That Cedany gave you her complete love, loyalty, and devout attendance speaks well of the woman I loved and would have married, should you have allowed any of your maidens the joy and the right to their own personal happiness. Instead you amused yourself with them, toyed with their affections, and then willingly sacrificed each and every one of them to expediency... and without any regret. You are unworthy, in my eyes, of even tending to my beloved's night-soil pot, and until you are capable of uttering even a single sincere tear of remorse from your grubby and soiled soil, there are no further words that I would ever wish to utter to you. Begone from my sight, and leave me to my memories of the happier days that Cedany and I shared, before you brought evil and destruction to us all!" His words were harsh, and definitely not ever suited for the ears of a Duke's daughter, no matter how spoiled she was, but they did have the desired effect. The Lady turned ghostly pale and she fled back to her quarters for the remainder of the day. Thereafter, she gave Rowan the widest possible berth and found, instead, the more forgiving Boyle to be a pleasanter source of conversation. ********** "You really are quite the contrary, young Lady!" Boyle laughed at her, later the next day, as he watched her scowl at the nicely suntanned bare breasts of Brenga, who had just walked past, giving Boyle a bit of a wink as she wiggled her hips a bit more, perhaps, than was usual. "How so? Besides, I take after my father - and as a woman I'm allowed to be as inconstant and contrary as the wind." "Certainly, and indeed you are! But I've noticed that you've never been particularly modest before, while bathing and sunning along the shore near your pavilion. Also, your comely attendants were often quite encouraged to fully display themselves, to better enjoy the breezes and take the sun. Furthermore, it is common knowledge that you in fact quite enjoy the sight of the naked female form, and other associated pleasures that you shared with them... I have this on rather good authority. In this instance, your dignity isn't actually affronted in the slightest; instead, you are merely piqued that these winsome young ladies are not under your command or sufferance. So instead of exotic naked beauty, it just common jealousy that aggravates you, that you cannot seize one of them and make them writhe under your will!" "Not so! I am not entirely the cruel debaucher that everyone thinks I am." She insisted, looking away to avoid Boyle's probing and honest eyes. "But certainly you are... or at least were. I notice that you take no oath to defend your word or honor, as a high Lady nearly certainly would, if accused. Like my friend, I ought to speak cruel, but bluntly honest words of reproach to you, but I can't think of much that either hasn't already been said, or you've thought of for yourself... assuming, of course, that you do possess, somewhere deep down inside of you, even the slightest shred of human decency. No, I would for now stay on friendly terms with you, albeit reluctantly, and keep my darker thoughts silent, unspoken. Long trips mean a change to ones routine, and this one will be longer and different than most. Tend to your soul and resolve to be kinder in the future, and I think we'll all enjoy the experience together in a much better way. Now, as for your more personal needs, show some honesty for a change, and just invite one of the young ladies to dally with you in private some evening. They might even say 'yes'! I certainly think that, at least, one of the lasses wouldn't mind a little quiet private time with me as well, certainly that wouldn't offend you at all... would it." "Why should I possibly care with whom you dally!" she retorted with a wan smile, but her eyes didn't quite agree with what her mouth uttered. "As for my own dalliances... I will think on what you said. It is certainly not appropriate that I become much too inappropriately involved with any of the men. Even my attending officer is too far below my station, but, certainly, no dishonor would be associated with any private encounters with a suitable young lady." Indeed, later than evening, Ayleth approached two of the young crew ladies and was apparently firmly, but kindly rejected. Both already had other preferred arrangements for bed companions for the night. Gaylyn was already rather intimate with her fellow crewman Daren, and Leresia had quite hit it off with one of the guardsmen, Fenenin, who was a rather tall and handsome brown-haired fellow, who had an easy way with the ladies. The remaining young lady, Grenga, indeed, had more than a passing interest in enjoying Boyle's intimate companionship that night. *********** Even with a bit of distance and privacy from the other couples that night, the quiet sounds of sexual intercourse disturbed the rests of both Rowan and Lady Ayleth. Rowan had slept poorly each and every night, and often spent part of the night when sleep evaded him, assisting the other night guard, who watched over the dark fireless camp. Every night the risk of intrusion, from night-goers or other dangers, increased and, at any time, was there never anyone on guard, armed and alert for danger. The Lady tried to quietly take care of her own sexual frustrations under her blanket, but she found that relief was elusive. In the past, she had attendants to keep her clit well-licked and satisfied at night, and her voyeuristic moments of masturbation during the day were generally casual ones, while she watched her maidens at play, just twiddling her clit often enough to keep the juices flowing and her desire aroused. Even now, as she tried to recall the memories of several especially satisfying lesbian encounters, the erotic recollections wouldn't focus in her mind. She could easily recall the nude sight of each of her attendants, especially the lovely Cedany, but the heated emotion of the sexual fun that they had shared kept slipping out her thoughts. Instead, she nearly always now, recalled the blood of the pavilion field, and the unspeakable deaths that her ladies suffered, as they were impaled and their innards ruptured by the inhumanly massive penis of the infernal monster, and how her own body and cunt had briefly brushed up against that humongous cockhead as well. She had been just an instant or a moment, at most, from feeling it rip deeply inside of her own intimate flesh, tearing her cunt, guts, and stomach wide open, up to her chest, and in her last, final, excruciating and agonizing moments of life, feel its dark, smoky daemon-seed erupt into her ravaged flesh, to burn and stain her flesh and soul, forever tainting it. Now, she found herself utterly unable to achieve even the smallest or feeblest orgasm, and her thoughts now remained, instead, those vivid ghastly memories of the grassy field of death. Feeling alone in life and utterly miserable, she clinched her teeth, to try and block out her feelings. She refused to allow herself to cry, but a few small, but entirely genuine, tears formed in her eyes. When she eventually found sleep, the horrid memories of the murder, and defilement of her maidens continued to haunt her dreams, unceasingly. It appeared, however deeply buried, that the cruel, noble lady did indeed have a conscience, but perhaps extremely deeply buried, and frail with disuse. Now that it was released from its bounds, the Lady was quite afraid that her dreams would only get worse, in the days and weeks to come. Her pessimism was not to be at all disappointed. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 08 The first significant threat of danger came a few days later, on their fifth day of the voyage, as the crew was putting out the dinner campfire, and nearly everyone was preparing their bedrolls along the shore. Knowing that he was unlikely to get any sleep, yet once again, Rowan volunteered to take the first camp watch, to stay up until the moon was in the center of the night sky. One of the crewmen, Tashyl, was taking his turn to hold a similar watch onboard the boat, in case trouble came from the river or something attempted to cut the boat loose from its anchor, allowing it to drift away and thus maroon the crew. Nearly from the start of the watch, Rowan thought he could hear slight movements and rustling in the trees and bushes that didn't quite follow or match the gusts of the wind. It had rained earlier in the morning, but dark clouds still mostly obscured the moon, and hinted at more rain later that night or sometime early the next day. With one hand kept ready at his sword, he kept a constant watch for the next hour, until he was certain that something was indeed amiss. He was walking over to Boyle to nudge him awake, when something in his mind cried out alarm and he drew his sword and ducked his head, just in time to avoid a short spear that had been thrown from out of the darkness straight at his throat. "Alarm!" He cried out, and, nearly at once, his sword burst into bright flame, illuminating the entire camp quite brightly enough, so that he could clearly see the group of Goblins that was now racing into the camp, armed mostly with short flint tipped spears or poor daggers and short swords. While Goblins were said to be a rather clever race, they were at best but average weapon smiths, and they didn't normally have the will or patience to mine coal and gather bog iron or dig ore, for working a forge, except to arm their leaders, or to trade weapons for food or coin with the Boar-Men. Some of the younger night-goers might only be armed with a sharpened stick, which had been hardened in a fire. Their weapons might be poor, but deadly enough, if their prey had been caught completely by ambush, totally unaware. Individually, Goblins could be occasionally quite brave and daring, but as a group or in a war-party, they tended to fight cautiously and extremely conservatively, taking few, if any, risks. They often fled to safety once any loot had been taken, or if their resistance was greater than expected. Tonight, with their prey alerted nearly at once, and each human now well-armed with good weapons at hand, and forwarned just before the first sneak attacks could be successful, the raid-leader paused, wondering whether or not to sound an immediate retreat. As the fighting started, he could tell at once that this particular attack had been a mistake, and he and his personal bodyguard melted off into the woods, leaving most of his band of forty goblins to their own fate. Most of the rest quickly as well decided to flee as well, to fight another day, but others never got that opportunity. Rowan's flaming sword cut the band of small, waist height attackers down in rows, like ripe wheat before a scythe. In just moments, he had slaughtered nearly a dozen of the tiny foe, before the rest fled away from him in abject terror. The guardsman and the armed crewmembers each had lesser but similar sorts of success, each killing a few more each, of the early doomed first wave of attackers. Less than a minute after the attack had begun, the clearing was empty of live goblins, and a full two dozen of the night-folk lay dead on the ground. None of the fallen contained anything of any value or interest, and the dead were quickly and quietly consigned to the river for burial. The fish and alligators would feed well upon the unfortunate nihtgenga, and Rowan hoped that the survivors would spread the word that their boat was not an easy target for plundering, to the other Goblin tribes. The fact that the Lore-Master seemed moved to obvious near tears by their death was puzzling, but Oddtus would not speak of the matter at all. Still, before each small corpse was toss into the water for burial the Foole uttered a few words of prayer in strange tongue, perhaps, as Rowan thought that it was of the night-goers. ********** Occasionally over the next two days, until they reached the portentous Dead Tree Junction Island, which lay nearly in the middle of the river, near the convergence of the Elm River and several other smaller ones into the Emerald, other Goblins were occasionally sighted in the gloom of the tree-line that grew nearly up to the very edge of the river. But after sighting the boat, they quickly disappeared into the shadows and never menaced The Lady Ellyn again. Still other problems, other than night-goers, threatened this part of the river. Here near the island, at the conjunction of several small rivers and streams, the north bank was ominously near the tall foothills of the northern barrier mountains, being perhaps, at most, only a day or two of travel away. These northern mountains most certainly contained fierce tribes of Boar-Men and other monstrous creatures of fame and legend, as well. Settlements had been attempted on the north bank of the river, in this area, before, and the infamous landmark of the Dead Tree, itself, was such a place. A great huge dead tree, entirely bare of leaves or even moss, had formerly grown in the center of where a small island town had been and was a clear landmark on the river. The town had been constructed many years ago on this fair sized island in the midst of the river, and was about similar in size to the Duke's Island near Swanford, and the river was quite wide and relatively shallow here, too. In fact, the shoreline in much of this region was pretty much fetid murky swampland, with many mangroves and cypress trees growing in the shallower parts of the river. It had been sacked and burned at least three times in the past, that Coryn, the knowledgeable Captain had heard of, and it had been left deserted for at least the last five years or so. Another nearby walled town, Silana, clung to survival and was about a day's sail past Dead Tree, at the point where a large river, the Elm, entered the Emerald. Taking the Elm River south, upstream, was still very much a debated option for the party. This route would take the boat down to the trading town of Elmcrygh, where a good paved road could be taken for a great many leagues southeast. The Foole hoped that, once they reached the town of Silana, they could gather enough information about the local conditions and expected dangers, to make a more educated choice for their next step of the journey. ************ Since the danger of submerged logs was especially great here at this slower and shallower part of the river, the Captain warned, the boat now reduced its load of sails, and an additional crewman was posted forward with a long twenty-foot pole that he used to measure the river's depth as they slowly crept forward cautiously. The river seemed dangerously shallow when measured on the southern side of the river, so, with obvious and considerable discontent, the Captain gently steered the boat a bit closer to Dead Tree Island than he would have preferred. His second mate, Beryl, was much more concerned about that particular danger than her husband, and she was soon trying to convince her master that they were already too close to the island for safety. Her argument was proven entirely accurate by an arrow that bore straight through the very center of her back, and quite pierced her heart from behind. The large jagged arrowhead quite entirely emerged from the front of her chest, between her bare breasts, and killed her quite suddenly dead, even before her body slowly slumped over and struck the deck next, to the Captain's wheelhouse. At once the crew and the boats passengers sprang into action. With a flying tackle, Boyle knocked the Lady Ayleth flat onto the deck, so that the thick four-foot high railing gave them full cover from sight, and, hopefully, from further arrow fire. Then, crawling along the deck, he wrenched open the forward cargo hold and he pushed the screaming and protesting Lady down into it, once again shutting the hatch closed, when she was safely below. Her bodyguard Lieutenant had not been especially close to her at the time, and he scowled, as another black fletched arrow just missed his head, and he ran below decks to safety. His other three guards, who had been mostly lounging around on the sides of the deck, grabbed bows and attempted to return the missile fire. The great rain of dark red-fletched arrows that fell upon them, soon drove them all to hide behind the solid deck railing for shelter, as well. Now they understood why the ship was so protected, instead of having the usual open banister railings that most ships had. Rowan, from his usual spot near the taffrail, at the stern, had slightly better success with his own archery duel, and he kept popping in and out of cover, as he managed to fire some fairly accurate shots, which might have indeed wounded a foe or two, but his fire certainly kept other foes hiding for cover, rather than firing more volleys into the boat and its crew. Other of the crewmen, all expert archers enjoyed much better success with their own suppressing arrow fire, and the hail storm of missiles soon dwindled into a more endurable and lighter shower of irregularly fired arrows. The Captain, quite protected in his small shielded Pilot's wheelhouse, steered the best course he could, with his reduced sail load, around the island, until, a few minutes later, the ship's stern passed, finally, out of arrow range from the island. Most of the crew was uninjured, but a couple had wounds, a few even suffered grievous ones. The worst was the nimble lass, Gaylyn, who was most exposed to arrow fire, while she was up on the watch-seat on top of the forward mast, and she was struck gravely by two arrows in her vitals and died later that evening of her wounds. The malevolent looking sergeant of the guard, Worrel, was hit twice as well, but neither the wound in his shoulder nor in his upper thigh appeared to be life threatening. Another of the guards received a slight flesh wound to his non-sword wielding arm, and he was soon bandaged and expected to make a full and swift recovery. Of the red feathered arrows, nothing more needed to be said. These were the crafting of the Eorfleode, the Boar-Men. Generally, Oddtus mentioned to Rowan and Boyle later, after the wounded had been tended, they were, at best, only adequate archers. Also, their weapons and, especially, their armor tended to be crude and of often, rather inferior quality. If anything, their race had even less skill at the forge, than the night-going race that they terrorized, often enslaved, and frequently, cruelly commanded as auxiliaries. In numbers, and in ambush, the Boar-Men could be dangerous archers, where quantity of missile fire could make up for their lack of individual accuracy, as today's encounter had demonstrated. This explained why the crew had not seen any other west-bound ships, since they had left Swanford. Dead Tree Island was now the home of a significant number of Boar-Men, and they were, now, well in control of the entire river trade, able to choke it off nearly entirely, from this central point. In most land battles, the Boar-Men valued physical strength and the defeat of an enemy within arm's length, thus demonstrating the courage and bravery of the individual warrior. In battle they fought as individuals, and rarely ever ran away, even if the odds were much against them. They tended to fight bravely, but often stupidly. As the Lore-Master remarked, 'No one has ever accused any Boarman of the crime of being a genius, or the even worse felony of showing any common sense'. Most, in fact, were little brighter than particularly dense and 'simple' children; even their leaders were selected for their individual courage, and feats of arms in single combat with rivals, rather than for any skill in actually leading a war-band. Logistical planning and preparation, the hallmark of coordinated and effective human armies, was an entirely alien concept to their culture, and distained as showing 'timidity' and 'lack of will' to aggressively face their enemies. It was indeed a happy thing, the Lore-Master concluded, that the Boar-Men rarely ever cooperated in attacks involving more than two or three war-tribes combined together, each war-tribe usually never larger than a hundred warriors each. The idea of ever uniting all of the tribes in a region under a single mighty leader was nearly unthinkable to their culture, since each tribe would just as happily raid and attack their own brethren, as launch an assault upon human settlements that were usually further away. Only rarely had such large unifications ever occurred, always, then, under the command of a more much powerful creature or outsider, strong or powerful enough to make them fear this new leader more than they hated each other. More than anything else, the Eorfleode, the creation of the Aðbaernesa, the Goddess of Decay & Destruction and of Death & Rebirth, lived but to hate and kill; each other, their kin, and the entire world around them that they resented and could never hope to understand. Now, away from the island in relative safety, with the danger over, for now, the crew nearly fell apart, at once, in sadness and shock. Tory, the rather impulsive first mate and the bound-consort to the fallen Beryl, alternated between grief and a great vengeful desire to return to the island, to exact his retribution for his wife's death. The Swanford lads were of a mind to agree with him, despite the fearful odds, but the Foole was watchful of their martial enthusiasm and bade them to keep to their own counsel for yet awhile, until they could reach Silana, when they could better gauge the dangers of their situation. The Lady's bodyguard, weakened already with two injuries, was certainly in no shape for further combat, nor was this their assigned duty. The Lady briefly came back atop deck, to see the aftermath of the battle for herself, and pinching her lips as tightly as they would go in her fear. Soon, once again, she retreated to the safety of her cabin, without uttering a single word to the survivors atop deck. ********** Even adding a bit more sail, to make some extra speed, didn't really speed the journey to the nearby river town of Silana, noticeably, and Rowan's hands were white with anger and frustration, as he clinched the edge of the stern taffrail. Boyle was up at the front, giving comfort and encouragement to the sailors, and lending a hand however he could be useful. His lady friend Brenga was especially distraught at the mortal wounding of her friend Gaylyn, and, together, hand-in-hand they went below to where she was being attended, so that they could be by her side when her spirit left for the Shadowlands. "Rowan," Oddtus quietly said into Rowan's ear, as he placed his arm comfortingly across his broad, strong shoulders, "enough terrible things have already happened, since the start of this adventure, that it is quite worse still, when yet more tragedy strikes. I know well in my heart, too, and it never becomes any easier to understand and accept, nor perhaps should it! On the other hand, I could tell by your unease, since we have boarded this vessel that another matter equally disturbs you as well. You sit here quietly and look out behind you, always looking towards the past... not the challenges that still lie just ahead of you!" "Foole, it is certain that you are very wise and you try now to speak wisdom to me, but I would surrender any glory that any Duke or King could ever offer me, if I was but still an innocent young man enjoying my life in a quiet village. I did not aspire, ask, pray, or even dream for any of this! My friends are in peril; my past is now a forsaken memory and my future is increasingly likely to be a short, but memorable one. You shall have your epic song, my friend and joculator, but I doubt that it shall be a happy cheerful song, or that you shall be showered in gold marks, upon its telling." "Danger confronts all of us, everyday and everywhere. Often, it is too dangerous to even consider arising out of bed each morning, but most of us do it anyway... and occasionally not even come to regret it. The story shall be worth the telling -- of that I am sure." "Worse still, I remember more clearly now, that when I was still a young lad of eight my parents plied their trade on this river. It was their life, but even then, I think they knew that it would not be mine, and they wanted something else better for me than the uncertain currents of this accursed river. For the cost of just a few coins, they placed me into my apprenticeship with Master Gorge, and, satisfied that I was now secure in life, they returned to their trade on this river and never again returned to see me. That was fifteen years ago, and now, I truly understand why they never returned as promised, to visit me upon their next return to Swanford. Perhaps they died sailing on this river, or else they might have been a part of one of the settlements on that ill-fated island town, falling to the spears and accursed carving knives and stew kettles of the Boar-men. If I was to return to that cursed island, might I find their marked graves, should I be so lucky, or instead just find some great midden heap of gnawed bones and wonder which of these mangled befouled carcasses once belonged to my parents... my only known kin? This tears at me with every mile that I pass away from that accursed place, that I might never know the truth, and always believe and fear the worst. Am I wrong to wish that some sort of placatory truth could be found from this evil?" "You are not wrong, and this again speaks to the goodness that is inside of you, and why you, and you alone, can bear the burden of carrying this blade at your side. You are right to wish that the foul Boar-Men should be driven from that former home of men, and some rough form of justice be accomplished, for those that they have butchered, but at this moment I would ask that you restrain your desire to do this, for yet awhile longer. I am ill at ease with the dangers I have seen and feel here, and worry that the nearby town of Silana, to which we head, may have succumbed to similar evils. It has been some years since I last sailed this river, and I do not recall if Silana was carefully fortified, or had any goodly abundance of guardsmen to protect her. I fear for their safety, now, and I almost dread our approach, to arrive there hopefully within another few hours at most. I fear that another great disaster will soon await us!" The friends just stood next to each other in silence, watching the wake of the ship leave trails in the green swampy waters, each lost in their own fears. ********** It was very little encouragement, when they saw smoke from fires in the horizon, beyond the trees to the east. Too much smoke and too dark to be pleasant home fires from chimneys, or even a large cook-fire or two. The smoke was dark and foreboding, and, as the smoking ruin of the town came into sight, the Foole's eyes misted with tears and he just sadly looked away from the charred wooden walls of the town, which had no longer protected the town and its folk from ruin. There were, indeed, some survivors from the ruined town, waiting by an unburned dock for the arrival of the ship, and hopefully, rescue, but not nearly as many people as ought to have formerly resided there. They greeted The Lady Ellyn as their deliverers, and when at dusk, the brave sailor lass Gaylyn finally gave up her spirit for its journey to the Shadowlands, the surviving townsfolk shared their own grief with the crew, and yet another simple grave was dug into a field, to the side of the town, to be remembered with the rest of their many other dead. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 08 The Boar-Men had come four nights ago, the survivors said, in small dugout canoes from downstream, almost certainly from their large war-camp on Dead Tree Island. They did not strike with any particular surprise, and indeed many of the attackers were killed, before a breech was made in the timber wall of their protective palisade. Once the breech in their defenses was made, their few guardsmen traded their own lives, dearly, before they were overrun, giving just enough time for many of the women, elderly, and the children to escape out a hidden emergency tunnel, to the relative safety of a nearby hill, where they had some crude defenses and a bit of saved stored food in readiness. This had been a raid for food, not for plunder, and a good many townsfolk had been wounded or seized, and then bound as captives and taken back away to their small boats. Some of the human dead had been taken, as well, until their boats were fully laden, and then the raiders returned back down-river to their base, where, undoubtedly, they were enjoying their ghastly feast. The Boar-Men ate any food they could find, but they took especial delight in consuming human flesh, occasionally raw but often roasted in accordance with ancient ritual over a spit, preferably keeping the skewered human alive over the roasting fires, for as long as possible, while tender slivers of cooked flesh were trimmed from the still alive and screaming victim. Understandably horrified at the certain fate of their missing loved ones, the survivors demanded that something be done. As the ranking noble in these parts, it was, immediately, to the Lady Ayleth that their pleas now fell. To her credit, the Lady listened to their tears and entreaties, and promised that something would be done... and soon. Then, with a slightly cruel smile at Rowan, she made her decree. "As my Champion, Rowan of Swanford is fortunately here at my side, eager to offer his assistance; I command him to your service, to, and at once, go forth to rescue those unfortunate captives, and restore those that yet remain to your side! As the daughter and heir of your august Duke, I do, so forth, order that this be rescue be done!" The townsfolk cheered loudly, with great cheerful enthusiasm, but Rowan's heart was alternately relieved and yet disheartened. He could now return to that accursed island and have his vengeance, but it was beyond any hopes of optimism that he could ever hope to return alive from this risky undertaking. Did she sense his desire for revenge, or did she just now decide that this was an apt way to avenge herself, and get rid of an uppity peasant who didn't know his place, who had dared to speak treason, however true, to the daughter of a Duke? Rowan didn't particularly care anymore; soon all of his incessant fears and doubts would be gone, one way or another, and it was quite true that he wouldn't entirely regret his own swift journey to meet Cedany, once again, together in the Shadowlands. Soon, once again, she would be at his side, and he found himself increasingly eager to start this mission of suicidal vengeance, anticipating that blessed moment of reunion. Turning to return to the river, where several of the abandoned dugout canoes from the raid still remained, their original rowers now in whatever dark terrible underworld the slain Eorfleode might yearn for in their afterlife, Rowan felt at once the long strong fingers of the gléaman grab his arm. "Don't be more of a fool than you can help. Although the young and brave are prone to fits of stupidity, at least try and think, before you run off to fight! You won't make this trip alone, and if you fight as much with your head as with your balls, both parts of you might live long enough to laugh about this foolish mission, in the years to come. I shall be with you, and Boyle is, even now, grabbing his weapons to come, as well. Plus, I would be surprised if our widowed, and suicidally reckless, first mate doesn't wish to join his own beloved's journey to the Shadowlands, and he might even be of some considerable usefulness, before his spirit leaves us. If we're lucky, another sword or two just might come along as well, so we shan't have to row off to certain death and glory, quite all alone." The wise Foole was quite correct. A few minutes later, two long carved war-canoes paddled off down river with a revenge party of six grim faced men. The Lady, as expected, had commanded that her guardsmen were to remain in the ruined town with her, not the least reason was because two of them had, rather surprisingly, volunteered to accompany Rowan's rescue party. With a twinkle in her eye and a wave of her handkerchief, she bid her small group of heroes and her champion adieu, altogether quite certain that this would be the last she would ever see of them. "Go, ye heroes, go to glory, Though ye die in combat gory, Ye shall live in song and story, Go to immortality!" The gléaman began to softly sing, as much to himself as to the lads that paddled with him in their canoe. "Catchy song!" Boyle laughed. "And quite appropriate; one of your better ones in fact." "Hardly." The Foole laughed, as they began to hasten the paddling of their oars. "Besides, it's not one of mine... but that won't stop me from singing it before a better class of audience and collecting the coin from their laughter. In any case, a little laughter is good before meeting certain death, since it is better to meet ones fate, in something other than a highly nervous state!" The war-canoes sped swiftly down the river, and the gléaman lightened their hearts and eased their woes with merry song all through the night, for as long as it was safe to do so. *********** Oddly, despite the fact that she had laughed quite merrily as the tiny craft with the pitifully few rescuers inside sped quickly out of sight, the Lady Ayleth's nascent conscience poked at her, unceasingly, all night long, once again denying her any sleep or even comfort. By the first light of morning, she was already joining the survivors standing along the dock watching the river, waiting with increased fear and worry for her brave warriors to return. Her head was positively certain that they were already dead, or else captive and praying for a swift death, but, oddly, her heart was increasingly convinced that some way, somehow they would return... even if in defeat. Somehow, she believed that her champion yet lived, and he would return to her to complete and fulfill his earlier vows to her, to restore her former beauty... a vow she had quite suddenly, and rather carelessly forgotten, in her rather impulsive desire to avenge a private slight. At least the tall and strong young smith had kept his grievances with her private, and had never spoken of his ill-uttered words, or hardly any in fact, while in public to the others. Also, she admitted that she would miss his broad shouldered cheerful friend, Boyle. Although he was also rather too free of speech towards his betters, his smile was infectious and she would miss their daily chats about everything and yet nothing, full of mirth and very little of anything of merit. ********** When evening fell on the empty river later that night, her heroes were still absent. No one was yet admitting defeat, but everyone's hopes were clearly swiftly failing. As the last light of sunset faded on the river, the stern and merciless Lady Ayleth fell to her knees on the muddy riverbank, as a hard rain started to pour, and she let her first ever honest tears of despair flow freely down her face, and she wept into her hands. This was the first time that she could ever remember crying, since she had been a young girl. Now, for the first time in her life, she had finally done something that she had truly and heartily regretted. Never before had she shown remorse or regret, for her bullying and cruel teasing of childhood playmates, and then, later, her maiden attendants. She had watched her ladies die, nearly every single one of them... horribly, but she had privately rejoiced that she had lived, despite her disfigurement. Now, she knew that she deserved those terrible scars, for just as the lad Rowan had said, she festered - both inside and out... and now her champion and fellow heroes had died pointlessly, because of a stupid impulsive and careless action intended to soothe her stupid vanity. When her tears could no longer flow, she collapsed right there along the riverside, and slept with her clothes soaked from the rain, as it poured down all night long, leaving her in a bed of mud; her dreams dark and terrible, as death and destruction crossed every step of her path, to her increasing dismay and horror. ******************** Her guardsmen did not attend her that long, rainy, and very restless night; her three men-at-arms, Slaryle, Kelven, & Fenenin lay a short distance away down the river from the burned town, with their throats newly cut from ear-to-ear, their life blood now joining the others who had recently died, and slowly trickling with the nighttime rain to mingle with the blood and tears of countless others into the river. Now several miles away, and riding hard through the rain on their horses, heading south-east, down the shore of the Elm River, Rothale, formerly a Lieutenant of the Duke's Guard, rode with his wounded companion and former Sergeant, Worrel, far away from the ruins of the town. Rothale's saddlebags still contained the Duke's travel money in hard coin, given into his care. Right after he and his partner in treason Worrel had slit the unsuspecting sleeping throats of their own guardsmen, he had also snatched up the Lady Ayleth's personal coin purse, as well, which she had left in her small cabin on board The Lady Ellyn. He had almost been caught by one of the women crew, Brenga he thought her name was, while he was searching the Captain's cabin and desk for any additional, hidden stashes of coins. There he did find another small purse of ready cash, and decided it was time to complete his escape, before the girl's body was found. He had no regrets, whatsoever, about leaving yet another soul murdered, so that he could make off with enough of a fortune to live quite well for a year or two, in some distant foreign city. Her misfortune was his gain, and this wasn't the first time he had killed a few innocents in order to seize a small fortune. Someday he might need to do the same yet all over again, also undoubtedly to someone else's greater misfortune. A short time later, during their flight, when Worrel's arrow wounds pained him too much to ride any further, without taking a rest, the greedy Rothale decided to ease his passage into the Shadowlands, and by surprise, ran his sword into his old friends side. The evil former Lieutenant had planned to kill his companion later on anyway, to avoid having to share any of the loot, but he had hoped that the Sergeant could have been of some slightly greater use to him. As Worrel crumpled over into the tall grass, Rothale stopped only long enough, to bend over enough, to cut his old mate's purse as well, and to grab the now rider-less reigns of his former companions horse. He would need to ride fast and hard, changing horses often enough to keep them both fresh and reasonably rested. It was unlikely that the 'heroes' would ever be returning. They were already probably in some Boar-Man's feasting kettle, and the Lady would soon be taken in a following raid to join them. Still, he wanted to put a much distance between himself and potential danger as possible. That a great number of people had either just died, or soon were about to die to enable Rothale to steal a small fortune, didn't bother his thrice-damned soul in the slightest. Unlike the Lady Ayleth, when he did finally collapse from the need to sleep, several days and a good many leagues away from his crimes, his dreams were pleasant and happy ones; of nice shiny large silver and gold coins counted in heaps, and of the soft willing flesh that he would rent, with but a small coin of it, at the first whorehouse he next passed. Unluckily for the former Lieutenant and Ducal bodyguard, and murderous thief, Rothale met an equally amoral and enterprising young lady a few weeks later, in a mining town on the lower slopes of the Twin Peaks Mountains in central Broadmore, where his name and infamy was quite unknown. A seasoned whore named Vorenia, aptly named for the rapacity of her greed, eased his own passage into the Shadowlands by poisoning his flagon of wine one evening. He had been a rather sadistic lover, which she didn't entirely object to, but her discovery of his wealth, stashed away in his saddlebags, insufficiently well hidden in the inn stables, instantly sealed his fate. She in turn, met a different, but appropriate, fate, that well befitted a poisoner and murderess many-times-over, but that's an entirely different story. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 09 Rowan and his party were indeed having nearly all of the trouble that they could handle. And their epic journey down-river was one that the gléaman could and did tell countless times in the years afterwards. They were making very fast time going back down the river, paddling hard with their oars along with the current to make even greater speed than The Lady Ellyn had made going upriver with sail. They thought that they could reach the island before dawn, under cover of darkness and perhaps catch the Boar-Men asleep, weary and off-guard from their feasting. "I swear by The Seven..." Rowen softly muttered to Boyle, who was rowing right behind him and humming along to one of the Foole's tunes, "that I'm going to have my revenge against the Lady Ayleth. I'm certain that the heartless cunt deliberately sent us out here to die! Well I'm not going to oblige her!" "That's the spirit! Besides, being 'er appointed Champion, I'm pretty certain that you're not going to be allowed to do any of a great number of pleasant things that we might enjoy doing to 'er. You took some oaths... and other things. Besides, it's bad form to take your burning sword to a stupid young girl without much actual sense in 'er formerly pretty little 'ead. Let me handle 'er punishment! I've certainly sworn no oaths to protect and defend 'er! In fact, I have rather a very suitable punishment in mind, if you will allow me the pleasure?" "Alright, how can I refuse such cunning logic... and not even from our Fool! Besides, I've seen the way you look at her sometimes." "So, despite the fact that she has an unpleasant and rather superficial personality, and is often cruel to everyone around her, and sometimes tries to get friends of mine pointlessly killed... she does have a few positive traits, and she isn't quite entirely wicked and evil! Besides, some portions of her do remain rather decorative!" The friends quietly laughed and paddled hard for much of the night without rest until about two hours before dawn, the party saw once more the dark nighttime shadows of Dead Tree Island straight ahead of them. Resting their oars and crouching their bodies as low into the canoes as possible to avoid letting their silhouettes be seen accidently against the setting moon behind them, they allowed their coasting boats to gently ride along with the current up onto the mud flats of the island's shoreline. Much like the other riverbank nearby, the island's shoreline was swampy and had plenty of tree and brush cover for the rescue party to hide their boats. Once ashore, they listened carefully for a few minutes but heard no signs that their presence had been detected. Now, with weapons in hand, the six companions met in a circle and spoke in whispers to plan their strategy of attack. Just a few minutes travel into the brush of the island, they should find the outskirts of the former town, now the Boar-Men's war-camp. Stealth, it was decided was more valuable than an attack by surprise; if they could find and rescue the prisoners secretly, without disturbing the camp, and escape without being detected at all, that would be more than enough of a victory to satisfy nearly everyone. Careful as they were, Rowan was afraid that they were going to lose the concealing cover of darkness, but the Lore-Master had assured him that neither day nor night made much of a difference either way. Some scouts and scholars even maintained that the Eorfleode even preferred to be active at night as the purity of daylight hurt their eyes. This was nonsense, the Lore-Master had explained to everyone earlier, day or night meant little difference to either their hunting or their rest. All that mattered now was how recently they had feasted and how much ale or wine they had drunk, for stores captured in the sack of the town. The Boar-Men loved to drink any and all alcohol that they could get their clawed hands upon. The stronger the better! They also had their own unique home produced beer made from fermented grain and wild grasses, and the Histrio assured them that this brew was too awful and raw for most men to stomach, and was best to be left alone if discovered. In the darkness of the early morning before dawn, the camp was luckily quite still, and it was Oddtus who bade everyone to wait for a few minutes while he quickly spied out the camp. No one, he assured them, was quieter and sneakier than a gléaman, scooting away from an unpaid inn bill, or a joculator, scampering away from an unfriendly audience! He wasn't gone for more than five minutes and when he returned he quickly explained what everyone would need to do. "We're just about right where we need to be already." The Foole whispered, as he gave out their assignments. "They've feasted well this week, and particularly heavily last night. Most are fat, dumb and happy and snoring away in their animal skin tents, mostly on the northern side of the island to our right. The captives, and there are not many of them left, are in one of the old buildings right near the center open area of the old town green, where they've set up their cooking pits and roasting spits... and I'd advise you not to dwell much on the pitiful remains of the poor folks that were stuck upon them. Here is the plan. Some of the captives are going to need help getting back to our boats, and it's going to be a very tight squeeze fitting everyone in just our two canoes. We had hoped to rescue more than just the dozen or so survivors that are left, so maybe we can make do with just finding another big canoe or two. You two men from Silana, go back to the canoes and keep them ready them for a very fast departure and help the rescued captives into the boats. Tory, go search quickly and quietly along the island shore to see if you can find another canoe, or even better get two! There may be more of captives I haven't seen, but we haven't space enough for everyone as it is now, and we need at least another big boat, so don't fail us! Boyle, you will stay by my side but walk quietly, you're not in a barn tonight! I'll need you to help carry out any of the weak or wounded. Rowan, you stay near our sides also, but you will need to keep alert for any guard or patrols and deal with them -- preferably as quickly and quietly as possible. The prisoners had a guard out in front of their prison but I've slit his throat already while he was sleeping, but another might come, so everyone stay sharp!" Everyone nodded, and they began to execute their plan, hoping that everything would go without a hitch and that they, and the rescued captives, would be long gone before the sun rose over the river. ********* At first the plan went frighteningly smoothly and without a hitch. Oddtus and Boyle slunk quietly between the frames of old ruined or burned out wooden houses until they arrived at the back door of a still sturdy one story brick building that faced onto the town square. All of the window glass had been long broken but thick pieces of raw wood had been crudely nailed to form a barred barrier to escape for those kept imprisoned inside. Looking into a gap of one of the covered windows, Boyle could see about a dozen tied captives, some asleep but some now becoming aroused by the activity outside. After a brief consultation, it was decided that it would be faster (and much quieter) for Boyle to pry off the wood from the indifferently barred windows than it would be to force the back door, which appeared to be rather securely nailed shut. Rowan moved to a better vantage place across the street so that he could watch for patrols. He soon did sight a single rather tired appearing patrolling Boar-Man on the far north side of square, but he seemingly showed little interest in his duties. As he was no present danger to anyone, Rowan signaled that all was safe and that the extraction of the captives could begin. Further good news arrived a few minutes later as Boyle was pulling away the last nailed bit of wood preventing him from now lifting out the captives through the window to safety, when Tory trotted up to report that he had found two more canoes, one large and one smaller nearby, and that he and the townsmen had already moved all four boats together and they were now in readiness for a fast escape. It would still be a very tight squeeze for space in the long but narrow canoes, but at least now all of the captives could be rescued, and none would have to remain behind due of want of transport. The window now fully exposed and open, Boyle then quickly climbed inside so that he could begin cutting the crude rope bonds of the prisoners and slowly, one by one, he lifted them out through the window into the safe arms of the Foole. Tory, then in turn, escorted small groups of the survivors back down the wooded path back to the beach, and safety. This was not a swift task to accomplish, and Rowan began to fret that no matter how quickly his friend moved, it was still taking too long to move the dozen or so prisoners out of the open window. Already, Rowan thought that he could see the first glow of dawn appearing on the eastern horizon directly upriver. It was then that an unexpected tragedy derailed the rest of their calculated escape plan. *************** Goodwife Leresia had watched her young daughter be eaten first, alive and screaming, at the war-chief's own table. Young and especially tender, she was a particular delicacy to the Boar-Men leaders that ordered the roasting of most of the rest of her fellow villagers. This was done and they were devoured without the slightest taint of compassion or mercy. She had watched her husband go to the spit yesterday and heard his screams of pain while he was roasted alive seemingly for hours. Now, with both of her loved ones gone, her mind was now quite entirely undone by grief. When Boyle came to cut her bonds and lift her out to freedom, in her madness she did not recognize his kindly round race in the dark, but instead just saw another Boar-Man, coming now for her. She screamed at the top of her lungs the cries of a woman who has seen the terrors of each of the seven hells while yet living. Boyle make quick to cover the terrified woman's mouth as he lifted her out to the waiting hands of the Foole, but he could not stifle her terror. Faced with yet another stranger, she bit hard into Oddtus's right thumb as he tried to comfort and soothe her. With her mouth now unrestrained, her horrible screams of terror pierced the early morning air and she fled wildly into the darkness of the island woods, still screaming in horror, never to be seen again. Rowan noticed at once that the formerly disinterested guard was now quite aroused by the commotion, and he was now trotting on over to see what was happening with the captives. The creature would certainly not want the entire camp awakened early, as the blame would fall upon him for allowing one of their feasting-prey to disrupt any part of the camp's activities. When the boarman was nearly at the prison door, getting ready to peer inside, Rowan decided he could wait no longer, and sprinting suddenly around the corner into the town square he drove his gently glowing sword deep in the vitals of the surprised creature, felling it swiftly and fairly quietly. Unfortunately, some of the sleepers in the more nearby tents had already been aroused by the noise, and a few were now coming out to take a look at whatever was going on so early in the morning. Unable to drag away the slain boarman around the corner of the house in time, another pair of approaching guards running from the camp area, spied the lad and bellowed out their own high pitched squeals of alarm. The rescuers had been discovered and they were all going to have some unwelcome company, here and soon! ************ "Ack! Now we're going to be in for it! Boyle! Get those last two captives out of there now, you have no time left to waste and neither silence nor stealth is going to be of any future help to us! Move fast and get them out NOW!" The Lore-Master sharply commanded, as he escorted the other four remaining survivors back through the woods to the safety of the boats. "Tory! Don't just stand there, get back to the boats and make sure that everyone is ready to paddle for their lives the moment we get there!" The frantic gléaman barked. "Rowan can safely handle the first few Boar-Men that can come at us soon, and he has the sense to flee before their main force comes to take us! Get moving man!" The despondent widower had a different sort of idea. "No good Foole, they are waking and will come for us quickly now! Too quickly for the rescue party to make a clean escape, unseen back upriver to safety. We must create a diversion so that they do not come upon us while we are still upon or near the shore, so that they do not know our escape path. Rowan will need at least several minutes to keep the pursuit away from you as long as possible, and I will need to distract the horde to attract them to the west of the island, and not the east, where the canoes are. If I can keep them away from you until the boats are safely upriver, unseen, then the surviving townsfolk of Silana will be safe for yet a few more days until they can be safely escorted elsewhere. I need only a few minutes, and certainly I can find a small boat for my own escape as easily on the western riverbank!" With his decision made, the first mate ran across the center of old town, yelling loudly and shouting out commands to nonexistent hidden soldiers for them to return to their boats in the west. Yelling and waving his sword about, he made sure that he was seen by as many approaching boarman warriors as possible, to lead them away from the boats, and in fact this near suicidal plan worked nearly to perfection. The majority of the nearest approaching creatures, a full squad at least, all ran after the mate, leaving Rowan, who was mostly hidden behind the ruminants of a nearby house wall, with only a pair of rather confused and soon badly frightened creatures that had never faced an angry Champion wielding a burning sword before. Ducking under their haphazard blows, Rowan cut them both into two pieces each, right across their intestines with a single sharp searing blow. These foes dispatched in relative secrecy, he was missed by the next group of a dozen or so Boar-men who also followed their mates to the western part of the island, where Tory's loud voice could still be heard calling out commands to invented non-existent soldiers. Boyle had made his own rather loud but effective retreat timed with the loud cries of the first mate, as he kicked down the back door of the prison house and dragged along in his arms the last two rescued townsmen as fast as they could manage to stumble. Rowan thought now, a few minutes later, that his friend was out of harm's way and that all but the last boat was safely now away from the island, and he decided that it was time that he made his own quiet and hasty getaway, until he heard the loud clear cries of a woman, calling out for help. "Help me please! I'm in this building, here... over here... not with the others!" Indeed, now that Rowan was able to concentrate on her voice, she seemed to be calling from another mostly intact building on the south side of the center of the town. He thought about just boldly and quickly running over to her, but there were still too many Boar-men coming and going through the town square, so he had to quietly and stealthily creep behind any cover that he could find, until he finally could safely approach the well-secured back door of this new prison. Like the other house, the doors and windows were tightly nailed shut but Rowan was in no mood to wait around here any longer, and with his flaming sword he quickly chopped through the panels of the back door and then kicked his way inside the house in just a few seconds. As the Foole had suggested, speed, rather than stealth, was his only hope now! His helpless maiden, awaiting his rescue was a naked tall and well figured young lady with long brilliant flaming red hair that nearly reached her pale but well-rounded bare ass. She was about his own age, he decided; young, very pretty and despite her terrifying ordeal, still rather spirited and vivacious. She had been rather securely tied and even gagged, but she had slowly work it free just enough to be shout out for help, when she heard Tory's fake commands to his troops, assuming that a military force had arrived to rescue her. As a magnificently statuesque red-head, the Boar-Men had considered her especial suitable for a final special sacrifice to their dark God, and she had been separated from the others right from the start. To say that she was disappointed that a military rescue force had not in fact arrived, was a bit of a disappointment to her. "So, let me get this straight... you're now all alone here and the others have all probably left by now? You'll be lucky not to join my cute naked ass on their sacrificial table! It takes their victims many hours to die and sometimes even a full day, as their screams are like holy prayers and fine incense to them! If you don't want to be around for the fun, we'd better get going! That last boat will wait for you, right?" "I would hope so, but if we're any later I wouldn't count on it!" He muttered as he grabbed her hand to go. Leaving the building, they heading west to the coast and hopefully the final waiting canoe, but they didn't quite made it there unseen, due to the sharp eyes of a patrol of six boars-men roaming in the eastern woods. Now they were close enough to the river so that he was sure that Boyle and Oddtus could hear him, and Rowan yelled for them to take their boat out onto the river, to safety and that he would try to swim out to meet them." "I hope you can swim." He asked the young lady by his side as he again drew his infernal sword to take on the six creatures that were already shouting their war-cries and would be fast upon then in just a moment. "Like a fish!" She smiled at him and moved behind a thick nearby tree to give his sword room to do its work. If these particular Boar-Men had fought together in a planned coordinated attack, Rowan could have been in very dire circumstances, right from the very start. But in their normal fashion, they rushed at him as individuals a few moments separated apart, and as such they did not severely strain his very limited swordsmanship skills. The first three went down fairly easily but the later three, despite their inferior weapons, nearly overwhelmed his defenses just out of sheer ferocious strength. Their martial skills weren't particularly formidable, but they were inhumanly strong, strongly than most men. Rowan's strong right arm from a life of beating metal at the forge with a heavy hammer now well served him and the creatures could not overpower him. He gravely wounded another just enough to force it to the ground, just a moment before another bodily charged Rowan and leaped upon him, impaling himself mortally in the process, but driving his human foe to the ground so that his sole remaining tribesman could gain the sure glory of the kill. Fortunately, Rowan now had a rather large bulky body now shielding him and the remaining boarman, in its fury, never saw the sleek form of the formerly naked sacrificial captive pick up a long dagger and from behind, drive it deep into his back, slaying it. "Nicely done." Rowan said, thanking the young lady, who now helped to pull him up to his feet before she casually slit the throat of the wounded boarman. "Twas but good exercise. I've slain more than a few of the Eorfleode with my bow, but never before by my hand... my father would be pleased with me! This long stabbing dagger is of good metal, Acquilian, I think, if the slightly worn Ylfen engravings are any indicator. A good light but firm blade, although it is not magical, like your flaming sword. Much too good to remain in the hands of the Eorfleode! I shall bear it, but it has taken a long journey indeed to find itself placed in my hands! " A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 09 They ran the remaining yards to the shoreline and caught the sight of the final waiting canoe a few hundred yards away upstream. Rowan could now hear the sounds of other Boar-Men in the woods nearby and he waved off the boat, warning them to move onwards and to flee without them as he gestured toward the southern shoreline. Grabbing the girl's soft hand, they ran along the shore to the south, hoping to find a safe unsearched section of shore where they could swim to the southern riverbank, and then make their way back east to safety. Boyle would understand and knew that Rowan could handle these river waters and make it across the river to safety. Perhaps in a day or two they could be rescued, further upriver, but first they had to find a safe section of riverbank where they could make their getaway without being seen. That turned out to be a major problem as Boars-Men by the handful now spied the escaping couple and began to run after them in pursuit. Rowan had been told by the Lore-Master that Boar-Men were somewhat slower afoot than humans, but on the other hand they would be also much less quick to tire. The girl wasn't slow on her foot either and she matched him stride for stride, but soon she would tire and they would soon afterwards face a terrible and eventually mortal battle. Surprisingly, he soon heard the cries of Tory approaching him. He, like Rowan, was evading his foes by speedy flight and had so far avoided any direct combat, but Rowan could tell that the first mate was now quite tired. Now they had pursuers closing in on them from both ends of the shoreline. "Swim across the river, along with the girl!" Rowan begged the tired but brave sailor. "I can keep a good many of them at bay until you are both safe across the shore and in the shelter of the woods, delaying the time they could pursue you. If I can slay enough of them, perhaps none of the survivors will recall seeing your escape." "Always the young fool, my brave lad! No, I am quite done in and I shall avenge my dear sweet wife Beryl here and now, along the river she loved. They shall not drag me alive to their feasting! I shall make them trade a great many of their lives for my own, for my sword hand is certainly faster and more skilled than yours, although I wish that I had your better blade. No! You two go now, and I shall cover your escape while I can!" Still Rowan stood there by the mate's side and the wiry sailor shrugged and then he briefly considered the naked rescued girl, who was still holding the bloody long stabbing dagger with rather considerable confidence. "Girl! Get yourself into the water and start swimming! With just that small blade and no covering for your flesh, you will not last long! Rowan, get to my back that we might then protect each other for they are neigh upon us!" He barked. The rescued captive girl still did not make her escape, but instead she pushed her back together against the men's, so that she was between their shoulders forming a triangle of steel just as the fury of the first group of pursuing Boar-Men now caught up with them. She might have been naked and unarmored but she handled the relatively short blade in her hand with determination and quite a hint of long practiced skill. ************ There were two large groups each of about seven or eight Boar-men that converged on them from both sides of the shore, but they did not time or coordinate their attacks on the greatly outnumbered humans. This proved to be fortuitous, as Rowan was hard-pressed to defend both himself and the nearly defenseless girl at his side. "Stop worrying about me!" She muttered between clinched teeth, as her long thin stabbing dagger reached in to stab an over-confident warrior, right into its broad hairy chest. "I've danced this dance before... and without a burning sword in my hand either, so go put it to some good use! I can handle my own against these pig-fuckers!" Relieved that the rescued lady was not entirely defenseless, he did divert most of his attention now to the attack, and with quite heroic results. Tory, true to his earlier claims, was indeed well-proficient with his long slender sword, and he ducked, twisted, and lunged faster than Rowan's eyes could keep track of. Now that it was far too late, the lad wished that he had asked the mate for some swordsmanship instruction during some of the quieter, less busy times during the week that they had been together on The Lady Ellyn. An opportunity sadly lost that he vowed to not to repeat! He wielded a magical and potent weapon, it was true, but he had little of the skill to best utilize it. As the first wave lay dead or mortally wounded at their feet, several slightly larger groups of warriors began to converge upon them and for the next few minutes the trio was in rather acute danger. Only the fact that these creatures did not fight well as a group and did not coordinate their attacks saved them. The Boar-Men were larger and stronger creatures, but each of the trio was quicker and, except for Rowan, fought with far greater skill, not to mention far greater desperation. When the last pair of these terrors fell, spilling their life's-blood upon the wet muddy ground, Rowan knew that they couldn't hold out much longer. Tory's bloody hands were clutching his side which betrayed a rather deep spear wound that had penetrated to his vitals. Through his tightly clinched fingers, Rowan could see the mate's blood flowing quite freely and severely. The young lady had also taken several light cuts to her arms and ribs that also dribbled blood, albeit much more slowly. Rowan was fortunately mostly unharmed yet; his heavy protective leather shirt and vest had turned several similar strokes, leaving him with little other than bruises and scratches. Still, he knew that they had been rather lucky so far. Loud sounds of more hunting Boar-Men crashing in the woods to the north of them, and cries from large search parties on both of the other sides of the riverbank warned than even larger and perhaps more organized opposition was on its way, but for the moment they were alone. "Please Tory! We must now swim to safety at once! There are too many now coming for us to handle, we must escape while we can!" Rowan pleaded. "I think it is already too late for me, as already my strength weakens by the moment and my wound is too great for but a simple bandaging. My beloved Beryl beckons to me to join her in the Shadowlands and our reunion will not be long delayed. Go... swim away to safety, for you cannot save me, but I can indeed buy your safe passage for yet a brief while more. Go! I beg of you.... and I wish you well!" Rowan swallowed hard, but he nodded his head. Already the sailor had lost nearly too much blood and his face was already quite white with pain and loss of life's-blood. Yet his face showed determination and the will to carry on for yet awhile further. He would sell his life hard and a good many more Boar-Men would yet fall before his vitality was spent. With a final quick grasp of the mate's hand in farewell, Rowan grabbed the girl's hand and together they splashed into the river. If he had been alone, without the young lady to protect, he would never have abandoned the sailor, even at his very own request, but his life was not his alone to sacrifice. The river here near the island remained too shallow to swim, and they had to wade out for nearly a minute until it deepened enough so that they could begin to swim to the southern shore. As they began to swim, a great host of Boar-Men arrived and nearly at once Tory had become extremely sorely pressed. Even sorely weakened from his wound, he could still weave the dance of the sword finer than anyone Rowan had ever seen, but already his movements were slower and less assertive. Still Boar-Men continued to fall, but not without exacting further telling wounds of their own. As Rowan and his rescued damsel reached the mid-point in the river, he risked a final look backwards towards the island and watched the brave mate at last fall under a flurry of sword and spear blows from the dozen or more warriors that now surrounded him. True to his word, the sailor had fought quite to the death, and he would not be an unwilling sacrifice or living victual, to be tied or thrust upon a cooking spit. He had fought beyond any measure of bravery and had earned any reward that might follow him in the Shadowlands, reunited once again with his lover Beryl. ********** Still, the couple had not quite made as complete of an escape as they had hoped, as Rowan noticed that several Boar-Men were now looking in their direction and angrily waving their weapons. They had been seen and would be undoubtedly pursued shortly. "Swim for your life! Tory has fallen and now our flight has been discovered! They'll run to their boats now and chase us, without respite or mercy!" Rowan sputtered, as he gasped for breath. The young woman only grunted something with her face half in the water, but he thought she was indeed already swimming for her life, and she kept up with him stroke for stroke. Several minutes later they had reached the muddy shore of the southern shoreline swamp and they dragged themselves as quickly as they could into the dark cover of the treeline to rest, for but a moment, before their flight for life continued. Already, Rowan thought he could see a boat coming around the western corner of the island heading towards them. "We won't have much time." Rowan panted with fatigue. "We must lead the search parties away from my friends and the surviving townsmen to the east. We must try to guide them instead as far as possible away to the west, so that they do not suspect that our attack came from the east instead for the survivors there are few and cannot hope to survive against another full raid. We must speed away while we have the strength and then use guile and cunning to protect us after we tire, for our foes will never rest while on their chase! Still, before we flee once again for our lives, and I still have the breath to speak, I would know your name, fair lady. I am Rowan, formerly of Swansford village to the west, and appointed champion of the Lady Ayleth, daughter to the Duke." "Thank you for my rescue, Rowan! I am Gwenda, daughter to Cerem, a knight of Strook Valley, near the town of Strookcliff to the north-east of here. He was a large-holder in that mountain valley, and he, my brother and their few soldiers were overcome by a great war-band a few weeks ago. I escaped and made my way south and found that the great stone walls of Strookcliff had been breeched, and the city in flames. As was the walled fort of Osbridge further south where the river met the Emerald. The only available boat left then took us few survivors down-river to Silana... just in time for when that town was sacked as well. Rather than run, I stood with the townsmen there and fought until I was overpowered and taken. The rest, you know. I fear most of the Duchy holdings in the north are now lost, or soon will be. But enough! I owe you the rescue-debt, and it is a great one, but I can see another two war-canoes with grim angry warriors heading swiftly for us, and this soft ground will leave tracks that even the dimmest of them can follow. I have wind enough now to run for a time, let us use it, and create some distance between us and them, for you speak truly, that they will never rest in our pursuit until the trail is lost or too cold to follow!" As Gwenda was just a tad underdressed for a run through the thick green undergrowth of the river swamp, they delayed their escape just long enough more for Rowan to offer her his thin leather shirt, which did end up covering most of her important regions. She was a tall girl; nearly six feet tall even in her bare feet, only a few inches shorter than Rowan. She would have been the tallest girl in Swanford, and on nearly any other woman his shirt would have draped to their knees, but on Gwenda the shirttail rode down to only a few inches below her ass to just cover the tops of her thighs. Her lovely long legs were going to be scratched up in their escape, Rowan thought to himself as they began to run, but it couldn't at all be helped. ******** Off they ran, generally following the river downstream to the west, and taking no pains or time, to cover or obscure their path. While they did want to lead the approaching war-parties away from rescue party, only speed could help them right now until they had put their foes onto the wrong search path for as many miles as was possible. It was going to be a long, tiring, dangerously desperate day, fraught with peril! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 10 As they ran for awhile, Rowan wondered out loud, as much to himself as to Gwenda. "Do we need to leave a more obvious trail of our passage? I've heard that they are keen trackers, but I know nothing of them from any personal experience." The girl laughed and replied, "Their tracking skills are more than adequate to follow us here in this soft river mud, nearly indefinitely, without any assistance from us! Their eyes are not quite as keen as ours, but they can follow our scent nearly as well as any hunting dog, especially with our open wounds. In fact, unless we find some harder ground soon or risk a turn to the south to get away from the river, I'd be more concerned about not being able to lose them at all, when we turn back again east, to find your friends." Indeed, as they fled due west more or less following the river, the ground was muddy, swampy and heavily vegetated, and they continued to leave clear tracks behind them that even an untrained novice woodsman like Rowan could follow. The brush and thick vegetation was thick enough to also leave many other traces of their passage as well, not to mention the occasional drop or two of blood from their unbandaged wounds that continued to fall to the ground, or upon the bushes that they crashed through, making their scent trail nearly impossible to miss. After they had run for about three hours and only stopping for short breathers, the young couple was near exhausted. Rowan had been awake for nearly two full days now and the exhaustion of his hard night of rowing and then the fight on the island had already sapped his strength. Gwenda had also been none too well treated in her captivity and now hunger was severely weakened her every step. "It's too soon to rest or attempt to evade them here on this ground!" She muttered as she gasped for breath, her ribs feeling like they were on fire from both her minor wounds and her recent exertions. "We've gained a few minutes to rest but we cannot linger. They will be at most but a half-hour behind us and we can but only pray that they have not sent other canoes further downstream to cut off our escape route! This river marsh does us no favors as well... we must start looking for either a place to hide soon, or a deep enough stream or bayou that we can swim up into so that we can hide our scent long enough for us to bind our wounds and snatch a small rest!" Rowan nodded, and with great reluctance convinced his feet to once again start running. When their next hour of increasingly slower travel did not turn up any improvement in the terrain, they grudgingly agreed that they would have to start heading a bit more south. Taking a few minutes after their short rest that neither of them was certain that they could spare, they set about to make as much of a false trail straight west as they could briefly manage. But before turning back on the tracks again, Gwenda stopped to pick a few pieces of bark from a small tree and then she gathered a small handful of a silvery-yellow lichen that covered the rocks of a small freshwater stream. Pausing for a long drink there, put a bit of the tree bark into her mouth and began to chew, and bid Rowan to do the same. "This is culkar tree bark, when chewed it will give you some energy to keep going, even when exhausted, and it will help ease the pangs of hunger as well. Chew on this piece... yes it will be very bitter, and keep this other bit of bark for later when you again tire. This should keep us on our feet until at least dark, but when the stimulant wears off we will be but dead on our feet, so pray that we find shelter before that happens. Also, rub this river lichen all over our wounds, hard. It won't help them to heal any faster, but it will close them and reduce the bleeding and risk of infection, and hopefully also reduce the scent." Somewhat fortified by the tree bark, which did stimulate Rowan's feet to once again be able to run, they backtracked east for a few minutes so that they could follow a muddy shallow creek that flowed from the south. They took great care to stay in the middle of the creek and to not to touch anything near the shoreline, or even any of the fallen tree trunks that occasionally had fallen over the river. This was difficult to manage and it stole valuable time to carefully bypass these obstacles. They stopped often to listen for sounds of pursuit, but as Rowan's ears were a bit dull from years of pounding metal he had to rely on Gwenda's hearing, which fortunately seemed to be much more acute than his ever was. "I think I can hear them now, a ways away, following along our old trail west along the river. They might be tireless in the chase, but they show no stealth while hunting their game. We must press on, but let's look for a place where we might hide soon. Once they lose our main path they will undoubtedly spread out to seek out our new trail once again... and some will probably eventually find it, but at least we might face only a few rather than the entire large war-party at once!" Gwenda said unhappily, as she bit her lower lip in frustrated exhaustion. Rowan agreed. "With them so close and near our trail, it is too early yet to head east, so if a westward fork of this stream presents itself then we should take it. They will be more likely to follow us in that direction, but perhaps either a suitable hiding place can be found, or else we can trim down their numbers by arranging a quick ambush or two. They must divide their forces significantly and we might be able to seize an advantage." How they managed to at least keep to a trot for the next several hours amazed them. While the tree bark drug surged in their veins the seemed tireless, but now as the affect started to wear off, they soon became too exhausted to even speak when they finally stopped to take another rest. They had found another more westward stream and had taken that course for several miles, but they had not lost at least some of their pursuers. Now that Gwenda could stop to listen hard, she thought that if anything the group of Boar-Men following them were even a bit closer than before. She looked at Rowan and shrugged. "If we leave the creek they'll find the spot and if anything gain ground on us even faster. They will still be fresh, running with eagerness to corner us. As I see no more favorable land still yet before us, I would suggest that we find a suitable place to stage an ambush. If we can kill this small group that dogs our footsteps, we can buy time to rest and more carefully disguise our passage back to the east. Let's fight, now while we have the strength! Chew your last piece of bark, for we will need its strength even to lift our weapons, let alone run for our lives again, should we need to!" Rowan most heartily concurred. They now had enough of a rest to run for a few more exhausted minutes, and soon they thought they had come upon a fairly suitable place from which to attack their pursuers from. The stream had deepened a bit here and made a rather sharp bend around a rocky hill. The base of the hill, where it met the waterline, was quite weathered and there was a slight overhang right where the rock met the water. It was also deep enough there so that they could submerge hidden underwater and breathe from reeds. What also make this creek bend useful was that on the opposite side of the river bend from the hill, a great amount of river debris had washed up against the bank. All of this brush and small fallen trees had formed a fairly thick clump of decaying vegetation, very suitable and very obvious as a hiding place. With a nod and a pair of wane smiles, they splashed over to the large debris heap and rubbed their scent and added few scabbed over fresh blood traces over the pile of sticks, trees and brush, and then they returned to hide underneath the rock overhang underwater. They had each grabbed a handful of the lighter thicker debris to float under the overhang above them to disguise their breathing reeds and help obstruct the view of them crouched hidden underwater. Now, their preparations done, they waited and tried to rest and relax a little, to gain strength for a battle that they hoped that they wouldn't have to fight. With luck, their pursuers would find their scent and just continue further upstream. Otherwise, if the Boar-Men stopped at this creek bend and made a careful search for them in the nearby debris pile, then the couple would have to fight -- to strike first and hopefully seize the advantage while their foe was distracted. Bows would have been nice to have for this ambush, but they didn't have any. Rowan's sword and Gwenda's short stabbing dagger would have to do. The chewed bark was again giving him strength, but nothing like the mad surge of energy that he had felt before. At least now he had the strength to fight, he thought, but he feared that a few more hours from now he wouldn't even have the strength to crawl, let along run. Once these pursuers were evaded or slain, they would have to find a secure resting place! ************ They didn't have to wait too long. About fifteen minutes later they heard the Boar-Men approach just downstream from them and they hid themselves below the water in stillness to wait to see what would happen. Nearly from the start, the scent trail from the riverbank debris pile instantly caught the attention of the Boar-men, and looking at nothing else they all charged towards it, expecting to find their prey hiding inside under the cover of the rotting vegetation. When this proved not to be so, they were quite confused and they milled about for several minutes arguing amongst themselves about what to do. They were a fairly small band, a group of five, undoubtedly broken off from a larger search party that had split apart further downstream, nearer the river. The leadership of this group was uncertain, and each of the creatures seemed have different ideas about what should be done next. Neither Rowan or Gwenda understood their guttural language, but their gestures fairly plainly described their thoughts. At least one boarman wanted to return and report to their War-Chief, but another was equally determined that their foes were hidden around here somewhere nearby. Most of the rest apparently wanted to hastily continue the search further upstream, assuming that the humans had just rested here but had continued their flight. The argument was short and heated but in the end, four of the Boar-men continued upstream while one boarman, the one who had counseled to report back to their leaders, was turning around alone, to do just that. The last thing that the fleeing couple needed was any more war-parties of Boars-men, hot on their trail! The moment that Rowan thought that the other four searchers might out of sight, and perhaps hopefully out of hearing, he launched himself out of his hiding place and lumbered after the returning boarman as fast as he was able, and with Gwenda right behind him. The tree bark and the relatively longer rest had slightly restored them, and soon they could see the creature's back, just ahead of them. It was then that their ambush plan went all wrong. Later, they realized that with the wind more or less coming from the west, the boarman had caught their scent nearly from the moment that they had emerged from the water. Instead of Rowan giving the warrior a surprise with his sword, he himself was surprised to see the boarman suddenly spin around and hurl a short spear or javelin at them. Rowan easily dodged it, but it in fact had not been actually been aimed at him. Gwenda, too surprised to have much of chance to evade it, was struck by it soundly, and with a loud cry she fell backwards into the stream. Rowan heard her cry out but he couldn't risk taking even a moment to turn around to check on her, already the boarman, with a long belt knife in hand, was hurling himself at the lad. The fight was short and savage, and not altogether satisfactory for either of them. In three brief but savage seconds, Rowan had cut his foe into two with his irresistible sword, while with its last strength as it fell, the boarman had imbedded his dagger deep into Rowan's right upper thigh. Certain that his foe was now dead, Rowan slowly and sadly turned, expected to now see the lifeless skewered form of Gwenda, but instead he found that she lived. The javelin had entered into her high upon her upper left chest, near her shoulder. Her heart and lungs were safe, unpunctured. Still the wound was extremely deep and painful and there was a good bit of bright red blood flow as he removed the javelin from her flesh. Rowan's own wound, although deep, wasn't bleeding much and Gwenda stopped him from pulling the blade out. "Don't do that yet or you'll bleed like a stuck pig. I've got nothing to stitch the wound closed with and with every step you'll take you'll just bleed more. We're plenty fucked now! Even the stupidest boarman is going to have little trouble following our blood trail now! There's also enough blood in the river now to probably warn everyone downstream. We will need to take some serious risks if we are going to escape from this mess! Let's go back to the brush heap on the riverbank where we've already left some blood scent and let's try to bandage up these wounds the best we can!" Rowan's shirt that Gwenda had been wearing was now sacrificed to cut into bandaging strips as they carefully used the last of the lichen to treat and then tie up tight every wound and scratch that they both had. The long knife stayed imbedded into Rowan's leg but in the debris heap they found a stout branch that worked well as a crutch. Next Rowan's leather vest was sacrificed to make a pair of crude leather coverings for their feet, to slightly better disguise their tracks over land, and hopefully reduce a bit of their scent. This all took much longer than they considered safe to wait, until at last they decided that they must get going. Even with the crutch and Gwenda helping to support his weight, the short trip downstream to find a place where they could climb up onto the rocky hill was both slow and painful, but at least they were now on the shore where the ground was reasonably hard and they didn't appear to leave any tracks other than wet drippings on the stone, as they crossed around the side of the hill and finally out of sight from the stream. The ground here was harder and grassy and there was plenty of tree cover so that they could slowly move and carefully pick out their path. For now, they were safe, but they knew it wouldn't last and that they would need to put as many miles between themselves and the stream as they could, until exhaustion overtook them. ******** Despite the pain of their wounds, they kept to their feet all afternoon long. They never dared to stop even when both of them became dizzy from their extortions and the increasing throbbing of their injuries. Even when the final energy from the chewed tree bark was gone, they somehow stayed to their feet. Sometimes in the distance they heard Eorfleode hunting horns sounding from nearly every direction it seemed, except for the south, so that was the way that they headed. They feared that they were now being herded deliberately into a trap, but speed in their flight was no longer an option for them. Instead, as the early autumn evening drew closer, the thought of finding an acceptable hiding spot for the night grew paramount in their minds. Here, where they were now, there was no more rocky ground to help hide their tracks or their scent, instead they were back into a swampy area full of great mossy trees, with fetid green water always at least up to their knees and often their waists. As dusk grew, the sounds of hunting horns seemed to grow nearer and now could be heard from every direction around them. Gwenda, in a near delirium of exhaustion and pain, was certain that she could hear splashing in the swamp not even a hundred yards away from them. Rowan, equally weak and exhausted didn't argue, and they soon were forced to freeze in silence crouched behind the watery roots a very large swamp tree as they saw a single lone boarman splash his way off to their right, oblivious to them. The wind, which might have betrayed their scent, was now mercifully still and motionless. It was Gwenda, crouching down low with the enormous root branches of the great swamp tree, that noticed their best and possible only opportunity for a hiding place. "Rowan, look!" She whispered. "The tree is hollow here down on this side, below and just above the water where the root branches splay out widely. I think I can crawl inside!" Indeed she could. Rowan's bigger shoulders, not to mention the dagger still imbedded in his thigh, were a different matter, and even with Gwenda helping to pull him inside, it was a very tight and painful squeeze. As the water line was no more than a few inches below the cavity, this let very little of their breath or scent out of the tree, which had enough mold smell to also well cover their scent, especially when they rubbed some tree moss all over their exposed faces. In fact, they barely had space enough inside to keep their faces out of the water at all. Tightly packed together inside of the tree hollow and not at all even remotely comfortable, they nevertheless dozed from sheer exhaustion, and rested all of that long and perilous night and also much of the next day, until they could no longer hear the sounds of hunting horns. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of Boar-Men had tramped through this part of the swamp searching for them, but they had remained quite undetected. The hunting horns, when they occasionally still heard them, all now sounded from a distance to the west. "They have lost our trace here," she whispered, "and they will be searching for us to the west. I think we can now safely return east now, and perhaps we can risk removing that blade from your thigh and binding that wound! The time it has spent submerged in this sickly green swampy water will certainly do the wound no good! We are going to need to flee quickly to find your friends, before our wounds sicken and take fever!" Pulling that dagger from his thigh hurt nearly as much as when the boarman had thrust it in its very hilt. True to Gwenda's prediction, the large deep wound looked already off-color and sickly, and it was nearly impossible to close. The very last scraps of Rowan's shirt that she had been wearing was now used to rebandage all of their wounds, and now at last it was time to sacrifice Rowan's pants as well, to cut into strips to make new tight and relatively clean compresses for each of their still bleeding major wounds, and make another slightly sturdier pair of leather coverings for their bare feet. Once again, Gwenda was entire naked, but she didn't seem to notice this fact, or even much care when Rowan laughingly commented that he was enjoying the view once more. Rowan now himself was left to just a bare loincloth, and he offered to join Gwenda naked, if it would make her any more content. She just laughed. "No, you had better keep it on, what little there is of that cloth... it's not quite up to the task as it is of hiding the rather hefty things that are flapping around underneath it! Unfortunately, this is neither a good time nor place for a pleasant dalliance!" With his leg heavily bandaged and the dagger now removed, Rowan found that he was able to make slightly better speed through the swamp. Running was quite out of the question, so they just turned their heads away growing afternoon darkness and walked onwards to the east, resting only little when they absolutely had to. Each rest stop they made tended to make their wounds only stiffer and more painful to the touch, so that they hurt even more when they started up again. Eventually, they just rested by very slowly walking, even when they heartily desired to seat or even just throw themselves onto the ground in exhaustion. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 10 Even with Gwenda finding another culkar tree, the chewed tree bark this time provided them with little extra energy, but it did alleviate the pangs of hunger and eased a little bit off of the pain that they both felt. They tried to use the bark sparingly, but they were increasingly exhausted each evening. *********** After two days of slow walking, often in the rain and only very little rest at night, they thought that they had made it back somewhere near to, but a good ways south of the Boar-Man camp on Dead Tree Island. Occasionally now, they could hear horns at some considerable distance to their north, and sometimes answering horns called back from an even greater distance to the northwest. It appeared that the hunting parties were now returning home and that the search for them was over. At first they were encouraged that the southern riverbank might be deserted for now, but as they headed more northerly towards the riverbank, hoping to meet some of Rowan's friends, they instead nearly ran blindly into a large Boar-man patrol. Fortunately, they were downwind of them and the keen-nosed warriors didn't catch their scent as they hid in the swamp barely thirty yards away. Reluctantly, they again returned to a more south-eastern heading to be well away from their normal patrols. ******** As they slowly travelled east, the swampy ground was becoming dryer, even turning into grass and forestland here in parts. They risked taking longer daytime breaks and they decided to even dare to take a long rest for that night, as they felt that they were now too weak and tired to fight, even if they ran in any further patrols. This area, although a good ways now south-east from the island was not quite entirely safe they feared, and they although their wounds were clearly beginning to fester from ill-treatment, they didn't quite dare take the risk of running into an Eorfleode war-band at night, when the Boar-Men would have the keener eyes. Although they saw no traces of any of the night-goers that day, twice they crossed grass paths where the leather boots of many hundreds of Eorfleode had traveled further south. Clearly this was not just a localized series of raids by just a few tribes, but that something or someone had united all of the Brittle Mountain tribes under a single banner or cause. If the Duke didn't realize now that he had a real war on his hands, then soon he'd find an entire army of Boar-men camped outside of his castle and the entire Duchy left in ruins! *************** When darkness fell, the pair was so exhausted and ill from their throbbing inflamed wounded, that they just dropped behind the first large tree that offered a slight umbrella from the ongoing rain, and where the grassy ground was on enough of a hill to keep them out of rain puddles during their rest, but sleep would not come. "I haven't been this weary since I was a young apprentice just learning how to beat iron with a hammer from dawn until dusk!" Rowan quietly laughed and tried to find a position where he could place his throbbing wounded thigh where it wouldn't quite hurt as much, but to little avail. "I've never been this tired before at all... I'm so tired that I can't get comfortable enough to rest, let along sleep. If you don't object, may I snuggle up close in your arms? For the warmth, such as there is for our bare wet bodies and perhaps a bit of comfort. Even now days later, I have not yet quite lost the terror and dread that I felt while waiting to become a sacrifice to their bloodthirsty God." Rowan lifted up his arm so that she could scoot over against him and he gently placed his arm around her bare hip and waist to gently hold her, careful not to touch near her wounded and now quite angry and swollen looking left shoulder. There was no treatment comfort for it that he could offer, and in fact his own thigh wound looked even more inflamed and unhealthy. She wiggled up even closer against him, her full breasts and elongated nipples now fully pressed against his chest. Oddly, for the first time since her rescue, his mind now started to think of her as a woman, a young beautiful and very sexually attractive one. Their noses were now nearly pressed together and oddly all that Rowan could think of now was that he wanted to kiss her, to comfort and reassure her, but he thought this would only be taking advantage of her, not the proper thing that a would-be hero should do... debauching a maiden that he had just barely rescued, and not even quite restored to safety yet. His penis had a different opinion, and when he felt her left hand slowly caress up his upper thigh to rest underneath his ragged wet loincloth, her hands gently found and caressed his balls. Then to her amusement she found that his cock was already at least half erect. When she then wrapped her hand tightly around his shaft, and it soon became quite fully engorged in her fingers. With a little peck on his check, Gwenda giggled. "Well, neither one of us will get any sleep with that poking against me! I do certainly owe you a great rescue-debt, and this little service would be but an extremely trivial repayment!" At first Rowan thought that Gwenda would just masturbate him, but in fact her wounded shoulder gave her hand little strength for that sort of erotic task. Instead she just slunk her head down upon his stomach and inched her way down slowly so that soon she could finally lick his cockhead, but she didn't stop there. Further and further down she crept, taking him now fully into her mouth. With each little adjustment downwards she was able to take another inch of two of him deeper into her mouth. Soon, her lips and nose were nearly right against his public hair and with a single adjustment of her jaws and a clearing of her throat, she slid his cock all the way into her throat until her mouth was pressed fully against the base of the shaft and her tongue wiggled for a moment against his balls, then she began to suck him in earnest. Neither Cedany or Arila had ever taken all of his cock completely into their mouths ever before, but Gwenda had managed this feat with but little effort, and with a single try. Clearly her throat opening was quite a match for the length and width of this cock and she had no trouble whatsoever taking his cock there as deeply as it would go, even deeper and well into her throat. With two hands gently wrapped around his balls, she now repeatedly took his entirely shaft from its very tip to the very base, far past her lips and tongue, and loudly and wetly sucked him a way that no other lover had done for him before. When he grunted that he was about to cum, she just forced him ever deeper into her throat and that is where he ejaculated his load, with her nose pressed flat against his pubic bone, and her lips, tongue and fingers all caressing his balls, as she gently coaxed and squeezed every drop of cum out of them. Holding her breath seemingly forever, she just quietly held him there deeply inside of her, until the very last semen drops had oozed out of him into her throat, and his shaft began to slowly relax and shrink until she could caress his cockhead with her tongue once more. Once finally out of her mouth, she took to the time to make sure that she'd licked every final drop of cum from his cockhead, and his balls too, to make sure nothing had been missed anywhere. "There! Now that should relax you enough to sleep! If I might say so, you're a good bit larger than any of my former playmates, and there are more than a few other rather fun things that we ought to be doing, if we were in but a bit better shape to enjoy or appreciate the encounter! I also think that your poor ragged loincloth was quite reached the end of its useful service, and I would not be in the least offended to watch just a bit more of you on display on the morrow!" Their noses now quite together, the kiss that followed was unavoidable and yet utterly delicious to Rowan. Cedany had been a wonderful kisser, tender and full of genuine affection, but this kiss, and the rather many that followed, were passionate and boldly erotic and warmed him to his very toes. He had certainly never kissed Arila with sort of passion and by the time their mouths and tongues disengaged after what seemed to be an hour of more of fervent kissing, he found that his cock was once again rock hard solid. With an aggressive hold, Gwenda gently rolled Rowan onto his back and very carefully climbed onto this stomach so that she could more easily stoke him with her uninjured right arm. "I don't think either my shoulder or your leg are quite up to you taking me in any other more intimate or interesting place, so let's try this!" With that, she gently stroked him with her good hand until he was nicely hard again, and then she began to lick around the sensitive underside of his cockhead with her tongue while she stoked his shaft increasingly firmly and swiftly with skill and enthusiasm that none of his previous sexual partners could even begin to replicate. Sooner than he ever thought was possible, he was quite ready to cum again, and with a surprising intensity that astonished him. Gwenda took his first spurt of milky semen just inside of her mouth so that it could cover her tongue, but she quickly then popped him out of her mouth so that the remainder of his still copious discharge splattered all over her mouth, lips, nose and cheeks. Ensuring that every single drop would be hers, she gently then rubbed his softening penis across her face so that the final seeping flow of his ejaculation met her skin, and she was in no hurry at all to either lick it all off or to rub it instead into her smooth skin. Instead she just gave his spent shaft a kiss and snuggled up closer to Rowan's side. Still sleep would not come to either of them, and slowly they began to talk, as now both old friends and lovers. ********** During the long night, Rowan began to tell Gwenda of his life in Swanford and of the terrible day by the pavilion that had changed his life forever. He mentioned the quest that he and his companions were now on, and he spoke of his rather peculiar relationship with the troublesome ducal daughter, the Lady Ayleth. She in turn, told him of her former life with her father and slightly younger brother, in their holding at Skeling Meadows, still a few days upriver and to the north in a mountain valley in the Great Yarmouth Pass. Both had fallen when their small keep had been overrun, but not before Gwenda had ridden off to safety along with several of the female servants. They had arrived at Silana barely a day before it in turn was sacked, her servants were now all casualties of the Boar-Man. She was now alone and without any immediate family or protectors. She had an uncle in Corælyn that she though she could appeal to for assistance, and at once Rowan offered her his protection-vow, until they reached there. At length, and little before the first light of dawn in an otherwise miserable, cloudy and rain soggy sky, Gwenda by use of her experienced and rather talented fingers alone, brought Rowan to yet another orgasm. This time she let his discharge run over and coat her slender but muscular fingers, and she loudly licked and cleaned each one with noisy enthusiasm. She had masturbated herself a few times during the night, giving herself couple of smaller orgasms. Twice she refused his offer to either use his own fingers, or better yet his tongue, to bring her pleasure, but she gently declined. This was not the time or the place she wanted for their first proper bout of lovemaking. Otherwise, she kept herself aroused while rubbing her rather large sized clit against him during their long night intertwined together, and he quite clearly got the distinct impression that under better circumstances she would have greatly preferred a yet more intimate intertwining together. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 11 Despite their lack of proper rest, they started off again right at the very first crack of light and made a decent amount of relatively swift progress on the dryer grassy ground before the skies fully unloaded upon them. The rain soon got so hard that they could barely see ten yards in the woods ahead of them, so they risked a more dangerous but open path across several meadows to speed their course. Driven slightly south, to avoid a large hill that Gwenda feared had an Eorfleode watchpost on it that guarded one of their army routes south, they found a relatively swiftly moving stream that followed their desired route nearly due east. But where did it go? At length Gwenda thought that it must merge into the large Elm River, which ought not to be too far ahead. Once at the river, they could turn north upstream to easily find the ruined town of Silana, and to soon be hopefully reunited with his friends. Following the stream appeared to be quite a simple plan until the waters began to rush considerably faster, now swollen by the heavy autumn rainstorm as warm humid air from the Great Western Sea now meet colder air now coming south. They tried to follow what little of the stream bank they could that was level and smooth, but they were nearly washed into the rushing currents at least twice, until Rowan, dizzy with fatigue and his festering leg that could no longer bear his weight, fell right into the current entirely. With but a moments hesitation, Gwenda, who was just in front of him on the path, leaped in as well to join him, and they grasped hands tightly so that they would not be separated by the increasingly faster flowing, and deeper stream. They worried about possible rocky rapids ahead, but for here at least the water was deep enough that they were being carried quite rapidly and smoothly away. Able to keep their heads mostly above water, the two decided that at least for the moment, they were making a much more rapid progress this way, albeit in a rather more dangerous manner. ********* Just when the flowing stream slowed enough for the couple to consider swimming over towards the shore, they passed through a turn in the stream and now found themselves suddenly in the much deeper and even faster flowing water of what must undoubtedly be the Elm River. The current bore them quickly, every minute taking them a bit closer to their destination, but the waters were choppier and rougher here, and it was harder to stay held fast together against the whims of the river current. Slowly, they began to work themselves to the eastern shores of the river and after about an hour they began a very precarious climb up the muddy and very slippery riverbank. With every weary step, they nearly lost their footing to slide back down to the mercies of the raging river once more, but finally they climbed up some reasonable stable flat grassland along the shore. Exhausted and unable to move another step, they hid themselves in the tall river grass to weakly laugh at their lucky escape and to rest just a bit more for the final walk north to the relative safety of the sacked town. "I feel like a half-drowned river rat!" She laughed "And I feel like I've been greeted by angels sent to carry me across the border to the Shadowlands!" A weak but not unfriendly strange voice said from the hidden depths of the tall grass, not twenty yards away from them. "You must be angels sent to come gather me, or else my fading eyes hallucinate and see a naked couple fresh from a river-frolic, in the worst possible weather." Rowan and Gwenda grasped hands for a moment and drew their weapons in protection. Rowan's sword did not flame with anger or peril, and his companion drew her long stabbing dagger and the shorter knife that had wounded Rowan's leg in each of her hands. Together they searched through the grass until they found the near bloodless and wraith-pale form of the former Sergeant Worrel, still lying in a dried pool of blood where he had fallen, when his former traitor in crime had dumped him after running him through nearly a week ago. Although Rowan and Gwenda knew nothing of the former bodyguard's treachery, the direly wounded Sergeant made no effort to conceal his crimes. Apparently he had done a good bit of repenting while he lay helpless and slowly dying by inches from his mortal wounds. "Aye, my old commander led me false in wickedness and then he betrayed me too, but those lads were not the first throats that I had slit in the dark for the sake of some sweet silver! It will go hard on me for my crimes in the Shadowlands... of that I have no doubt or fear! I'd ask you for but a sip or two of wine to sweeten my mouth for my passage but it seems that you two have but barely escaped with only your very skins! It appears young Rowan, that you are indeed now quite a hero of note and we all indeed much misjudged you. So then, the rescue party was successful then?" "If the loss of one life weights well against the rescue of more than a dozen, then I would say 'yes', and the rest of the raiders should have returned back to the ruins of the town quite safely some time ago. In my rescue of this young lady, I became quite separated and we had to take a different and rather difficult path towards home." "Difficult indeed, I can see and even smell your wounds. Already they are turning ill from hardship and ill-treatment, and the wound-fever is full upon you both! If you can lift my back and head up against that nearby tree, I believe I have yet strength enough to clean out and stitch those wounds. As a trained soldier and a veteran of several campaigns, I always keep my medicine kit on my belt, to have needle and gut at hand for immediate and ready use. Indeed, this wasn't the first time I've had to stitch up my stomach to keep my guts from falling out! I've already given them quite a few stitches as well, but before I was done I'd lost too much blood and strength to even crawl. A deep belly wound is always tricky. Three out of four men with that wound die, even if a good camp surgeon or medicus is at hand, and over the years I've learned near every trick that they know! Wounded out here, away from help for many days, my own chances will be much slimmer, but I would like some river water to wet my mouth full before you leave me to my eventual but very certain fate." They got the Sergeant his water, but from a clean pool of rainwater rather than the muddy torrent that was the river below. Then propped up carefully against the tree, the crusty old veteran put gut thread to his needle, and together the three of them carefully attended to the young couple's wounds with the last good clean bits of his clean linen wound patches from his aid-kit. "Already corruption infects both of you deeply and if you're not safely in the hands of a very good healer by tomorrow, the blood poisoning will likely take the pair of you! Wave me goodbye and get quickly then on your way! The town is little over two hours ride to the north along the river and if you walk hard and fast you can be there by dark tonight. You can come back for my bones later... I'll still be right here!" Instead, unwilling to leave the treasonous but repentant soldier, Rowan cut a pair of long poles from two young sapling trees and using the Sergeant's heavy leather coat and trousers, they formed a rough stretcher that would support his weight even with some rough handling. Each of the young couple then took a hold of a front pole and together they began to drag the direly wounded man along behind them, with his boots and the bottom pole ends scraping the mud and grass as they doggedly pushed onwards, to the north and to safety. ********** They had to stop to rest all too often to catch their breath and rest their arms, as Rowan found that his great strength had nearly entirely now failed him. With Gwenda's wounded and dangerously inflamed shoulder, she could only use a single arm to assist Rowan, and more and more he had to assume the full weight of both stretcher poles on their crude travois. Somehow they stumbled along. With his eyes now closed from the tears of pain that even chewed tree bark wouldn't dull, and Gwenda gently guiding his path, he willed his dreadfully infected leg to keep moving, if even for a few inches at a time, to ignore the awful pain to keep pulling the wounded Sergeant yet another hundred or so feet ahead at a time before he would have to stop for yet another and increasingly longer rest break, when he became overcome by his weariness and excruciating pain. Gwenda helped the best she could to pull even a bit of their burden, and she clung to him to help support her lover's increasingly weak and near useless leg as they shuffled along well after dark. The night was quite black, the darkest night that he could ever remember yet in his travels, but he trusted Gwenda to lead him yet onward along the riverbank, and to avoid their falling down over the slight embankment back into the river. Theirs was a world of uncounted moments of near insufferable pain and abject misery, but they knew that if they stopped to take any sort of proper rest that night that the Sergeant might die before reached help. They also were now both too feverish from their wounds, and without Gwenda by his side, Rowan feared that he would have given up and collapsed quite a long time earlier, but somehow she found the means to encourage him to take one more another step, and then yet another forward. ********* How Rowan dragged himself and his exhausted companions through the burned wooden gate into the ruined town and into the astonished and welcoming hands of his friends and the town's survivors, he never quite knew. For the last hour of that fateful death-march in the early hours of the morning, he felt that they had walked with but one foot left in the real world while their other foot had treading across the border into the Shadowlands. Oddly, it was the Lady Ayleth who ran first into Rowan's arms, outracing his frantically worried pal Boyle to lend him an arm as the wounded couple staggered their final steps into the town, and then utterly collapsed, surrendering themselves to the internal fires of their wound-fevers. Rowan wanely smiled, and clutched Gwenda's feverish hand and squeezed it with the very last of his strength as he closed his eyes, seeing with blurred and tearful eyes, Oddtus, the Lore-Master now kneeling by his side. They had made it! With everyone still alive and the last of the rescue trip now over and successful, Rowan thought contently, as he fell into a coma-like delirium, but with Gwenda's hand still tightly held in his. He thought for a moment that he felt a soft hand stroking his head and hair, biding him to rest, and for a moment he thought for certain that he was once again near the border of the Shadowlands, now reunited once more with his former love Cedany, but in his feverish dream she shook her head at him and bade him to return to the land of the living, once again without her. "Your oath!" Her spectral voice whispered to his ears as he awoke with a start, to find Gwenda sitting right by his bedside, running her hands and long fingers gently through his hair. Seated on a chair nearby was the gaunt form of the Lady Ayleth, who suddenly now arose and fled from the room once she realized that Rowan had now his eyes open and that had seen her. "I see you've met her august Ladyship." Rowan whispered to her in a scratchy throat, and with a faint smile. Gwenda laughed. "Oh, I'd met her before in court some years ago, with my father when we travelled once to Tellismere to discuss frontier fortifications that her father had no absolutely intention of paying for. She was a sly devil and more than a bit of a manipulative cunt even then before she'd grown tits. Maybe she's improved... a very tiny wee little bit. She blames herself for your injury, and well she should! You'd told me about the nasty little trick she'd played to launch this rescue mission in the first place, and it wasn't until later that the stupid twat had realized exactly what she'd done, from her cleverness. She's been here alone for nearly a week, scared out of her mind that she's fucked nearly everything up. I let her know in rather clear and uncertain terms that I agreed exactly with that assessment, and told her get her noble head out of her ducal ass, and to start acting like a proper Duke's daughter, allegedly someone who was born to command... ha ha! She's sort of speaking to me now, but she still has that scared deer look to her. I think she wants and intends to apologize to you, eventually... but the idea of admitting that she had screwed up is still confusing enough to her that to actually apologize for it might cause her to have a most unlady-like nervous breakdown, so don't push for it... at least for right now." "How is your shoulder? It's... different, seeing you in clothes. Was that dress from Ayleth? It's pretty and it quite becomes you... especially your eyes." "My shoulder is healing at last and it probably now itches more than it hurts. Whatever your gléaman friend put into it stopped the blood-fever fast, and cleaned the wound out nicely. Same as he did for your dreadful leg wound, although he's slightly worried that it might never heal back all the way completely. He thinks that when you get old it will go a bit lame on you, but for now it should be fine. The dress belonged to an older daughter, now lost, of one of the townsfolk. They have all been rather kind to me, and have offered me my choice of anything that I could use. The silk is indeed lovely, and I would like to wear it again for you at a kinder pleasanter time, if long enough for you to slide it off of my shoulders and onto a bedroom floor. Alas, but for now, while we remain in danger, I would rather be outfitted in some good leathers with a war-belt around these hips rather than this womanly sash. This is no time to pick or enjoy the scent of flowers; it is the equally delicate arts of war that yet call to me and I must be ready. Now that I know you will be well, I shall now gird myself more accordingly, for we shall fight together at each other's side for some great time yet to come, I do fear, until we have occasion for some gentler moments together. Commonly born or not, you are among the very best of men, and you live with honor. The Weaver's guide your path and I would have learn much more of you and remain ever-present by your side in war and in peace, until my rescue-debt can be repaid... if ever." Gwenda gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and then a rather much less chaste open-mouthed kiss before she left his side and the room. Rowan caught the Lady Ayleth peeking around the doorway, watching them together with a combination of surprise and not a little obvious displeasure. Was she jealous of Gwenda's very apparent attachment to him? She had not seen the lad kiss any other woman during their time together, nor had Rowan ever engaged in any love-play or even flirtment with any of the three lady sailors on board The Lady Ellyn, unlike the more romantically audacious Boyle. She hadn't acted particularly jealous of that singular encounter, but then again Boyle was not her appointed Champion and now nearly her sole remaining protector either. Upon his return from the raid, Boyle had stayed fast by her side ever since, to protect her until Rowan's return, and he and the Foole alone had never given up hope that the plucky lad would indeed come back. Confused, but yet amused, Rowan closed his eyes to rest for awhile before his eager and concerned friend Boyle came bounding in to check on him. He informed his injured friend that all of the raiding canoe members, along with their rescued townsfolk, had returned safely and swiftly back at the town. Boyle had then reported to the tearful Lady that her Champion appeared to be mostly safe and sound and would undoubtedly be delayed leading the angry and vengeful Eorfleode well way from the rescue party. From that point, it was just many days of increasingly anxious waiting and anticipation until his return. They had not expected for him to make such a dangerous journey, and everyone was greatly disturbed by his reports of so many different large Boar-men tribes all generally heading south, to the largely unprotected valleys of central and eastern Tellismere, and even to the unguarded border with Broadmore. ********** Their discovery of the critically wounded treasonous sergeant was another wrinkle that no one had expected or planned for. The Lady Ayleth was all for a swift hanging, already a day or two overdue in her opinion, but the Foole had counseled for patience. Worrel was still in recover and not yet able to speak a word in his defense. To hang the man in such circumstances would not be justice, the Lore-Master convincingly argued, and he secured a delay for the execution of his death sentence until he could be able make at least some token words in his own defense. The Oddtus had complimented Worrel's wound stitching, and once Rowan and Gwenda were both out of danger, the Histrio cleaned out and restitched up these belly wounds as well. No one gave him any sort of odds to see the dawn after they had arrived so late that night, but the old bastard was tough and clung to life, day after day. "Oddtus says that he'll live... until the Lady Ayleth gives the order to have him hanged. He's a hard man, but as he helped save your life enough to allow you to reach us, I would be rather loath to see his own life be taken in turn, even in justice for his crimes." Boyle earnestly stated, and Rowan, in principle, agreed. *********** Rowan lingered mostly in bed for the next two days while his leg healed and the last of the fever went away, but Oddtus showed no object to the lad taking a few short shuffling walks with Gwenda. True to her ambition and word, she had neatly outfitted herself in a pair of sturdy leathers and she now wore a proper sword at her right side. The long stabbing dagger that had so effectively wielded during their escape was now in a small leather sheath on the left side of her war-belt. Another pair of smaller throwing daggers appeared to be stuck in each of her tall boots. The comfort with which she walked, while so fortified, indicated to him that she was well used to being armed, and that she could now put up a more suitable defense for herself the next time they found themselves in danger. Rowan didn't doubt in the slightest that she had another dagger or two further hidden away, ready for any emergency. Indeed, nearly her foremost act on their short walk that first morning was to begin to instruct Rowan in the proper and correct use of his mighty sword. "Look my brave handsome young fool! You've got a divine sword by your side that could probably slay half of the Eorfleode armies single-handed, if you could just learn to wield it properly. I was in frantic fear for you just watching you fight in every single battle we faced! You waved that blade around like a blunt piece of red-hot metal straight from a forge! I know... you're just a young smith stuck in a desperate situation, without a lick of any proper training, and now frantically learning things as you go along. But now it's time that you learned to use that pig-sticker properly! I've sat and watched my father train my younger brother for countless thousands of hours, and fenced against them both often in practice. The women of Great Yarmouth Pass are not the sort to cringe behind their men, quivering in their skirts! Give me but a week, and I'll at least keep you from nearly cutting off your own nose, or worse yet, mine, with your wild but enthusiastic swings!" Rowan did have a lot to learn! In fact, he spent the first two days of his formal instruction 'unlearning' virtually everything that he had taught himself so far. Even the way he held his sword was quite wrong. For the next two days they practiced for at least an hour every early morning and then again every afternoon, in addition to participating in the archery practice that the sailors continued to hold each evening. Rowan was becoming a tolerable shot with a bow, but Gwenda proved herself to be an absolutely deadly archer and she could hit a fist sized target easily nearly every time at a hundred paces. With a bit of digging in the ruins of the old guardhouse, she added a serviceable bow and a rather overstuffed quiver of arrows to her gear. Another large bundle of arrows was wrapped up into her camp blanket, and tied to her pack, ready for their hopefully soon departure from the ruined town. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 11 ********* With patience that surprised the both of them, by the time that the treasonous sergeant was on his feet and ready for trial, he had learned enough to become a marginally acceptable swordsman. Rowan had now been taught some minimal basic skills and could now launch simple, but effective attacks along with a few protective guard movements. With time, and growing confidence, they were both sure that someday his skills might almost match the quality of his weapon. ************** "Sergeant Worrel, formerly of my bodyguard, sworn in service to both myself and my father, Emdyn de Mosena, Duke of Tellismere, how do you plead to the charge of four counts of murder and of high treason to my personage?" The Lady Ayleth asked, as the formalities of the ad-hoc court came into session. Her Ladyship had demanded to be allowed to assume the duties of both the prosecutor and judge, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that the defense counsel, the Lore-Master Oddtus, made her see the folly of that course, if the trial was to be a lawful and just one. Grudging, she accepted that Coryn, the ship's captain was better suited to being the judge, and despite the murder of the young lady sailor Brenga, he swore an oath that he would judge the merits of the case impartially and without letting anger rule his judgment. "For the accounts of three murders, and the treason, I do doth swear my complete and utter unpardonable guilt!" Worrel loudly replied, with his head held up high as he stood to confess to his crimes. "Except for the murder of the young lady Brenga, of which I had no knowledge or involvement. My hands are quite bloodstained enough, and I freely admit my guilt without reservation otherwise. I shall not even beg this court, or my accusers or judge, for mercy... but I shall willingly accept my pre-ordained fate." The crowd of townsmen and the remaining sailors were quite astonished by this admission, and they quietly respected the fact that the old soldier had stood steadfast and had not wavered in the slightest from taking the responsibility for his crimes. His defense advocate, the Foole, was not yet ready to abandon his client, and in fact he now spoke eloquently in his defense. "Honorable Lady, is it true that this yon miserable soldier has shed blood on your behalf, that he took two wounds on-board ship in your defense?" "He has done so." She admitted cautiously, unsure as to what ends the Foole was leading her. "As a member of my bodyguard, that is indeed his sworn purpose and function, in fact it is his mortal duty." "Quite so, but once blood had been shed on your behalf, is there not another duty that you yourself bear, in return to him? To see to his needs; to not necessarily tend to his wounds yourself, but to acknowledge them and respect that they were received in your defense and, at minimum, bestow your thanks and appreciation? Can you tell this court and the defendant, that you indeed returned your obligation to your wounded servant? I suggest instead, and quite to the contrary, that you spoke no words at all of either praise or comfort to any of your guardians, thus breaking an even more sacred bound; specifically the oaths and loyalties of blood. By some definitions, particular the older ones, any blood-oath or oath of fealty, loyalty or honor you might have been due, were instead violated and rendered null at the first, by your indifference to your guards care and welfare. By your distain for his wounds suffered in your name, any and all oaths to you, by law, were rendered null and void. Thus no possible treason could have occurred afterwards, as he never laid his hands, or his blade, upon your personage. Can you make oath otherwise?" Indeed, the Lady was quite aghast that she could think of no action, even minimal or token, that she had spoken or performed to any of her guards during or after the battle. Now she understood where the clever gléaman was going with his argument, and she had no ready rebuttal or defense that would not make her appear even more indifferent or petty. She held her tongue and bowed her head a little in shame. "As there is not any counter-argument, nor oath spoken from the defense witness, we petition the judge that he must drop the charge of treason from the prisoner's moral account." Captain Coryn agreed, and the startled audience soon quieted down so that the Lore-Master could continue with his defense. "As to the counts of murder, the defendant does plead guilty to the deaths of his three guardsmen, done under the orders of his then lawful superior officer, but we shall make no use of that particular defense! The crime was done, and only the further betrayal by Lieutenant Rothale prevented this man from potentially benefiting from these crimes. This betrayal by his partner in crime, caused a terrible gut wound that nearly all men would have shortly fell mortal victim to, but instead Worrel lived. He lived on, alone in darkness and increasing terrible and excruciating pain that only redoubled his misery as the days wore on, lying helpless in a tall grassy field, slowly awaiting his certain judgment in the Shadowlands. But still he lived! Did the Weaver's have yet a plan for him -- to assist our heroic couple in their perilous return to us? Or is the Sergeant just a tough old bird. Perhaps both! But live he did, until everyone had been safely returned to their friends and companions! Then, nearly indeed did he allow himself to succumb to his dreadful and certainly virtually mortal wounds... but at the very gates of death, still he lived, or rather, was life restored as a gift by the guardians of the gates to the Shadowlands, who did not accept his passage! His judgment there declined and postponed. Lady, I ask you as you were a witness by his deathbed, to make oath! How long did his heart stop and for long did he no longer take breath?" Ayleth clinched her lips tightly, certain that she was again to be outfoxed by the wily Foole, but she was sworn to answer. "He was indeed dead to all, and I saw you beat his on chest to force his heart to beat blood, and you also blew air into his mouth hard for several minutes to try and restore him, in vain. It was four minutes, perhaps five until he again breathed, entirely on his own, and was returned to the realm of the living." She said, again quite uncertain as to what case for mercy the Foole was making. "I too was present and agree with the Lady's account of the passage of time, except to suggest that perhaps at least a full five minutes or more was the more correct measure of time that the accused passed to the border between the living and the spirit world." Boyle stated, offering his hand in truth-oath, and the Histrio nodded to each of them. "Indeed. The Sergeant was quite at the gates to the Shadowlands, perhaps closer to them than any mortal man I've yet know, except for a lad that had once nearly drowned in a frozen river, including our trouble-finding young Champion, Rowan here." Oddtus said with a smile become continuing. "I submit that he was rejected by the gatekeepers of the Shadowlands, and released from their judgment because his time was not yet done in this world, and that perhaps some further and future good might yet repay the murder-debt owed. As these three murdered men were all without kin or family, it is to the Duke that his geld-debt must fall. He must make payment or offer service to cleanse this debt. As he has no coin, a victim, as Her Ladyship herself was, of Rothale's thefts, should he be able to offer service in geld-payment in the future, would you accept it?" "No, I would not!" She said, hoping that his would be the end of this tiresome trial that didn't seem to be at all going the way she had intended. "Then, I submit that we request the judge, jointly accepted by us to arbitrate, to set the mount of geld due to the Duchy, to be give to the Lady, in her father's name in payment for the blood debt to the dead." Now trapped, the Lady suddenly discovered that by the very rules of the law, she would be forced to accept the judges ruling, and the offered geld payment, or at least until she could return home to the Ducal court to arrange a more suitable appeal of the verdict later. If she had proposed an outrageous geld, then the Foole would have been honor bound to accept it for his defendant, but since she had bluntly rejected payment herself, in her father's name, then the judge could and did set the death-geld. The final verdict was now simple, and swiftly commanded, for there was much commonly known legal precedent. The sum of a pound and half of silver was named, the appropriate amount in total for the felonious deaths of the veteran guardsman, and Oddtus produced that very amount in gold from his ever-present purse and handed it to the astonished Lady. Boyle and Rowan were agog with disbelief, as it was the first and only time that they had ever seen the gléaman reach into his own purse for any expense, no matter how trivial! "The geld price is paid in full!" He announced, and everyone nodded in agreement, witnessing the transaction. Then to the astonished Sergeant, he said, "I have paid your geld-debt, and as such by custom, your service now belongs to me until such a time as you can pay back the debt in triplicate. This is the law! Although you are of near middle years, of about thirty or so, you have some skills and abilities that I shall find most useful, but perhaps not normally involving the cutting of throats in darkness... a skilled act that I've needed to perform a time or two in my own life. I shall take you as my apprentice, to learn to be solely a Histrio and medicus, to learn other acts of lore beyond your skilled stitching of deep internal wounds. It is possible that your lips might be pleasant enough for song and story, to become a tolerable gléaman, or your hands might suit the acts of juggling or acrobatics, to become a suitable joculator, or perhaps your fingers are suited to the playing the thousand tunes of a minstrel, as well, but I shall not force you to those duties if you have not the aptitude. Until such time as you become a master in any of these new crafts, or your geld-debt is repaid thrice over, I shall become your new master. Do you accept these terms?" The former Sergeant was confused at this turn of events, but after a moment's thought he bowed his head and bent a knee to his new master. The Lady Ayleth stormed off in a volcanic fury; lividly angry that her will had been so completely and utterly thwarted. ******* Also in accordance with old folk custom, as a man who had touched the very gateway to the Shadowlands, Worrel later that night burned all of his own clothing and gave all of the rest of his meager possessions away until he owned nothing whatsoever from his previous life. Then naked by the fire, he ceremonially burned away his old name and his old life, and became a newly reborn man, according to the ritual of the old custom. The old Sergeant Worrel was now gone; dead in his heart and soul, and to the words of men. In his place stood a mature but eager new apprentice named Ashburn, a man who had sworn to leave murder and treachery behind him with his old life, and now was reborn anew in the ashes. This transformation was accepted by virtually everyone, except for the Lady Ayleth who had much returned to her previous ill-tempered ways, and was giving everyone around her a taste of her growing ill-humor. ********* With the wounded all now mostly healed, or at least well enough now to safely travel, it was now time to make a decision that everyone had been putting off while waiting for Rowan's return; in which direction should they next head The Lady Ellyn; either further upstream to almost certain further danger from hordes of Boar-Men, now crossing the Emerald River in vast numbers, or to take the rain swollen Elm River now south to the great walled town of Elmcrygh. Rowan and Gwenda had seen a great many large war-party tracks heading south during their escape, and they greatly wanted to attempt to warn the important trade town of the approaching danger, if there was even still time. Others were instead greatly fearful that sailing along the river they would soon meet some or most of those invading warriors in a fight that they probably couldn't win. Either way, acute danger would likely shadow them on either path they could take. In the end, everyone now seemed to look towards Rowan to make the final decision, but it was the advice of Boyle that guided him. "We don't yet know for sure that Elmcrygh has been attacked yet. From what Gwenda has told us, the river upstream is afire with raiding Eorfleode and the settlements ahead of us there are even smaller, and less well protected than Silana was. At least if we go south we have the hope of being able to warn Elmcrygh, or at least be able to add slightly to its defense. Perhaps we might not arrive far too late to help or give warning. We must ourselves find help, and from wherever we can gather it, to provide a safe shelter for these townsmen that we have defended, rescued and accepted into our protection. We must also find some swift means of warning the Duke, for if he waits too much longer, he will have no Duchy and no subjects left to protect!" Rowan announced the decision to head south for Elmcrygh, with all possible haste and speed, and nearly everyone nodded in agreement. The ship was large enough to take all of the surviving townsfolk onboard, but there was little if any deck room left otherwise, but even the grumbling Captain had to agree that it would have been murder to leave anyone left behind. A few surviving horses were added to the crowded hold of the ship, but certainly not enough nearly mounts for everyone. Travelling by land was going to be a very slow option now. Within fifteen minutes of Rowan announcing their intended destination, the last remaining supplies from the town ruins had been gathered, and the ship was rigged to travel in an almost exact beam reach to the strong eastward flowing winds from the distant ocean. The boat was now crowded, but not dangerously so, and Rowan soon found himself soon too busy to brood back at the bow as he had done before. The distance upriver to the town would take several days, and he would have much to do before then, sorting supplies and gathering weapons for immediate readiness. A few of the handful of surviving men that were without families left had sworn themselves to his service, and now that he had a guard of his own, he fretted constantly that he couldn't adequately arm, armor, train or protect them. His daily fencing lessons were also too important to skip as well, and soon Rowan despaired of getting much, if any, relaxation time onboard the ship. The Lady Ayleth, once again, most stayed in her cabin, but the ever amused Boyle tried hard to divert her mood with regular visits, and eventually by the time that the ship came into view of the walled city of Elmcrygh, she had returned to the deck with the others. Her timing was not auspicious, and soon after she climbed up the ladder stairs to the main deck to rejoin her companions, she shared with them in silence the terrible sight of the broken stone defending walls and the still flaming ruins of the formerly great town of Elmcrygh. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 12 The sight of the destruction of Elmcrygh brought great misery and many tears to the poor survivors of Silana, who had hoped to find shelter and perhaps a new home behind the walls of the great walled town. In size, the now burning ruins were once nearly large enough to be considered a city, and it formerly sheltering tens of thousands of people and was the major hub of trade for nearly a hundred leagues around. Even at the height of their collective despair, Rowan refused to believe that the entire population of the large town had been slaughtered to the very last person. With Gwenda and his few personal guards in tow, he left The Lady Ellyn, impotent and now trapped perhaps forever at the lonely abandoned stone docks of the town, so that they might search the ruins for some few of the pitiful survivors. With her own hopes for shelter behind these formerly protective walls of the town now dashed, the Lady Ayleth found herself no longer able to cope with all of the pent-up rage and impotent frustration that she had been keeping bottling up inside for so long. Already in tears she turned to run, to escape back to the comforting shelter of her small cabin. Before she had taken more than a step towards the deck ladder going downwards, Gwenda's strong arm reached out to grab her by her dress and she was roughly yanked back toward the tall red-haired girl, who had no difficulty holding her now in place. Ayleth cried out in tearful protest, but Gwenda shook her firmly and slapped the hysterical lady's face. Hard, in fact quite nearly with Gwenda's full strength behind the blow. "Snap out of it! I know that you're a poor excuse for a member of the nobility and that you don't really give the slightest shit about any of your subjects, but some of us here do... and like it or not, you are going to need to put on your big girl panties and at least pretend to be somewhat in charge of things here. You're a Duke's daughter, and his heir! Start acting like one! If you can't think of anything important or relevant to give orders about, just ask me or the Foole, or even ask the big stable boy, who has more sense in his big cheerful head than you do in your entire body. Dry your eyes, stand tall and straight, eyes clear and forward and your tits out, and get this motley crew and our mounts and supplies off of this boat before some lucky Eorfleode straggler with access to a catapult drops a big large fucking rock on top of our fucking heads!" The Lady got her eyes into focus and her tears more or less dry and stepped forward to start giving the necessary orders. She of course, couldn't ever forgive the physical assault to her dignity, but the idea of suddenly going down with the boat, or watching it go up into sudden flames, like the town before her, spurred her into some action. There were indeed things that needed doing and she did have quite a lot of very frightened subjects to calm and press into action. Within an hour, the ship had been emptied of anything that was remotely useful, all piled haphazardly upon the stone dock, which seemed to be the least likely place that could burn up into flames. Most of the horses had been kept below deck for several weeks now, and were not in particularly good humor. Boyle, who would have preferred to join Rowan's search for survivors, instead found that he was most desperately needed getting the horses tied down to some of the metal hitching posts along the piers, and then getting them gradually soothed down and fed. They didn't like the flames of the town any better than the humans did. She then set the ship's captain and the crew to work, sorting out the supplies, to separate the food and the weapons, to make things as ready as possible, in case a sudden flight from any lingering Eorfleode was necessary. From a quick look at things, the sack of the city was completed sometime during the previous day, and now the fires were finally beginning to burn out. Even a brief evaluation of the damage, here in the darkness of the night, suggested that not much in the way of the town's provisions would survive the fire, and that heaps of charred wood and collapsed stone would cover most of the basements and storage cellars where supplies, and hiding refugees, might well be still hidden. They might get lucky and find a few useful things in the debris tomorrow, but probably only if their luck suddenly changed for the better. For the moment, their luck looked to be consistently pretty bad. ********* Hours later, when they had discovered all that they could for now in the darkness, Rowan and his men returned to report that they had indeed found a few survivors on the edges of the burning ruins, and they had reports that some groups of other escaping townsfolk had fled before the attack on the town to some thick woods for shelter, about an hours walk to the south. Most of the survivors agreed that the vast host of Boar-Men, that apparently had numbered in the well into the thousands, had breeched the town gates and a few walls of the city yesterday with considerable swiftness and ease. The sack of the town had been accomplished in a matter of hours, rather than days or weeks, as would have been expected for a normal siege. Two survivors reported that a magic-wielding boarman, riding an enormous and monstrous creature, had burst down the town gates with but a wave of his burning hand, and the horde quickly put much of the townsfolk to either the sword, the flames or a cooking spit. The Foole at once discounted that report to panic and hysteria. "Impossible!" He stated categorically. "There has never been a boarman born who could even sense magic, let alone use it to even light a small cookfire... and certain not with the power to blast down gates and stone walls, like one of the great seven wizards of old! The Goddess Aðbaernesa forbade that, forever, when she renounced them!" Rowan wasn't quite so sure. Even the Lore-Master agreed that the Eorfleode had never organized themselves into huge armies since the days of the Dragon War either. The size of this horde had been estimated to be in the tens of thousands -- an insanely improbably number, but nevertheless it appeared to be true. The ruins of the gatehouse showed that some terrible violence had indeed occurred there. After a great celebratory feast last night, the Boar-Men had all marched off at dawn this morning, after dividing themselves into at least two separate armies that left separately to harry the lands to the east and to the south. The Juniper Mountains had no path suitable for an army that lead to the west, so the southern horde would need to travel for at least a week to get to the great Hythe River, to be able to circle around to the west and then to the north, to the long coastal road that eventually led back to the city of Tellismere. . The Hythe, which like the Emerald River, also ran from east to west and was nearly as long, was also the well and long established border between Tellismere and Broadmore. Like any good and obvious fence, the deep and wide river made for relatively good relations between the two Duchies and made accidental border incursions by overly zealous young army officers virtually impossible. The vast central area, east of the Elm River, and the mighty Emerald and Hythe rivers to the north and south, formed the great agricultural region called the Lloan Valley. The soil was considered so fertile that if you put a dried twig into the ground, it was rumored to be able to sprout leaves once again. The farmers of this valley easily fed three entire Duchies, and further exports of grain, flax and wool brought in more than enough coin to make the Barons and large-holders of this reason quite wealthy, and nominally independent enough to avoid most of the taxation efforts of the Tellismere and Dukes throughout nearly all of recorded history. The Dukes of Broadmore had the identical problem as well with their own barons in the southern part of the valley. An eastern striking army of Boar-Men, combined with additional and probably substantial forces crossing the Emerald to the north, could easily overwhelm any of the small towns and villages in the region. In fact, there was only one fortified walled town in the entire Lloan Valley, Kenniford, located at the last possible ford crossing of the Hythe River. The other small towns in the region, including the critical ferry crossing at the small town of Ruromel for the main stone road that ran southeast from Elmcrygh into Broadmore, were all without walls and virtually defenseless. There were a few reports of sightings of some night-goers that had either joined with the Boar-Men in the sack of the town, or else had come down from the nearby Juniper Mountains independently, hoping to pick over the ruins for some easy loot. For now they were keeping their distance, and that suited everyone just fine. No one was in the mood for another pitched battle, especially in the burning chaos. ********** About midnight, it began to rain, which helped to start putting out the still smoldering fires of the city, and by morning the dark heavy clouds had dumped down enough hard rain to extinguish the last of the remaining blazes. With the ruins now thick with hot steam, Rowan gathered up every available hand that he could muster to begin searching the ruins of the town for survivors trapped in basements and cellars, and to scrounge for anything salvageable that would be useful. To everyone's surprise, a good many folks had indeed taken shelter underneath the city, mostly in an old but extensive underground sewage system that snaked like a labyrinth under most of the city. As the last fires burned out or were extinguished by the rain, the survivors that had hidden below began to emerge. First individually, then in small groups and finally, as the word spread below that the sack of the city was over, the rest of the refugees climbed up to safety in a long ragged line. Dirty, tired, hungry and frightened, the several hundred survivors looked at once to the Lady Ayleth for comfort and guidance, but the overwhelmed Duke's daughter had little of either to offer. Increasingly, they instead began to look to her Champion Rowan for direction and leadership, as he and Boyle appeared to be the only ones that seemed to know exactly what needed to be now, and then next. With Gwenda and the Foole right by her side whispering suggestions and instructions, the Lady tried to command her ever-growing collection of refugees, but it was clear that she was severely lacking in confidence. Eventually for expediency, she mostly just gave up and issued the orders to Rowan and Boyle, so that they could then do what was necessary... for the most part, this was what they were already doing without her added input. ********** Now that they had nearly four hundred mouths to feed and protect, the supplies that had been brought on board The Lady Ellyn, which would have been more than sufficient for the travelers and the refugees from Silana as well, was now grossly insufficient for these new larger groups of survivors. In fact the numbers of refugees began to swell all day long as additional frightened townsmen and women emerged from other hidden shelters in the bowels of the town. Further adding to the vast throng were the ones who had escaped just before the siege and had fled to the nearby hills and woods. These refugees combined to add several hundred more angry and frightened mouths that needed to be fed and their anxious nerves tolerably soothed. It took a lot of ordering, shouting, coaxing pleading and even threats by the lads and the Lady, to get a few organized search and recover teams sent off into the ruins to find some desperately needed supplies, but most of the listless and scared survivors were just too shocked or sunk into depression to be of much usefulness. The Silana refugees, who had much better morale and a near supreme confidence in the ability of Rowan, Boyle and Gwenda to accomplish miracles, tried to beat a few heads or shame their lackluster new associates into action, but even they couldn't force the unwilling into doing anything remotely useful. Cooking the evening meal that night took an alarming amount of their saved provisions, and the concerned Captain Coryn warned them that evening that even with reduced rations and only two meals a day, their stores could not hope to last more than a few days. They needed to find grain and produce stored in underground cellars, and a great deal of it, if they even hoped to get the survivors to another town or city where they could be safe. In addition, they would need carts and wagons to transport this food, not to mention the sick, injured or aged that could not walk. Most importantly, the survivors needed to be made to realize that the time for mourning was now over; too many things now desperately needed to be done and virtually every hand would be needed to make it all happen. It was time, the Foole announced to his companions, to make them either 'fish or cut bait'. If the townsmen could be prevailed upon to actively participate in their own rescue, it would be all for the best, but if they declined to work and just kept their hands out for alms and food, then they must be left to their own devices. The willing could not be made to suffer because of the acts, or inaction, of the indolent and lazy. There was one additional problem that no one had yet considered. Namely what would the Captain and remaining three crewmen do now? Elmcrygh was a burned out ruin and without guards or any means of defense, and the ship and crew could not linger here near the river's end. They could sail no further south, but yet returning north was clearly hazardous. Even if they could reach Silana once again, the choices of either continuing east or returning west back to the hopeful safety of Swanford were both suicidal ones, especially with only three crewmen left to handle the boat. As the counsel meeting broke up, with little resolved, Captain Coryn gathered his few remaining crewmen and they wandered down the dock to their ship to further debate their limited options and decide upon their fate. Her ever present anger just barely contained, Lady Ayleth arose and marched down to the main camp area where the majority of the refugees were settled, and she began a lengthy and rather rambling tirade at the lethargic survivors. She commanded, she begged, she pleaded, and she threatened... early and often, but to largely no result. "Where are the Duke's armies?" The survivors cried out her in their hundreds of voices, equally angry but still apathetic. "Where are his soldiers, the extra guardsmen that he ordered away from our defense? Where then now are his quartermasters, with wagons loaded with bread? Who is going to come and rescue and protect us... a skinny ill-tempered girl, a couple of beardless young lads and a Foole? Are we to be made to laugh and suffer entertainment while our loved ones lie in the burned rubble and we are starved? We do not heed your words girl, for they are shrill like an ill-wind and bear no meaning or comfort to us! Nor do we claim or accept your father, the Duke, any further as our rightful lord, for his promises are hollow and his hand does not reach to us in either duty or respect. We abjure you both!" As Ayleth started to hysterically flee away from her ungrateful subjects, Rowan appeared next to her and grabbed her shoulder hard to hold her firmly in place. The Foole, along with Boyle and Gwenda joined her as well, offering their support to her to steady her frail nerves as Rowan stomped right into the very middle of the angry refugees, his face dark with wrath. Rowan, furious nearly beyond words, drew out his sword and held it up high. Nearly at once it burst into bright orange flames, and its light filled not only the camping area, but also much of the ruins of the town. The sky even glowed with a bright red-orange, the color undulating and pulsing with the beating of Rowan's heartbeat. Even the most hapless and apathetic of the townsmen was startled by this seemingly divine apparition, and they were agog with wonder and terrible fear. "Townsmen of Elmcrygh, mark and heed carefully my words! You have suffered great misfortunes indeed, but by The Seven you are all alive! You have lost your homes, family members, friends and your material goods, yes... but you still take breath and your hearts still beat. You now show anger and demand a great many things from your Lord, the Duke, who is yet a great distance away and is unlikely as of yet to have heard of your misfortune. Fear not, the Duchy shall act! Men, brave and bold, shall take up arms to defend those cities, towns and villages that have not yet met the peril of the Eorfleode, the Boar-Men... or to avenge those that have already fallen! But the Duke is but one man, and his daughter here but only one woman. Neither can act completely alone. Here and now, I, Rowan, Champion of the Lady Ayleth, speak for her... and I speak for the Duchy which I am oath-sworn to defend and protect. I have fought for it, and shall continue to do so again until the very light and soul of this divine sword is forever extinguished, but I cannot fight alone. I must have your help and assistance!" Nearly at once, the crowd stood up on their feet, animated... eager even, to hear what the lad would say or do next. Oddtus and Boyle smiled and gently nodded their heads, and Gwenda took Rowan's left hand in hers and gave it a hard but comforting squeeze. Even the Lady Ayleth was astonished, and held close to her mind to every word her protector said. "Townsmen!" Rowan shouted, his sword blazing even brighter, if possible. "Mark me well, for tomorrow began a new day in this Duchy and you will either be standing by our side, working with the sweat of your brow and perhaps even shedding the life's-blood of your body, or else you will be left here to fend on your own. There is no more time for tears or regret. We do not have the time for accusation or blame, or indifference, there is too much now that must be done if we are all to live. The Duchy is now at war! A war with the Boar-Men that we must not ever lose! The hearty and hale must gather arms, and swiftly learn their use. The women, elderly and the young must all gather food and supplies, and in great abundance. All must do their part now... those that cannot or will not must be left behind. Our hearts and minds must become one now, alone in our thoughts for survival and vengeance. There can be no thought now for the insipid and lazy that have not the will to stand to their own feet and fight for what was theirs, and what might yet be theirs again someday. In the morning, a meal shall be provided for every man, woman and child who is willing to work, to fight and to perhaps die so that others may perhaps live. For the rest, the others that will not raise their hands with ours, we shall instead raise our hands against them... to drive them away from our midst to be shunned, unworthy of the noble and valiant men and women that remain. Steel your hearts with determination, and gird your loins with hope, and such armor and weapons as can be found! Let us gather grain and bake bread together and share our implacable will, for the Duchy has arisen against the Boar-Men, that their kind shall nevermore trouble these good lands of men!" The cheering for Rowan lasted a very long time, and even some loud cries of loyalty were now heard for the Lady Ayleth, for which she was abjectly grateful. In but a few minutes, disaster had been turned to a near total victory, and now she not only had the loyalty and obedience of her subjects, but she had watched an army be born right under her very eyes. The men of the town, nearly every one, were standing and shouting, waving their arms in fervor and excitement. To defend their remaining loved ones, or to avenge family that had fallen, they would indeed now take arms for her and fight... and with a will to win! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 12 As Rowan's orange sword flame extinguished itself, a brand new and different fire began to light up the sky. Coryn, the Captain of The Lady Ellyn, himself poured the oil and personally lit the flame that set the good ship ablaze from stem to stern. She burned quickly, and sunk quietly into the river and was gone just shortly before midnight. Then, with his crew gathered together, they swore their own personal oaths of loyalty to Rowan, pledging to serve him... and the Lady, as well. ********** Later Oddtus came over to Rowan's side and gave the lad a well needed hug. "You know of course, that you swore no such oaths either to the Duke or The Lady to protect and defend the very land itself." The Foole reminded him. "Certainly I did. I swore oaths to serve both of them. Is not the Lord part of the Land, and the Land part of the Lord? Indistinguishable and inseparable? Or is that only appropriate for Kings and Emperors?" The Foole thought for a moment and just smiled at the lad, before returning back to the side of the Lady Ayleth, to offer her some last suggestions for things that needed to be done very first thing in the morning. When dawn arose and the meager breakfast meal was prepared, nearly every single man, woman and child took a renewed oath of loyalty to the Lady, and to the Duchy, with but very few that repudiated her, who left the camp to fend out on their own. A few later reconsidered and were eventually accepted back into the community, but under the weight of several rather stern oaths to hold their future loyalty and obedience. *********** For the next two days, the camp was bustling with activity as numerous organized search parties scoured the great ruins of the town exhaustively to locate and recover every underground granary or provisions storage that the surviving townsmen knew of. In addition, other groups search for carts, carriages, wagons and anything else with wheels that could be reclaimed or repaired from the wreckage. Eventually with the skill of a few carpenters and even a wheelwright, enough were salvaged and repaired to be able to bear heavy loads of recovered sacked grain and produce. Even with the addition of numerous late arriving survivors, which now increased their host to a total of nearly eight hundred, Coryn, the former Captain and now their chief quartermaster, calculated that they had enough to feed everyone two adequate meals a day for nearly a month. The counsel agreed that this would indeed do and together they made their next plans for travel! The formerly rather informal counsel to Lady Ayleth, overnight became something much more administrative and authoritative. Calling themselves now The Lady's Regimental Counsel, their leaders consisted of the Foole, Rowan and Boyle, the Captain, and now Gwenda. Everyone now looked to Rowan, rather than the Lady herself for supreme guidance, much to the lad's discomfort. He in turn relied heavily on his two strong friends and assistants, the invariably very wise and sensible Boyle, and Gwenda, whose mere presence was often enough to give him strength and comfort whenever the lad felt overwhelmed, which was increasing often. He was certainly no general, either by training or temperament, but he did soon learn to listen to anyone that had a good idea, and how to delegate his impossible burden and responsibility around to others. At first, Rowan had wanted his friend Boyle to be his adjutant and drillmaster, to start taking control of their new untrained army to begin molding it into a reasonably effective force, but the lad had found himself some other more interesting, but nearly equally important duties. A fair number of horses had been rounded up from several stables in the city that hadn't succumbed to the flames or become rations for the Boar-Men. Enough, that when added to additional mounts from Silana, and those that his growing troop of horsemen found wandering about the area from pillaged hamlets and farms, that Boyle soon found himself commanding a reasonably substantial cavalry force of nearly forty men, carefully picked from the cream of the available men that had at least some experience on horseback. Now armed with long spears and some cavalry sabers recovered from the ruined guardhouses, they spent virtually the next few days riding scout for some miles around the ruined town, drilling and learning how to maneuver and fight as a team. Rowan wished him luck. A few guardsmen from the town had survived, unfortunately probably by turning heel and running for their lives the moment the gate was breeched. Their morale was better now, but Rowan just didn't think that any of them were suited for command. The Foole wasn't exactly qualified to the task either, and he had the probably more difficult responsibility of managing the Lady. By happenstance, one morning while Gwenda was giving Rowan his morning exercise drill with swords, they had attracted quite a crowd, and many of the men who had found weapons started to join in with the exercise. It was serendipitous, but Rowan had now found his drillmaster, or rather mistress. A few chauvinistic soldiers weren't happy about taking orders from a woman, but Gwenda just smiled whenever she ran into a blockhead troublemaker and quite easily kicked his ass each and every time, either with the flat of her sword, a knee swiftly kicked into the gonads, or even with her bare arms. There was nothing she didn't already know about the fine manly arts of pugilism or wrestling, learned from her athletic brother. Being taller than most of the men, even without her boots, didn't hurt a bit either. Quite quickly they learned to be more frightened of her, than of the Boar-Men enemy that they would soon undoubtedly face. When the last arms-man, and quite a few eager would-be arms-women as well, were at least minimally armed and armored, Gwenda reported that she had available to her a small undersized regiment of about three hundred and fifty potential soldiers. Tentatively, she figured that at least fifty of them wouldn't quite meet even minimal expectations, being probably either too old, too young or too weak, and she had already made plans to make this weaker group a mobile resupply and first-aid group for the wounded. Oddtus and his apprentice Ashburn agreed to train this non-combat support group, with the former Sergeant assigned to be their unit commander and medicus trainer. Upon further discussion, it was agreed to divide up the regiment into three companies of one hundred troops each, in the Caestorian Imperial fashion, with each company consisting of three squadrons; the first with swords and shields in the front of the battle line, the second with long spears and pikes behind them, and the third in the rear with bows providing covering archery fire. With three companies in a solid line of battle, trained to hold firm and fight in place, with Boyle's small cavalry unit on the flanks and in reserve, the Counsel agreed that their fledging army might actually stand some sort of decent chance against some of the smaller roaming Boar-Man war-bands. To fight against the size of an army that had destroyed Silana and Elmcrygh would be an entirely different matter. Unfortunately the Eorfleode were much more mobile as a unit than Rowan's force could ever hope to be, with its fragile repaired wagons and many of the non-combatant women, children and elderly on foot walking, their force wouldn't have a prayer of fleeing or evading a battle that they did not think they could win. Boyle's cavalry scouts were going to be essential to avoid this fate, and much depended upon them. ************** On the morning of the third day after the regiment had been formed, it was decided that the last of the easily reclaimable provisions and gear from the burned town had already been gathered and it was past time to get moving on the road south. Rowan and Boyle would have liked to have gone chasing after the southern Boar-Man army, but in their hearts and minds both they knew that this would be chewing off far more danger than their virtually untrained under-sized regiment could hope to handle. Nor could they go after the smaller Eorfleode war-bands that split up and gone east into the vast Lloan valley. With the heavy recent rains there was no way their wagons could swiftly move that direction on bare ground, with no stone roads heading east from here into the valley. The trade in that area usually relied upon the two great rivers, or a good stone road in the central-east of the valley that ran further east from Kenniford to Everdun, or at the border with it also ran south through far eastern Broadmore to the coast. Instead, it was decided that they would follow the good stone trade road that ran south-east to the Hythe River. There on the river, the border town of Ruromel would be undoubtedly be requiring their aid and assistance. Perhaps also its sister town Brydara on the Broadmore side of the river, would need their aid as well. If they could be of help there, then perhaps their Duke might then be of help to them as well? Soon they settled into a routine. Boyle and his cavalry scouted the road ahead them and tried their best to practice and learn on the job, conducting fancy coordinated wheel movements and practiced charges and retreats. Next, at the front of their regiment, Rowan and Gwenda rode their horses and tried to look and act more confident than they really felt. In their dirty travelling leathers they didn't look fancy or particularly authoritative, but they did have the respect of the men and women, and that was more than enough. Then, behind them, the 1st Company marched in rows of three, with an archer, spearman and swordsman each in a row, so that there would be plenty of coverage of the roadsides, in the event of an ambush. Next came the Lady Ayleth, riding in a fairly smoke charred, but more or less repaired carriage that had formerly belonged to some former nobleman or baron of the town. She kept her chin and nose in the air to put on a noble pose for her soldiers, but with every league that they marched she became increasingly annoyed that these seemed to be Rowan's and even now Gwenda's soldiers, rather than hers. Riding on either side of her were the remaining members of her Counsel, the Foole at her left and Coryn her quartermaster on her right. They were both constantly giving her bits of tedious information and gentle reminders and suggestions, but she was getting increasingly good at toning their voices out, as if they were annoying courtiers back at home... always wanting something and never shutting up! After her carriage, the 2nd and 3rd Companies then marched, with their families and other non-combatant refugees more or less protected in-between the two companies. First thing in the morning, the three companies would individually conduct weapons drill for about an hour while the rest of the camp prepared breakfast and packed the camp for departure. An hours rest was called at high noon, but no organized meal was prepared. The clever and the hungry learned to pack something away for a later snack after breakfast. In the late afternoon when they stopped for the day, the three companies would practice fighting together as a combined unit, beginning with a rehearsal of how they would respond to a sudden attack while marching down the road. Each afternoon, Rowan would point in a random direction and shout the command to assemble in their ranks for battle, with each company running to get into place. It was very sloppy at first, but he made them do it over, again and again that first evening well into darkness until they sort of got it right. With more practice the following evenings, even Gwenda finally began to become satisfied with their progress. After dinner, often the archers would take extra target practice by fire and torchlight. The growing aide and support unit had lengthy lessons as well, as they learned how to tend to the minor wounds incurred in practice, to be ready to aid and treat the wounded during and after battle. Progress training the regiment was slow but steady, and everyone hoped by the time they ran into trouble for real that they would be ready. Unfortunately, one particular bit of trouble was already festering in their ranks. The Lady Ayleth was growing increasingly angry at the way Gwenda was commanding 'her' army, and she had carefully planned the time and place for a showdown. ********* For a change, on their fourth day of travel, the skies cleared and it was a lovely warm and dry day for a change. Since everyone had been marching in wet clothes, and most had wet soggy packs as well, Rowan decreed that today would be a partial day of rest and that the regiment would stop and make camp at noon, to give everyone the opportunity to change and dry out all of their damp clothes. Sometimes it's the little nagging things that destroy military morale, and their troops were delighted that their increasingly brooding general really did care about their welfare. The spot chosen for the early campground was an excellent one. There were several small streams that crossed the road, and even a small pond nearby that was well suited for the ladies to enjoy some bathing. Rowan ordered the company to their rest but he got rather little himself, as Boyle, Coryn and The Foole came over to coordinate the thousands of tiny things that keep an army fed, clothed, reasonably happy and moving. The Lady Ayleth, seeing that this was the perfect time to arrange a little 'understanding' with her less than submissive drill-mistress, made her preparations and then sweetly sidled up to Gwenda and invited her to come take a bath with her over at the nearby small pond. The tall red-haired lass was rather fond of regular and frequent bathing, despite her firm martial attitudes, and heartily agreed. Together the pair walked off to the pond, apparently eager for a bit of relaxation. "Uh-oh, do you see what I see?" Boyle muttered suddenly, interrupting Coryn who was in mid report about the lack of proper foot attire for most of the regiment. "I think I do." Rowan said. "But what of it? The ladies are off to take a bath I suppose, they like to do that sort of thing. So do I actually, and I think I'll take one myself later this evening after dinner. Boyle, you scouted that pond yourself, is it big or deep enough for me to swim, to take a reasonable lap or two? I've got two locked up shoulder muscles that are cramped up solid with tension!" "Ah, well if you want to relieve tension, I'd suggest you go have a private talk with Gwenda about that. You two haven't had a single private moment since you limped back three-quarters dead from the rescue mission. I've seen the way she looks at you... she'd warm your blankets in but a moment, if asked. She's never more than a few feet from your side." "True, but this still isn't really the time or the place for dalliance and personal fun. I've got over eight hundred people to worry about and I'm not going to be able to properly rest until I get at least some of them dropped off at Ruromel. The pressure is giving me a screaming headache and the constant rain hasn't at all helped!" 'The rain on this plain causes Rowan migraines?" The Foole impishly queried. Rowan and Boyle then both gave the gléaman a hard dubious look hinting at more than a bit of malice, and he chuckled and wandered off a bit to speak with Coryn some more about their endless supply problems. Rowan continued to fret impatiently. "On horses, and with just our original quest party, we could have already been there maybe by now, and I doubt if we're even quite half-way there yet. I swear I'm about to go nuts! For a bent copper bit, I'd quit this Hero/Champion business and trade this infernal sword for an honest smith's hammer! But of course, that's quite impossible. I'm beginning to think that I'll never have a normal life ever again! Everyone is looking at me as if I was a great lord, expecting me to be wise and brilliant -- to get everyone to safety, kill off all of the Boar-Men by myself, and fix the world and all of its other problems... I don't even have answers to my own problems, how can I solve everyone else's?" "Don't worry so much. Everything seems to be working out! Trust in the Weaver's and The Seven, and follow the path that they steer us upon. I'm sure that the Foole sees it better than we do, so we have to trust him! As bad as the situation is, I think all of the really big decisions are going made for us, so there is no sense worrying about things we've got absolutely no control over." That much was definitely true, Rowan agreed. Boyle then reported the results of the latest scouting report. "My rear scouts are still finding traces of night-goers behind us that he swears are following our path. They can't have a hope of a prayer to take on a group our size, so I don't have a clue what they're up to, but they shouldn't be bothering us. Maybe the Boar-Men sacked their homes too! They're a good five leagues behind us and keeping their distance carefully, so go take your swim this evening and don't rush it. The pond is of course smaller than Lily Lake back home, but it's quite big enough to splash around in and work out some frustration. And speaking of working out some frustration... if I were you, I'd keep a weather eye on those two gals up at that pond right now, all alone. The Lady has been in wee bit of a frightful snit lately and looks daggers constantly at your gal, and has been for days now. If I didn't know any better I'd say she was jealous. I don't believe for a moment that she's buried the hatchet and made up all kissy-kissy with her, do you? Remember what happened the last time she smiled at someone? Cedany told me laughingly once that when her Lady smiled, everyone knew that they were in trouble!" "How could I ever forget! Cedany told me those stories too, and they weren't always funny! Ayleth damned near got all of us killed on that fool mission. You're right, I think some claws are about to come out in private and I should at least be close enough to come to the rescue if need be." "Ayleth couldn't take Gwenda in any fight, fair or foul, with any number of hidden weapons pulled out in ambush." Boyle laughed. "Of course not! I just don't want Gwenda to kick her Ladyships pert ass overly excessively. Like her or not, she's the Duke's daughter and I'm sworn to defend her... eventually, some time right after she cries out like a spanked schoolgirl begging for mercy. I thought you were muttering about pulling her across your lap and giving her a good spanking yourself?" "I was, but Gwenda and The Foole talked me out of it, at least for right now... but I will have my vengeance before that very same dagger that she stabbed into my back as well, becomes too much more rusted with age, or so the old saying about revenge goes!" A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 13 Gwenda was a tall and strikingly beautiful young woman, even dressed up in the plain leathers of a guards-woman. Even this, Lady Ayleth had to grudgingly admit. She was also quite smart and had grown up in a northern barony that was always on the pointed edge of danger, even in more relatively peaceful days. Her sharp green eyes missed little and her generously wide red lips stayed tightly shut when they needed to be, all the better to hear and listen, and react, to what was happening around her. This made her rival doubly dangerous. She would be an extremely difficult opponent to take totally unawares, but Ayleth, with her long experience with conspiracy and intrigue, thought she was well up to the task. She poured on the charm, kept her voice to a light laughing lilt, and was the first to drop her clothes on the grassy bank of the pond for their swim and at once leapt into the slightly cold water. To fool her prey, she needed the illusion that she was unarmed, but just a little while earlier she had prepared the way by throwing a short club into the pond. It didn't float well, being of a rather heavy wood, but out of the corner of her eye she could still see it, just barely rippling the top of the surface of the pond, much like a river snake. She would continue to beguile her prey, to allow the tall red-head to drift into relaxation and be put further off of her guard and then she would strike and the tables would be turned! She wouldn't of course kill the girl, but she'd give her more than a few good blows to her unprotected flesh until it was made quite certain who the top boss was! After all, she was a ducal Lady, born to command, not this unknown upstart from some minor and unimportant northeastern large-holder. Why the stupid ambitious girl didn't even possess a title! She would be nothing at court... and she should remain nothing here, except to exercise whatever limited powers she might grant the girl later, if she improved her manners to her betters! Ayleth smiled and began to slowly drift her way in the water closer to the wooden club. Gwenda smiled as well, and mostly closed her eyes to better enjoy the feeling of being nearly entirely clean for the first time in weeks, but she was not at all put off of her guard. She had been well warned by Rowan and even Boyle about the Lady's tendency towards revenge, usually taken at a sudden rather treacherous moment. Now they were alone, and this was a promising time as any for the jealous noblewoman to attempt to exact her revenge. In fact, as far as she was concerned, it was a more than perfect time for their relationship to be made quite perfectly and crystal clear. If the Lady was so bold as to initiate any sort of assault, she would be more than prepared for it. Feigning her doze, Gwenda had more than enough warning through her barely cracked eyelids to see Ayleth grasp her right hand upon something mostly hidden in the water and now she kept that object secreted behind her back as she slowly moved closer to her. Ayleth's smile turned wider as she anticipated and relished the thought of her vengeance, but this evil glare only served to further warn Gwenda and she tensed her muscles underwater to be ready for action. The Lady's sudden and vicious swing with the club right at Gwenda's head might have been instantly debilitating, and perhaps even unfortunately lethal, if the woman had not been forewarned of the assault. But she was, and the club swung harmless over her head. "Stupid Bitch!" Gwenda laughed. "I'm going to take you apart like an ill-built straw scarecrow and then shove that cute little stick so far up your ass that it will shut your tediously arrogant and dim-witted little mouth!" She proceeded to just exactly that. The rest of the actual fight was over in less than a minute, and it wouldn't have lasted nearly that long except that Gwenda was rather enjoying herself. First, she gave the noble Lady a particular vicious slap that nearly completely spun Ayleth's head and body all the way around in the water. Then, after relieving her of her club, Gwenda punched her so hard into her midsection that it completely drove all of the air out of her lungs. After that, another few minutes spent being held forcibly completely and firmly underwater, took the rest of the fight right out of the haughty and rather over-confident young noblewoman. Gasping weakly for breath, the noble Lady Ayleth was unceremoniously tossed up onto the grass shore of the pond, where despite her weak pitiful cries for mercy, the offending club was, as promised, shoved quite nearly all the way up her ass, fortunately with the thinner end going in first, until only a few inches of the wood remained exposed outside her butt cheeks. Gwenda smiled and admired her work while her defeated foe whimpered on the ground for mercy, but the tall angry red-head wasn't having any of it. "You have got to be in fact quite the stupidest little cunt that I have ever met in my life! Noblewomen are supposed to be a bit vapid to begin with, in fact I think it's encouraged, but you haven't got the sense of a rabid poodle! In fact, I don't think there is a single thing inside your scared silly head except shit! I think it's now time that you learned your place!" She said with an evil smile. Gwenda then grabbed Ayleth's hair hard and used it to yank her up from the ground hard, and onto her knees in submission. Then she slapped her sobbing face twice more, hard, on each side of her face, just to make sure that she had the bawling noblewoman's complete and undivided attention. "Lick my cunt and asshole, Bitch! It's really about all that you are good, for it seems. I know that you know how... Rowan told me you certainly forced his old lover Cedany to do it for you quite often enough. Now you can return the favor to me! I know you, Cunt! You've been certainly happy enough to look at mine this afternoon, but I think we'll now enjoy some rather different amusements instead. It is time that you also learned that it is better to give than to receive, and for the next couple of hours I'm going to make good and certain that you know properly how to give back to your lady lovers. Perhaps then someday, you might be worthy of receiving some love back in return! Now stick your tongue up my ass deeper, you useless Twat! It will be the first honest work you've ever done yet!" ************ Rowan, crouched down behind a tree about thirty yards away could hardly believe his eyes and ears. Ever since the day several years ago Cedany had told him about the feminine acts of lovemaking that the Lady had made her perform on her, he had fantasized quite a lot actually about what two young women exactly did to each other, and how. Now, he was getting a very belated and rather comprehensive education! Gwenda was very demanding of her now captive lover, and she made sure that the naughty noblewoman paid careful and close attention with her mouth and tongue to virtually every single inch of her body. Her ass was now quite well licked and immaculately clean, and her cunt also received similar detailed attention. Even from his hiding spot, Rowan could see that Gwenda's clit and nipples were quite engorged and extended, all the better for her captive slave-girl to better worship them. At no point however did Gwenda perform any of these services in return, she was clearly now the mistress who must be obeyed, at least for the present. As the afternoon darkened into evening, Gwenda decided that her captive had been nearly chastised enough. She gave the thoroughly humiliated woman another pair of slightly gentler slaps across the face and pushed her flat onto the ground, then she emptied her bladder all over the cringing and weeping Lady, leaving not a single inch of her exposed flesh untouched. "This is just a final reminder to you that you learn, and learn well, what your current place is in this world! Only Rowan has any oath of loyalty or duty towards you, and the despicable manner in which you treat him is an affront to your honor, whatever little you might have left! There is no priest in any of the Southern Duchies that wouldn't annul and dispense of his oaths, every single one of them, at knowing but a hint of the behavior you have exhibited so far in just the few weeks that I have known you!" With a grunt, a bit of a readjustment of her squatting bare hips, Gwenda managed to squirt another long burst of piss that landed neatly across the Lady's hair and face, and she grinned. "Let us be perfectly clear with each other. You stand at the very bottom of the authority for this regiment, more of a mascot than any sort of commander or officer. In fact, there is not one man or woman in this regiment that would even bend over to take a shit upon your very order or command. No one marks you, no one obeys you, and no one would ever follow you a single step, even into a tavern or bawdy-house. In fact, unless I am quite mistaken, no one even likes you!" "Boyle likes me." Ayleth whimpered from at the feet of her subjugator. "No..." Gwenda said sadly, as she turned to walk away. "He just feels terribly sorry for you. The good lad just can't bring himself to understand what a dreadful and quite awful person you really are. He sees only the best in everyone... including you. Someday we would all be very proud to find even a hint of what he sees in you. You could be ever so much better than you are, perhaps even someday a great Duchess who could strongly, but wisely rule this land, but I have not Boyle's kindly eyes. In you, I see nothing but narcissistic vanity and the tiresome complaints and whims of an ill-mannered child that has never once known even the threat of the stick of discipline. Speaking of which, you may now remove yours from out your ass... and try as well to learn a few lessons from this otherwise tedious escapade, or, at your next pleasure, I would be pleased to offer her Ladyship another repeat of this stimulating exercise. The next time I am forced to have this sort of discussion with you again, you'll not just be covered with my piss, but also be made to drink it like it was the finest champagne, so be warned. You will make an excellent attendant and toilet slave for someone, someday... unless you can learn to stand on your feet without arrogance and learn to rule, not just merely command!" *********** Lady Ayleth remained sobbing in the grass until long after the dinner chimes for the camp had rung. Long after her hasty bath to clean herself off and long into the night she wept and hid herself under her bed blankets. She was sure she had indeed learned an important lesson or two however. First, that she was entirely unwanted, unwelcome and unloved, and that she should find herself some powerful alternate protectors as soon as possible, friendly nobles that could get her back safely home to her father. Her facial scars and the quest be damned! Secondly, as she brooded in yet another sleepless night, she decided that under no circumstances would she ever try this sort of revenge again upon the arms-mistress Gwenda. She was too wily, too strong, too fast, and way too vindictive. She would have to be patient and bide her time to wait for a later, more subtle means of revenge. *************** Rowan seethed with impatience as the great long column of the regiment stopped to a halt on the road once more, the sun just barely past mid-morning. Yet another of the hastily repaired wagons had broken down along the road and Coryn the quartermaster was checking the damage to see if it could be swiftly repaired or if the wagon contents would need to be unloaded onto one of the others. They were losing several carts each day it seemed, mostly due to overcrowding and weight as the women, children or elderly townsmen became too weary to walk even the annoyingly slow pace that the regiment was marching. Even with their food supplies slowly being diminished, the journey was taking a toll on their hurriedly assembled and barely adequate transport. The charred wood and ad hoc repairs weakened with every mile of the trip south, as did many of the camp followers. Deciding that it was time for another exercise, Rowan shouted out the assembly command to rehearse for an attack from the very front of the roadway and the men and women of the companies surged forward to array themselves into their defensive line. Gwenda softly grunted her approval and rode off to inspect the regiment. During the nearly two week march south they had rehearsed this maneuver perhaps a hundred times, and the troops were moving into position faster, and with greater confidence. In the last few days as they neared Ruromel the scouts had been finding lots of traces of Boar-Men in the area, but fortunately mostly dead ones, shot with arrows for the most part. This was a very encouraging sign that perhaps they were not the only human army in the area, or that at the very least there was a moderately organized resistance force, like Rowan's regiment, now resisting the Eorfleode invaders. Rowan had been torn between the opposing notions of slowing their already snail-like pace further, to allow further training and exercise, as he suspected that their first baptism of fire was near, or else to speed up their travel as quickly as possible to meet these other human defenders and to quickly join forces against the remaining Boar-Men in the area. In the end, everyone else in the counsel voted for just maintaining the status quo; to keep to their existing marching and drilling schedule, largely out of concern that any new change to their routine would probably harm their rickety and limited transport even further. Amateur commanders study strategy and tactics, the Foole said once to Rowan, but the greatest generals were the ones that studied logistics. Right now their transport was by far their weakest link and it was agreed that nothing should to be done to further imperil it. They hoped that if Ruromel was still standing, that they could afford to spend a few days to better repair their wagons, to then be capable for some slightly greater speed afterwards. Speed, Rowan thought, as he slowly rode up to join Gwenda and the head of the troop formation, would be rather nice. They had hoped to reach Ruromel yesterday, but two separate wagon breakdowns barely an hour apart had much delayed them. Now from the sight of Boyle riding hard to meet him at a full gallop, there was undoubtedly going to be some more bad news that he would have to deal with. Why was everyone always looking towards him when there was a decision to be made? Boyle whipped off a snappy salute as he rode up to Rowan. This was something else that was really beginning to irritate him; they were old friends, too long fast chums for this sort of formality, but Boyle thought that this sort of ritual was good for the troops, to remind them of exactly who their leader was. There were worse things, Rowan supposed, but they rarely talked for pleasure anymore, as they used to; the needs of the regiment now took every available moment of thought that they had. "Ro, there's some horsemen on the road ahead of us, maybe a bit over a mile ahead of us by now, and heading this way. Maybe a squad, perhaps a dozen at most." "Do you think they mean trouble?" "A mere dozen? Undoubtedly not, but they know we are here and seem to be heading this way to give us a look-over at the very least. Should we arrange a parley? I've already pulled back my forward scout patrol just in case, and sent out riders to pull in our flank and rear guards as well. Is that alright?" "Seems prudent." Rowan muttered, leaning over to his horse a pat on its neck. "Yes, let's pull everyone in and assume a ready combat formation, but warn everyone that we're not looking to start trouble! Maybe we'll look a lot more scary and professional than we really are. Good first impressions and all that. Get me a dozen riders, yourself included... and also the Foole, ready for the parley, and let us find out what's going on around here. That's the worst thing about traveling so damned slow... even the turtles are getting the news ahead of us!" With the regiment in formation, but with its arms kept at rest rather than readiness, Rowan, Boyle, Gwenda and Oddtus waited at their front, with their cavalry guard a dozen paces behind them. They didn't have to wait for the horsemen long and just a few minutes later they were well in sight. They were exactly ten in number, wearing dark well-soiled traveling leathers rather than duchy uniforms. Not guardsmen from Ruromel either, apparently. As they grew closer, Rowan could make out closer details of their leader, a lean and grim faced man who seemed oddly familiar to Rowan's eyes. Their troop halted about ten yards away and after a brief study of the regiment and its leaders, the lean grim man burst into a smile and sloppily but enthusiastically saluted them. Rowan and Boyle looked at each other and smiled in turn, returning the greeting and the three men rode a little forward so that they could grasp each other's hands in friendship. The former bandit Loren, the man that Boyle and Rowan had spared two months ago on the caravan road to Lacestone had apparently kept to his oath indeed, and was doing rather well for himself as a leader of a group of scouts. The Foole, smiling from ear to ear, rode up as well to greet the man whose oaths he had taken. "Good sir, you are looking much improved! And how is your fair wife, and your two sons? Are they all well?" "Quite so, good Foole! They await me now back at Ruromel, which has been little bothered so far by the Boar-Men's advance. Their main invasion force followed around the southern tip of the Juniper Mountains and is now going west, down the river to the coast. It will be the City of Klith that shall next bear their main brunt, but they have stout stone walls and the sea to protect themselves." "One might hope so, but high thick walls did not long protect the town of Elmcrygh, up the road to the north." Oddtus said grimly. "Ah! We had not heard word of that great misfortune, for when my riders passed through that large town near a month ago, they were making stout preparations for trouble, and seeming unlikely to be taken unawares, or rapidly by their foe. This is most worrisome!" "Loren, how many riders do you command, and are the Boar-Men corpses that we've recently seen nearby of your doing? If so, it was well and bravely done!" Rowan asked the former bandit. "Twas our doing... I command but two score of riders, but they are all skilled at the art of firing their bows from horseback, so the Boar-Men rarely even scratch us except with a lucky bowshot of their own. We have killed a great many on this plain here and many more, further down by the river! While their main force did strike west from here, some smaller war-bands remain and have much troubled this area. Ruromel has no town walls, but our riders gave them good warning of the attack of one small war-band, and they found it no easy place to capture. Rather than face our arrows further, they slunk away after their first probing attack and secretly crossed the river at night, to fall upon the unprepared town of Brydara, right across the river. Some of those townsfolk got away on one of the last ferries across before the ropes were cut to keep the Boar-Men from following, and the loss of life was severe. Now Broadmore as well has known the inhuman rage and hungers of the Eorfleode, and undoubtedly soon their Duke himself shall arrive to take measure of the carnage. He and a regiment of troops of his own were reported to be near, perhaps to join us before the end of the week." "That is the first good news that I have heard in a month myself!" Rowan exclaimed. Indeed, we have passed nothing but death and ruin during that time and we were afraid that only our meager force, assembled from the survivors of the north, stood alone against these creatures, but now my heart is more happily settled. We hope that by now the Duke of Tellismere has taken measures to handle and suppress the horde that was menacing the regions around Crystal Lake. If not, should this southern horde move north up the coastal roads, the entire duchy itself could be in great peril, should those two armies join together." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 13 "I fear this will indeed be so, and I fear for my homeland." Loren sadly said. "As you have the greatest force yet in these southern parts, how may my men serve you? We know you all to be men of the highest honor, and my troop, thirty six in number, would be honored to join with yours!" "Again, more happy news!" Boyle exclaimed and waited for Rowan to nod his head in agreement. "I command these mere forty-eight myself, and my ability to train them has been inadequate at best. If you would be my lieutenant and drill-master for our combined cavalry, to teach them the art of mounted archery, we... all of us, would be much in your debt!" "No, it is I that shall always remain in your debt, for my life and freedom, and that of my wife and children! I shall be your strong right arm and lead wherever you might point until the last Eorfleode has been slain or fled our lands. I must warn you all that the art of mounted archery is a complicated one, requiring years of training to master, but fortunately our enemy enjoys massing itself together in reckless charges, and thus makes an easy target area for even novice bowmen. Even most of my current force is but little trained, but now all shall learn together." Loren dismissed his cavalry to join and meet their new companions, and the feisty new Lieutenant was taken to meet the rest of the commanding Counsel for Lady Ayleth's Own Regiment. Rowan himself introduced the Lady to him, but he carefully warned Loren later that Her Ladyship's duties and responsibilities for the regiment were purely honorary, and that he should never accept given orders from her unless they were confirmed by another member of the Counsel. Loren was puzzled, but was soon made to understand about the Lady's significant social and military limitations. ************ Now somewhat reinforced, and with a good tactical appraisal of the situation, Rowan commanded for the regiment and its followers to resume the march to Ruromel, and at the double. The wagon could not be hastily repaired and so it was abandoned, with its stores quickly shifted to some of the other already over-burdened carts and wagons. The town was only about two leagues away, or about three hours at the fastest traveling pace the regiment could currently manage, slowed by rickety wagons and the weary camp followers. The companies were given orders that they would march without a rest until they reached the town, as they could be urgently needed for its defense there. The followers and the supply wagons would have to make their own best speed. If another wagon was to break down, then it was to be left abandoned on the road, and its supplies removed and if necessary carried by hand. Boyle detailed half of his augmented cavalry to remain behind to guard the camp followers and the wagons, as they soon began to fall behind the companies, who were now marching at the double-quick. If they could hold this pace for the three leagues that they needed to travel to reach the town, they might arrive right about noontime. The wagons, along with the rest of the refugees would fall much further behind, but barring a crisis, everyone should be able to reach safety before darkness. Miraculously, their improving luck held, and well before sunset the last handful of tired refugees stumbled into the town, relieved and happy. Most of the soldiers were already getting some rest in their temporary quarters in the town's main stables, with the 1st company alert and on guard, working with the townsmen to help erect a wooden palisade to improve their defenses. Rowan gathered the counsel, including the Lady Ayleth, to meet with the Count of the town, and his own group of headsmen that advised him. The meeting lasted quite long into the night, but fortunately included a rather good hot dinner provided by the Count's own chefs. Rowan forgot his worries and frustrations long enough to enjoy seconds, and the ever hungry Boyle had thirds and yet another late night snack in the kitchen before he took his bed. The meeting went quite smoothly as the strategic and tactical situations were discussed and rarely debated. Even the Lady Ayleth remained mostly on her best behavior. The Count had received enough warning of the approaching war-bands of Boar-Men that he was able to put every able-bodied man and woman in the town into service, and he had enough stored arms and provisions to reasonably well equip them all. Count Renfield was well liked in the town as was accounted to be a kindly and rather progressive lord, well thought of by his subjects. The Lady, who was of a much more conservative political bent, took exception to many of his progressive policies, but she shut her mouth in silence about them after the second time that the Foole kicked her shins under the table. Boar-Men were currently on both sides of the Hythe River, and the opposite town of Brydara had been pretty thoroughly sacked. Cook fires could still be seen across the river, but fortunately the wind remained mostly from the northwest, and blew the smell of these ghastly feastings away from them. Currently near the town on their northern side of the river, only a few large war-bands had been seen recently, perhaps of only two or three hundred Eorfleode in total. These forces would have been dangerous for the Count's smaller force of only about a hundred and fifty largely untrained soldiers, but now with the arrival of Rowan's regiment, the odds were now much in their favor. Should the Boar-Men attack again soon, they would find a larger ready force waiting for them! Rowan offered to submit his force to the overall command of the Count, who undoubtedly had far superior military experience than the young lad, but he declined. For the moment, their commands remained separate, but a joint plan of action was prepared so that everyone would know their duty. Before they broke up the meeting for the night, Rowan ordered his 2nd Company to join the night guard-watch. This decision probably saved the regiment and the entire town as rather unexpected, a large war-band of Eorfleode made a sudden night attack upon the town. With only a little bit of warning, and barely enough men to hold the newly built wooden palisade defenses, the Count's handful of veteran guardsmen and the brave 2nd Company held off the first wave of the attack and stopped it cold, more than long enough for the other two off-duty companies, and the Count's home guard to reach the near overwhelmed defenders. It was a messy and rather sloppy battle that raged all around the edges of the town until the first light of dawn, when the Boars-Men grudgingly made a tactical retreat to the edge of a nearby wood, where another war-band waited to join in the sack. From the looks of things downriver, most of the bands that had sacked Brydara were now slowly regrouping back here, north across the river. Instead of facing only a few hundred savages, if they waited much longer they might easily be attacked soon by a force of five or six hundred, or even more. That was grimmer odds with green, hardly trained troops. The nighttime chaotic battle had not been one that the regiment had trained for, let alone practiced, but they held themselves fairly well. In particular, their support teams worked hastily but effectively getting the walking wounded out of the line to safety for healing, and even boldly pulled and carried out the more grievously wounded from the every center of the battle, even at the very real peril of their own lives. More than a few received wounds of their own. Still, when the butcher's bill was tallied that next morning, the regiment had apparently done fairly well. They had lost over three score of casualties with varying degrees of wounds, and but a single score of fallen dead. This was much better than Rowan had feared. Both counsels briefly met together and they decided to send out much of the cavalry to harass the relatively small groups of Eorfleode that were now crossing the river on crude rafts, to cut down the numbers that were slowly combining into a larger war-army. Now the issue of whether to fight a defensive or offensive war remained. If they stayed behind the crude wooden palisade, they might take fewer and less severe wounds, but they would also be less of a danger to the Boar-Men. If they could gather up enough returning war-bands as reinforcements then the wall could never hold them back for long. Then a messy unorganized fight in the streets would ensue -- a deadly fight for survival but at an extreme disadvantage. Rowan sadly knew what was the best course of action was, but he knew it would cost his regiment dearly. "We must gather our forces in formation outside, but tight with our backs against the barricade so that they cannot surround us or flank us with their greater numbers. If left inside we could hold the walls for a time but eventually their numbers and greater strength would tell. In a street fight my soldiers would be left to battle in but small groups, unsupported and without comrades at their side to embolden their nerves when their thoughts consider flight. Outside in formation, they can trust to their training, such as what little they have. Let us then place the swords and spearmen into two long ranks outside, with their task to not defeat the enemy all alone by themselves but to hold it contain and in place with their shields. Let the bowmen stand upon boxes and carts behind the wall, and on the roofs of the town buildings, to be able to fire at will over the fence upon the enemy to winnow their ranks. Let them peel off the flanks of our foe like a sharp knife would peel a piece of fruit. Our men and brave women will sustain fearful losses, but by this means we can fight this greater army piecemeal and destroy it small bits at a time, else they gather their masses to rush us in concert, overwhelming us entirely." Boyle and the Foole sadly nodded their heads in agreement, and then at length Gwenda concurred. She knew that a great many of the soldiers that she had personally instructed, and was starting to know as comrades and fellow companions, would fall... perhaps even most of them, but she knew in her heart that Rowan's plan offered the best chance to save even some of them, and the town. With a clasp of his hand at Rowan's courage, the Count agreed. "That's a bold and dangerous plan, but I too think it for the best for all of us. Too much innocent blood would flow in the streets of this town otherwise. We must trust to our plan, and to The Seven for our salvation! My trained men-at-arms shall all join you outside of the wall as well, leaving only the archers and my ill-trained and disciplined reserve to remain behind in support. The Boar-Men are too bold and courageous in battle to resist the sight of our smaller force sallying forward outside our walls, to challenge them to battle. Their honor will not permit them to resist this, despite the fact that their forces are far from gathered and prepared to meet us. Accordingly we shall trust entirely in you and your soldiers, and we shall create some small openings in the log walls, in front of where you will make your stand, that some of the wounded might be removed to shelter and perhaps a brave replacement or two to move forward to assume their place in the line... for your battle-line must hold, or we shall all perish!" Facing his regiment and friends, Rowan tersely gave them the necessary orders for them form up into two long ranks outside, shoulder to shoulder, shields up and ready to defend the line at all costs. As promised, the Count's own men formed up as well, in-between the three companies. It was a long and much too thin line, with the foot soldiers, armed and armored with everything that the Count had left remaining, standing bravely in front, with the lighter armored spear and long pikemen behind them. Many already had hastily bound wounds from the earlier battle during the night. Here and there, Rowan or Gwenda examined one of their troops that seemed be more heavily wounded, but even with being offered a release from the battle-line, each and every one refused to retreat to safety with the reserves. Their soldiers were inexperienced, barely even blooded from their first combat, but they had the will to fight, bravely, apparently even to the bitter end against superior odds. The Boar-Men would be stronger, and would bear their heavy weapons with great ferocity and skill, and only the defense of the line could keep these monsters at bay. No one needed to be reminded of the cost of failure; each and every man and woman in the town knew that only their own bravery and courage would save them or the ones that they loved from a roasting pit or a cooking pot. Still, as Rowan saw that the enemy was starting to gather to advance upon them, answering their challenge, he stepped forward to speak a few last words of encouragement to his assembled army, but he was immediately interrupted. "Nay lad." One of the older soldiers, a middle-aged former refugee from Elmcrygh who had lost his entire family in the sack of the town, loudly said, so that all could hear him. "We don't need to hear your words to extort us to remain steadfast, and boldly hold firm while we watch our friends and companions all fall one by one around us. We all know, every man and woman, what needs to be done and we shall all do our duty and even more. For you, lad, and for lady Gwenda, we shall fight! We shall even fight for the Lady Ayleth, and for the Duchy, such as remains of it. Be ready lads, for the enemy now comes! Let us make our stand together and never step a single foot back!" "For Rowan!" The regiment shouted loudly as one. "And for Gwenda, Boyle, Oddtus the Foole, and for the Lady Ayleth! And for Tellismere, which shall yet survive while one of us lives to bear arms in her defense. To The Seven, may they protect the race of men!" Now, with Rowan and Gwenda taking their places in the center of the battle-line, the army as one took one stomping march step forward and the front rank drew a line in the dirt with their weapons, declaring that not step further would a single of the Eorfleode ever cross! A few moments later, the point of the Boar-Man's charge crashed into their battle line and the dire life and death struggle began. ********** From the very start, Rowan and his brightly burning sword were impossible to miss on the battlefield, and rather than being frightened by this seemingly divine apparition in front of them, it seemed that nearly every single boarman wanted to charge straight at and then fight Rowan personally, even willing to wait in turn for their chance to face him. Their mighty forces all bunched up at their center, leaving their wings lightly manned. Soon, instead of fighting in a straight line, the 1st and 3rd Companies on the ends could now flank and even envelop a good part of their attackers. Like the fight on Dead Tree Island, Rowan noticed that if the Eorfleode had planned their advance and assault with better coordination, the human lines might easily have been broken and their forces then surrounded and quickly crushed. But instead, as always, the savage creatures fought only for their own personal glory, as individuals and they did not cooperate together in pairs or even squads to maximize their advantages in battle. Rowan's regiment, on the other hand fought the best it could as a team, with one man's shield trying to protect his companions to his left and right, so that their sword or spear thrusts could be more certain. The Boar-Men, as always were bigger and stronger, and ferocious in battle, but Rowan's inexperienced army had a superior defensive alignment, and the willingness to fight together, as a team. He hoped that these slight advantages would be enough. Right from the start, Rowan was at the very heart of the battle, well-protected by his sword and an excellent set of chainmail gifted to him by the Count. In his growing rage and fury, his sword made him nigh untouchable, and his chain turned the few spear or sword strokes that reached him. The infernal flames shot out from the point of the sword nearly ten feet at times, as he recklessly swung his sword, searing and devouring his foes, but still they came, often in suicidal reckless charges as they hoped to win the glory of his death. Up and down the line, men and women fell, sometimes to be rescued and pulled back inside the walls to safety, but as often as not to lie forever still. As one of their fellows fell, the line shrunk, as the wing closed up to cover the breaks. Hard pressed to keep up with Rowan, who was now advancing deep into the heart of the Eorfleode host in a near berserker frenzy, the battle-line stepped forward again and again, over the ranks of the Boar-Men they had slain, and their own fallen, but could never quite keep up with the heroic example of their leader. Even the Count, challenging his veterans to greater efforts of prowess, could barely lead his men much further ahead, nor could he advance too far on his own, and cause a break in the battle-line. Frantic for Rowan's safety, Gwenda surged out the line to follow him and to attempt to protect his back against the seemingly hundreds of bloodthirsty monsters that sought to surround him and bring him down under the sheer weight of their numbers. Behind her she could see the Foole, commanding the archers along the war to concentrate their devastating fire to help prevent this, but still she was sorely pressed to keep their backs reasonable clear. Trusting to quickness, she had declined to wear heavier chain armor so that her sword and dagger hands could dance freely, darting in and out of her taller and stronger foes to stab rapidly into their vitals before she herself could be touched. Still her arms were bloody with cuts and she had a deep cut into her left thigh that was starting to slow and weaken her, but she just grit her teeth harder and fought increasingly reckless, to protect the man that had rescued her... a man she now felt that she loved. Still it was not enough. While Rowan was one with his infernal weapon, creating vast swaths of flaming dead that no mortal could hope to emulate, Gwenda was merely one very outraged and skilled, but normal woman, and despite her superb skill, a savage spear thrust into her side and pierced through her leather jerkin. Driven then to the ground, she might have been beyond all hope of rescue if Coryn, the old captain of the The Lady Ellyn, and now their esteemed quartermaster hadn't burst through the battle-line from the support crew he was assisting, to throw his own body before Gwenda's, taking in short term two savage spear thrusts that certainly would have finished off the tall red-haired girl. Somehow, against all belief, Coryn held to his feet and with short easy short strokes fell the two Boar-Men that had so nearly slain her. With his sword hand keeping the rest at bay, he grabbed her jerkin with his free hand and began to slowly drag her back toward the battle-line, and to safety. The old Captain, from his long life on the river and hardened by years of battle, swung his blade with considerable skill that even rivaled Gwenda's, but his wounds were grievous, and they slowed his retreat as well. Even his skill couldn't protect him much longer as he once again needed to interpose his own flesh to spare Gwenda from a savage sword blow that would have otherwise taken off her head. He staggered but did not quite fall, and standing firm with resolve, he defended her near helpless body until a pair of regimental soldiers reached them from the advancing battle-line, and took them both away to safety. "I see already my long departed wife Ellyn standing now before me." The mortally wounded captain whispered to Gwenda, as they lay together on the ground behind the safety of the palisade, his voice weak and spectral. "She beckons to me and I must follow her, to the Shadowlands, where we shall be once again together after many years separated. I have no regrets and we enjoyed a very good life together for many years before our sudden parting. You owe me no debts of gratitude, as my sacrifice was slight, as it was already near my time to pass even before this grim morning. Still, if bear memory you must, I would not be ashamed that you might someday bear and give a son my name, or give a daughter that of my dear Ellyn, as we had no children of our own to pass on our names. Be well my adopted-daughter of my heart, and love and honor your man well, for he has truly been sent by Weavers and The Seven to save us all." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 13 He then shut his eyes and his ragged bloody breathing stopped, and the old man was at peace. Gwenda, with tears to her eyes tried to regain her feet to avenge him, but her wounds were too great. The Foole and Ashburn were now both at her side, and moments after the Lore-Master poured a few drops from a small glass bottle into her lips, she fell into unconsciousness. ********* The battle ended abruptly about noontime, when Rowan looked up to find that no living foe faced him. The field outside the town was strewn with just the dead, and the remaining soldiers of the Regiment. Slowly, he allowed his sword to shut off its flame, and he collapsed into an exhausted heap onto the ground as he sheathed his sword. In the distance, he could see the round cheerful face of a rider, undoubtedly Boyle, riding up to greet him. From the size of the cavalry force that was following him, they had taken but very slight casualties, and from the looks of things they indeed performed their mission well, to prevent as many reinforcements as possible from arriving. Only parts of a few war-bands had survived, and joined at the end of the battle, but long after their presence would have been critical or decisive. From the looks of the battlefield, most of the dead were indeed Boar-Men. Today, over eight hundred Eorfleode had thrown themselves haphazardly against a wall of steel, and fared far the worst of it. Still, nearly a hundred soldiers of the regiment, brave men and women both, had fallen, never again to arise. Most of the rest were wounded to various degrees, and only a lucky few walked away from the bloody field and abattoir of death without even a minor wound. Some would have wounds too great for them to ever bear arms again, but all of them, each and every one, would proudly remember this battle and their courageous stand to the very end of the days. To say that 'I was there at Ruromel with Rowan!' was to be the very mark and pinnacle of bravery and courage in the long years to come. Even during later battles where the odds were even greater against them, and the fighting ever more terribly desperate, it was this battle that they remembered with the greatest pride. Largely untrained men and women, led by a pair of young lads, a young woman and a Foole, had defeated and annihilated a mighty host of savages that had outnumbered them nearly three to one. This was the first moment that the survivors actually began to really believe in Rowan, and the survival of the Duchy, and their faith in him only grew from that time forward. ********** Boyle and Loren had indeed enjoyed great success with their interdiction of the reinforcements attempting to cross the river. Bodies by the hundreds were floating down the river and they littered the countryside and riverbank . It had been a slaughter as the eighty-four cavalrymen and archers emptied their quivers into the helpless and defenseless creatures, allowing relatively few to escape to join their equally doomed fellows. Not convinced that the town was entirely yet out of danger, Rowan ordered that the cavalry now go patrol in groups all around the town to the distance of several leagues, so that they could be certain that no more war-bands were roaming the area. Their report later in the evening confirmed that the region was now secure, and the regiment could settle into the town securely for awhile to rest and recover. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 14 With barely a full company's worth of troops currently able to stand or bear arms, Rowan ordered the brave soldiers to take their rest and enjoy the fruits of victory. The Count declared a day of celebration in the town, and a great many wine and ale casks were breached. Some of the now veteran warriors found dalliance with the grateful townsfolk, or their family and friends of the refugee camp followers. Military discipline was abandoned for several days as everyone drank and feasted and slowly began to heal their wounds. Through the frantic exertions of the Foole and his skilled apprentice Ashburn, along with the skills of the Count's experienced medicus, many of the wounded were relatively soon restored to full recovery, but for some their fighting days would be over, or best served in the reserves or aid group. Sharing little in the entertainment and partying, Rowan alternated his time between hovering at Gwenda's sickbed and the seemingly endless counsel meetings at the Count's stately keep. They both had comfortable guest rooms next door to each other, so that the lad could wander back and forth quickly at need. Her wounds were rapidly healing, but like his still slightly gimpy leg, her especially deep spear wound to her left shoulder, the same that had been pierced with the javelin during her escape, would likely trouble her for the rest of her life. Her swift dagger hand would be weaker and perhaps a bit slower in the future. The most dangerous wound into her side had pierced nothing vital and after careful stitching now seemed to be healing quickly. For now, he was just delighted beyond relief that she was going to make a nearly complete recovery, and he warned her that for the next month or two that she was to keep herself well out any further battles until all of her wounds had fully healed. She in turn laughed and told him that until he was ready to swear a consort-oath with her, that he could keep his orders quite to himself! Wounded or not, she was going to remain by his side, no matter what transpired. In the counsel meetings, Rowan had already arranged for the Count to accept the delivery of all of the Silana and Elmcrygh refugees that did not have family within the regiment. The permanently disabled soldiers, about fifty in total, were also offered homes here in Ruromel, with the promise of jobs and respect from the townsmen. To his surprise, many of the Count's guardsmen had requested that they be allowed to join the regiment, but the needs of keeping this important river town protected in the weeks and months ahead had dampened his desire to agree to this. After some discussion, it was decided that thirty-seven of his men, mostly all trained veterans and most with minor wounds from the battle, could be spared. This brought the combat companies of the regiment up to an exact total of two hundred men and women, not counting the eighty-six cavalry who had suffered no deaths in their sweeping of the river. It was decided to disband the 3rd company for now, and the survivors would be merged into just two companies, each about equal with both hale and wounded troops. Even a week after the battle, the regiment was still not quite ready to take to the road once more. The decision of which direction to go was a tricky one. Their original quest directed them to continue to travel into Broadmore, upon the southern road once more, but this would mean abandoning their regiment into the care and guidance of the Count. The Lady Ayleth was more than willing to do this, but Rowan was dead set against abandoning his loyal men... or leaving Tellismere until he was certain that this region was safe. The great Boar-Man army had now crushed the coastal city of Klith, downriver, according to reports from boatmen sailing up river with refugees from that new disaster. It was reported that after this sack, which had been accomplished in a frighteningly short direct assault, was over in a matter of days, and that the well-feasted army had been little diminished, and was already heading on the coastal road north. Towards Crystal Lake and/or the City of Tellismere itself. Again, there were new rumors of a terrible magic wielding boarman wizard mounted upon a monstrously large Eotenas, or creature of legend, that even the Foole could no longer completely discount or ignore. With each new rumor, borne by boatmen coming upriver, the Histrio became even more disturbed and even privately frightened. Such a thing had never occurred during the long millenniums of the Dragon War, and now, with The Seven banished, dead or otherwise lost, what new terror had been brought to this world? And how could it be fought? Even with their cumbersome baggage train now much diminished, and the civilians resettled, Rowan didn't believe that his force could move fast enough to catch up with this massive army, said to number at the very least ten thousand strong. Not that his weakened two pitiful companies of troops could ever fight such a horde. Instead, it was ever to the east, and the Count's maps of the vast Lloan Valley that Rowan became increasingly concerned with. This eastern horde was allegedly much smaller and broken apart into many dispersed war-bands. His reduced regiment could handle a few of these relatively safely, he thought, once their wounded were restored and his young veterans yet better trained. Boyle too supported this, as did the Foole also, who seemed now to show no interest or regard whatsoever for his original quest to Corælyn, and changed the subject every time he was asked about the need to go there, or at least right away. "In fact, if we could get a few boats to take us upriver, west," Oddtus earnestly stated to the counsel, "we would hardly lose any travel time at all. There is a very good road from Kenniford, in the heart of the valley that could take us all the way to Orshold, and then either to Everdun, or south through eastern Broadmore to Dragontooth, a great city always worth visiting. With passage to either eastern or southern coast where we could then take ship to Corælyn. Kenniford is also a well-protected city with good walls that can resist the assault of a few odd assorted war-bands, especially if their great miracle-working boarman commander is away with the western army. There we could gather some much needed intelligence that the Duke will need to know. Kenniford is nominally claimed by both Duchies, but it is equally important to both and it must be protected." The Lady grumbled but couldn't entirely ignore this logic. Just exactly how important Kenniford was to both Dukes became very clear when at last the forces of Kelvin U'Roth, the young Duke of Broadmore, arrived the next morning to inspect the burned ruins of his town Brydara across the river. As there was not much left of the ruins to inspect or even curse over, the Duke promptly sailed on over on the repaired ferry boat to consult with Count Renfield, carefully requesting permission first from the Count before his boots set foot onto the dock, and the territory of Tellismere. The niceties of old established custom are sometimes rather useful in a frighteningly uncertain world, and the last thing any Duke wanted to do was lay himself open to a claim of invasion. Duke Kelvin was a lanky dark-haired and reasonably young man of average height, not quite yet in his thirties. Good looking but not a model for handsomeness. His ears did seem a bit large for his head and already he was beginning to develop a bit of a stomach. His eyes were hard, but not malevolent, and he was said to have a ferocious temper. He had already been Duke of Broadmore for nearly a decade, after his father had gone down with his flagship into the deep waters of the Great Western Sea, the last time Broadmore and Drakland had indulged themselves in one of their all-too frequent border wars. By all accounts he was a competent Duke, but not especially well-loved one. Also like the other Southern Duchies, except for Everdun, his land needed to make its wealth via trade, as they had little mineral wealth, and he had at least as many military responsibilities as Tellismere, and with but barely any more monies available to fund them. Despite having no land border with Drakland, those proud sea-folk did have more than a fair technical claim to the Duchy, if truth be told. The Southern Dukes had always tended to intermarry, and sometimes due to vagaries of inheritance, a Duke might find himself technically the rightful heir and ruler to another dukedom. This misfortune has occurred twice in the last hundred years, with the Duke of Drakland having nominal, and apparently a reasonably lawful claim to Broadmore itself, each time. The Roth family had always been one of Broadmore's strongest noble families, and had been more than competent Earls at the time of the original inheritance dispute, and had led the largely successful armies of Broadmore ever since. In reality, just two things had kept the Duchy of Broadmore independent. First, their armies were large and more than competently led, while Drakland's noble families tended to send it's more clever sons into the more esteemed navy instead, leaving the incompetent and mediocre to officer their army. Drakland might rule the seas, but any armies they landed upon Broadmore's shores tended to meet a swift and decisive, and invariably ignoble defeat. Secondly, no one in the Southern Duchies really wanted for there to be a king, even a lawful one. Any Duke that could indeed control two or more of the lands would be indeed just that, a King. Once this precedence was allowed or accepted it would only be a matter of time before the other Duchies were coaxed or forced into what would end up being a large unified southern kingdom, virtually a rival in size and power, if not in wealth, to either the Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire or Caestor. This would eventually mean a real war... a great huge utterly terrible and unprofitable war that not even the Duke of Drakland really wanted. Or, at best a trade war that would cripple the entire south. By far, the status quo was better for everyone, but the Drakland Dukes were a rather stubborn sort, and they had long memories. They didn't really want the crown either, but it was the 'principle of the thing' that stirred their blood. Greeting the Lady Ayleth, he looked at her a few times in confusion, particularly at her prominent facial scars, and then he burst into a bit of laughter. "So, the mighty and haughty daughter of Emdyn de Mosena, the penny-pinching Duke of Tellismere, has had her legendarily famed beauty somehow marred and diminished! Oh such a fate for such a proud and headstrong lass, who was much too great of a prize for any mere Duke to aspire to her hand! I keep your locket portrait still in my vest as a reminder for me to keep to my own lower station in life! The story of the way you refused the audience of my troth-party, sent to bargain the terms of our consorting is still told by the gléaman of my castle to the delights of my court. I had the countenance of a 'homely long-eared donkey' you uttered to them, 'best suited to becoming the consort to the daughter of a fishmonger'. Rare praise indeed from a lady of your acknowledged beauty. Did you lose a catfight with one of your lady attendants, for I've heard well of what sort of private nighttime entertainments you normally prefer." Lady Ayleth's jaw dropped with shock and horror at this dressing down, and she nearly considered a response of near equal venomous spite before she calmed herself to reply more carefully. She had wanted a new powerful protector that could return her to her home, and this Duke proved to be her best opportunity to obtain her escape. Besides, even if his ears were a bit too big, he was the most powerful lord available to her at the moment. Her father could smugly cancel the wedding after she was returned safely home. "My dear Duke... Kelvin. I must apologize for my innocent mistake! Your portrait that I had received, I can see now was ill-rendered indeed, for you are a much more handsome and distinguished man than I had ever expected you to be. And your acclaimed prowess in battle, good sir, is unequaled. Now that my foolish misconceptions have been so readily corrected, and aptly so, my lord, I would be a frivolous fool of a young girl if I did not see indeed that you are in fact a most suitable marriage partner." "So," the Duke said, with more than a gleam of mischief in his eyes, "if I were to bend to my knees this very moment in supplication, my hand offered willingly and freely to yours, you would indeed accept at once and without reservation?" "Indeed Sir, I would!" "This would not trouble you, that I becoming your husband and lord, would in near time inherit as well your father's Duchy, to add to my own, thus I would become your very King?" "No my lord, this would indeed cause me no dismay, for our lives would be together, as one!" "Ah, by this of course, you mean that you quite intend to rule by my side, as co-equals. No my Lady, I'm afraid this shall never be!" "Please my Lord! Take pity upon me! I shall make whatever oaths you like, to vow to submit to your authority and will on all matters. It shall be you and you alone that shall rule!" "Tempting... so very tempting, but I'm afraid I must decline your tenderly given offer of matrimony. You are as irksome and irresolute as the sea; your word, or even your oaths are but leaves in the wind, forever free to wander without restrain. No! Despite your eager willingness to whore yourself out to the greatest bidder, or most temporarily convenient suitor, I would have naught to do with you! I see your scheming eyes and your will to do whatever it would take to have yourself taken away from here and removed to safety, but it shall not be my hands!" "Duke Kelvin, please!" She begged. "I am a noblewoman of the highest family, here far away from my home and family, please have pity on me! At least promise to take me alone with you, even as your prisoner, that I might be rid of these upstart peasants and fools, who so greatly impinge upon my will and freedom!" "I see. Is the Lady Ayleth then your prisoner?" He asked of the Count. "Indeed not!" He indignantly replied. "By the sworn oaths I have heard, before the sudden invasion of the Eorfleode onto our lands, the two lads and the Foole here were indeed quite ordered by her father to bear her to Corælyn, where it is hoped that a cure for her disfigurement can be found. Faced with the peril of protecting the Lady, and the needs of helping to defend the Duchy in its time of peril, this lad Rowan, who is the Lady's own acknowledged champion, had indeed done more than a lion's share in protecting a great number of the refugees from the slaughter further north, and he even formed a small army of his own with which to defy the Boar-Men of their conquest of this land. It is by his hand, and not this Lady's, that I owe the preservation of my own lands and people. It is also by his doing that the war-bands that destroyed your town of Brydara were enticed back across the river, where his regiment, largely on its own, annihilated their total forces in this region. Most highly do I praise this man, her champion, and he is altogether worthy of it, along with his friends and associates. Not a word of ill shall I speak of them from my mouth nor hear falsely murmured from the lips of others, whose deeds are far less and of little honor." "So, her present companions are indeed quite suitable and appropriate for the care and protection of her Ladyship?" The Duke asked of the Count. "They are of the very best! Although they are admittedly low-born, they have within my very sight performed noble deeds better associated with heroic knights of legend. If I had such a daughter, I would have no qualms about giving her unto their care, for her protection, guidance, and not a considerable amount of reeducation!" The Duke once again roared into laughter. "My Lady Ayleth, I never heard such high praise for any man, as I have heard now spoken from this honest and loyal Count! I would that I could steal him from your father, to better serve me instead and protect my own subjects! I will listen no more to your harpy cries of ill-content, nor your pleas for rescue... even at any cost to what precious little remains of your honor and dignity. I now rejoice at the day that my suit to you was rejected for you are indeed among the very most depraved of women, and I now account myself to be lucky to escape the snare of your grasp. Even to bear the crown of a Kingdom upon my brow would be far too great of a price to pay for even the slightest additional companionship with you. Begone with you, O dishonest and petty woman, and never again would I willing have the dishonor of speaking or having our paths cross again! Instead, now, I would much like the honor of having some words with this most valiant young man, who deeds I would enjoy the hearing of in much greater detail, and in pleasanter company!" *********** Over a rather exceptional dinner that evening, Rowan attempted to regale the Duke with his rather understated and modest account of their recent undertakings, beginning with the attack of the Daemon, and the forging of the Daemon-Horn blade. After innumerable interruptions by Boyle and the Foole to correct or augment the tale, he gave up at length and let the gléaman tell the entire rest of the story his way. His narrative was much more interesting and engaging, even if it did slightly exaggerate some of their deeds. Gwenda was recovered enough from her wounds to join them at the feasting table and she remained mostly quiet all during dinner, and kept her right hand held in Rowan's left under the table for most of the evening. The Lady Ayleth pleaded a headache and stayed in her room, and frankly was missed by no one. "Hero's make the worst storytellers!" The Foole laughed as he finished his long tale and arose from the table to raise his wine goblet in a toast to Rowan and Boyle. "They're too busy being heroic while being scared half out of their own minds with fear at the same time. They see the danger only from a view of a few feet and don't get the proper perspective that a good storyteller or skald has, from the rim of the battle, seeing everything happening at once. Besides, if a young hero could weave-words the way that they weave their sword strokes, it would be famine and poverty for us faithful gléamen, and more misguided fools would then take up mimery instead... and that is a terrible fate that must be avoided at all costs, that alone is worthy of a toast!" "To Rowan, and to Boyle and the brave Gwenda! And to fewer mimes prowling the world, may the Eorfleode take and devour them all with pleasure, to their severe intestinal discomfort!" The feasters toasted with a loud shout and their cups raised high. Now that the telling of the story was done, the Duke found that he had much that he wished to discuss with Rowan, but nearly from the start they found that they could find little common ground. "Lad," the Duke said, sadly shaking his head, "I know all about that massive southern army of Boar-Men, and I believe it's heading now right straight back up north to the heart of your Duchy, but you must believe me when I say that at this time I can do nearly nothing to lend a hand. While I am not fond of the Duke of Tellismere, I do not bear him or his people any particular ill-will. If I did not face the very real fear of more coastal landings from that scoundrel, the Duke of Drakland, I would indeed gather up my armies and send them north in aid in your Duchy's defense, for certainly otherwise they would later turn again south to face my nearly unguarded northern borders once more." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 14 "Surely the Duke of Drakland can be made to understand that this Eorfleode invasion is far more important than his current disagreements with you. I do not pretend to understand the long history of ill-will between your two lands, but in the past all of the Southern Duchies have cooperated together when faced with an external threat. Surely this current situation is no different." "In ordinary times, I would say that we could indeed all band together, in cooperation, but at this time such a hope would only be a prayer. I would offer you the use of the force I've hastily gathered in my frantic ride here, but now even those troops must be sent further east, to Kenniford in the Lloan Valley, where I have heard that another Boar-Man army gathers. Like the remains of my southern town of Brydara, across the river here, I do not have but a handful of loyal guardsmen there, nor does your Duke have many soldiers there either. The Barons of those lands have always been proudly independent and wealthy, and pay little of the taxes due to either Duchy. They only pay what little they do now out of bribery to keep either of us from bringing in a large enough army to truly enforce our will over them, and collect the greater amount of taxes due to us. Now their short sightedness is going to cost them dearly, but still they are my liegemen, so I must do all that I can for them, even if they do not bear me the full loyalty that is my due." "My Lord, our path takes us next to Kenniford as well, to the defense of that great city as well. If you would but instead swear to take these soldiers with you, northeast to the defense of Tellismere instead, I would in turn swear to preserve your holdings there on the south side of the river, to the best that I can." "Much as I would prefer to accept your kindly and noble offer, and perhaps even prefer that another tend to this remote duty so that I could instead better handle these other crisis's that befall my lands, I could not allow you to do such, for it would be folly. You have currently but two companies of minimally trained soldiers, barely blooded, and a full half of them all bearing either walking sticks or bandaged arms, and quite unready for battle soon." "Unready or not, they shall fight! For we must fight... there is no other choice. Perhaps we shall gain fresh recruits along our path; otherwise I'm certain that I can find some means of encouraging those stubborn Lloan Valley barons to lend me their full and complete aid. With my protection of The Lady Ayleth, my words already speak for her father, but if I could also speak on your behalf as well, I could then create a unified force that could clear the east of Boar-Men. I greatly fear that there is yet another army further to the north, having crossed the Emerald River that may menace us as well, or perhaps it intends to invade Everdun, casting each of our Duchies into the flames of war." "Perhaps, that would be a sad report indeed!" The Duke pondered further and cast an appraising eye upon Rowan, as if making up his mind between several unhappy alternatives. At last he came to a decision, but it did not seem to appeal to him. "Sadly, my brave young lad, the dangers I face to the west and to the south desperately call for my attention, so I shall accept your pledge of assistance, although I greatly fear I have indeed given a job that would overwhelm most men to an overly young and green boy. Still needs must, when the war-drums sound! I shall give you a written charter that you may command on my behalf and in my name, and if you can bestir my proud barons into unified action and command their loyalty, then you are perhaps a greater leader of men than I am!" "I shall do my best, Your Grace." Rowan replied with a slight bow. "But what about aid for Tellismere?" "Lad, I too shall do my very best. Of that I promise. For the moment, before my small army heads back east, I can spare you a company of my trained guardsmen, perhaps two, if another company of untrained, ill-armed and equipped peasant recruits and conscripts will serve your needs. Upon this I can swear at once. Should I receive word that you have done the impossible and succeeded in clearing the east of Boar-Men, protecting my barons, their lands and holdings, and making them bend their proud knees to our service, I will owe you a great honor-debt that I can ill-repay. Even though it costs me my Duchy, I shall strip my lands and coastal cities and towns of their guardsmen, and I shall gather every young man, lad or lass in the Duchy to come with me north, to Duke Emdyn's defense, or to help avenge his death until the last invader is dead or has fled back into the Brittle Mountains." "If you can hold to that oath, my Lord, then I shall most happily accept it!" Rowan exclaimed, clasping the Duke's hand in gratitude and friendship. I shall hold and swear!" He affirmed, and Rowan accepted his oath, witnessed by the Foole. "I shall also pledge to do my best to seek terms or even a year's armistice with the Duke of Drakland, and even request his assistance so that our troops may be taken north by his fleet, instead of a bitter march north, following in the wake of the carnage and destruction of the Boar-Men. Otherwise, I do greatly fear that there will not be much of the Duchy left to protect or preserve. My father was happy as an Earl and never really wanted to rule the Duchy, except to keep it out of the hands of a King. I have had tried to do the same, but these are very difficult times to rule with any wisdom or justice, and not bear the steel of a despot. In fact, it would be good as well to have a written charter bearing the signature and seal of the Lady Ayleth, as well... just so that there are no potential misunderstandings about a Broadmore army traveling upon Tellismere lands." "An excellent thought!" Oddtus exclaimed. "As she is indisposed this evening, I shall speak with her on the morrow and attend to this detail myself. I would assume that His Grace will not be leaving until later in the day?" "Quite. I have a charter of my own to scribe, and I shall be speaking with my commanding general in the morning as well, to obtain your volunteers. He won't be happy about losing any of his men, or even any of his new conscripts, but I'm sure many of the young recruits or veteran guardsmen have family of their own in the Lloan Valley, and will be eager to join your regiment to see to their protection. All of your volunteers will indeed be willing ones." This hope was quite fulfilled, at the early morning muster, a mix of nearly three hundred veterans and untrained recruits all stepped forward to willing, and even eager to volunteer. Two new companies, each of a hundred men and lads were selected and they made their oaths of loyalty and obedience to Rowan, Boyle, Gwenda and Lady Ayleth's Own Regiment. Many of the Duke's returning men offered up their weapons and pieces of armor so that most of the volunteers could be as well equipped as was possible. In addition, another thirty-six of the Duke's cavalry also volunteered to give Boyle a full company of one hundred and twenty men as well, nearly all being veterans in the saddle and most well skilled at the art of horse archery. These new additions greatly added to the confidence Rowan was just barely beginning to feel about his chances for possibly surviving battle with the numerous and mostly larger Eorfleode forces they would undoubtedly soon find in the east, upriver. As the Duke had said, it was an impossibly overwhelming job... but none of the rest of the Regimental Counsel had even considered overruling him, or questioning the wisdom of his judgment. He was certain that he was leading everyone once again to their certain death and doom. Boyle and Gwenda would follow him into the gates of hell itself, he was fairly certain, but he had expected the Foole to offer him some sort of contrary advice. Instead, the gléaman was quite high spirited, even giving the lad a good many pats upon the back in congratulation for his bargaining with the Duke. He even expected to hear some sort of complaint, or word or two of reason from the Lady Ayleth when he spoke with her the next morning to formally announce his plans to march northeast up the Hythe River, upon the following morning, but she just nodded her head and muttered "Ok". Like it or not, everyone was now counting on him to lead them onwards into certain peril, and it was with more than a little misgiving that Rowan lined up the regiment to salute the Duke farewell that noon. Already, at the very crack of dawn that morning, Gwenda had gathered the soldiers and sorted the newcomers carefully into the regiment, trying to give each company an equal amount of trained veterans and young volunteers. Once again they now had three full companies, each of a hundred men, plus a new 4th Company, which held all of the walking wounded now assigned to be a reserve unit. Already they had conducted their first combat training drill, with the help of several veteran sergeants that had been among the new volunteers, now newly assigned as the commanding officers of each of the companies. They would drill with hardly a break for rest for the remainder of the day, and again, even before breakfast the following morning, as they would begin their road marching and training routine. Boyle, along with his Lieutenant Loren, had their slightly augmented cavalry resorted out as well, giving several particularly veteran horsemen the commands of the four squadrons, each of thirty mounted troopers with a good mix of veterans and relative novices, so that each squadron was judged to be about equal in effectiveness. Boyle had them off scouting to the north and to the east, so that they would know what dangers surrounded them at the moment. There was a very good and wide but unpaved dirt road that followed the river northeast, until it arrived at Kenniford. They hoped to be able to use this route for most if not all of their journey and the cavalry would need to ensure that no unpleasant surprises awaited them nearby. ********** With most of the refugees now safely emplaced in either Ruromel, or joining the new settlers that were already rebuilding Brydara across the river, their collection of camp followers was significantly reduced. Nearly all of the injured, elderly and orphaned children had found new homes, and the remaining non-combatants, such as women with children, all had family within the regiment or support duties to perform. With time to properly repair or replace their baggage and wagon train of supplies, which were now also much restored, the wagons were less heavily loaded and could now move faster, and hopefully with fewer breakdowns. Indeed, it was now hoped that everyone would now be able to keep up with pace of the regiment at a normal march pace of a league an hour, which would nearly double the miserably slow speed that they had made earlier travelling south from Elmcrygh. The Duke's slightly reduced army was bid farewell, and it in turn saluted the regiment and shouted three cheers for Rowan as they marched west to board the ferries taking them across the river, and soon they were out of sight. The regiment prepared to make its own march northeast the following morning, and the three ready companies of soldiers were drilled non-stop that afternoon until dinner time, while the members of the wounded reserve company packed and loaded their heavy gear onto the repaired or replaced wagons. Sacks of extra grain were loaded by the new quartermaster and his assistants among the camp followers, along with as many bundles of arrows as they had been able to make or scrounge during their stay in town. They had found several trained fletchers and put them to work making arrows full time during their stay, but even their first battle might exhaust nearly all of their limited supplies. Available or not, no archer wished to use any of the blood red fletched Boar-Men arrows that had been recovered from the battlefield, and all were tossed onto the bonfires that burned their corpses. ********* All in all, the counsel agreed at the Count's feasting table that night, that they were about as ready for their next challenge as they were likely to be, or at least anytime soon. It took months to turn green conscripts or raw volunteers into properly trained fighting men or women, and it was hopeless to think that they would ever have the time to complete the job properly. Still, Gwenda and her company commanders would do their best... and it would just have to do! Boyle's scouts had found only old tracks on or near the road to the northeast, searching from the river out and around it for several leagues the previous day. Disturbingly, they were still finding fresh goblin tracks to their north, near a large thick woods that could give the night-goers plenty of cover. What this meant, no one was quite certain. The púcel were certainly no threat at all to the regiment and a very unlikely threat to the town. Loren thought that this was still the very same group that had followed them south from Elmcrygh, but the motive for this migration was quite unknown. Goblins, even as raiding bands, didn't tend to travel far from their secure mountain, forest or hillside homes. He couldn't even be sure of their numbers, whether this was just a few dozen or a few hundred, as they were skilled at hiding their tracks. Everyone agreed that they would bear watching. The Lady Ayleth had indeed signed the charter granting welcome to Duke Kelvin's armies in defense of Tellismere, and with considerably less bother than was anticipated. In fact Oddtus just wrote out the document himself and placed it in front of her to sign, which she did after quickly reading it and then nodding her approval. She then produced her seal with a minimum of fuss and applied it to the hot wax. No deep sighs of anguish, no complaints, and no recriminations. The lads had no doubt at all that Oddtus could have quite adequately forged both her signature and seal, but it was pleasant to find that at least one potential crisis had passed without the Lady sticking her nose into the matter and selecting the absolutely worst possible decision to make, and then sticking to it in obstinacy long after she had been told the drawbacks of that course of action, and had been vastly out-voted by her counsel. The very idea that a Ducal Lady could be 'out-voted' at all, still confused and greatly annoyed her, but at least for today they were all in agreement. Rowan, in turn, had the Duke's charter of authority in a waterproof leather tube that he now wore on his war-belt. Even with the Lady Ayleth's knowledge and willing concurrence, the possession of this document was probably treasonous. The two Dukes had never been friendly, but they had never been at war with each other either, even over their unenforced rights and privileges in the contested Lloan Valley. Most of the Tellismere's Duchy holdings were north of the Hythe River, and Broadmore's to the south, but not quite all of the lands were so clearly distinguished apart. In fact, there were a good many areas of very confused loyalty where no one was really sure which Duchy they belonged to -- if the local barons even particularly cared. Duke Emdyn might easily and creatively misinterpret this mission to preserve the Lloan Valley from invasion, even to maintain the status quo. Somehow, he was pretty sure that the weak-minded Duke back home was sure to put the worst possible interpretation on his actions... no doubt with the ready help of his daughter. From the demonstration that she had put on before the Duke of Broadmore, to offer virtually anything and everything she had to bend him to her will, Lady Ayleth had displayed clearly that she was still not to be even remotely trusted. She had probably conducted a fair bit of treason herself, offering up herself and her inheritance, the Duchy, to willingly form a new Southern Kingdom. Such an audacious act would definitely infuriate Drakland, and might even plunge Everdun and maybe even the Duchy of Oswein, or perhaps also the Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire into a major regional war to prevent this. The status quo was stable, and reasonable profitable for everyone. Such a major change would threaten everyone, economically if not exactly militarily. The Counsel met mostly nowadays without the Lady present, and privately they all agreed that the treacherous young woman needed at least one firm eye kept on her at all times. The Foole, having no other significant military duties, was usually already covertly performing this task, but he agreed to keep an even firmer watch on her, at least for the present. ************ At the first light of dawn, the regiment was up and ready for their march. The wagons were hitched up to the horses and in a ready line by the front gate. The Count and his arms-men then gave Rowan and his regiment a formal farewell, with much cheering by all. The three ready companies moved into their marching positions at the front with the 4th reserve company guarding the rear with the camp followers and the wagons. Gradually, as the marchers fell into their rhythm, the regiment picked up the pace to the fastest level that everyone could keep up with, making just over a league each hour. Indeed, now they were traveling much faster than they had done recently on the road south, and they began to have the hope that soon they could start catching up with some of the smaller Boar-Man war-bands. They resumed the old schedule of stopping briefly at noon for a field defense exercise and a cold meal, and then again having a full hour long defense and weapons practice in the gloom before dinner. The old routine soon felt familiar once more and Rowan began to slowly relax his near constant dread and worry. Trouble would indeed come in due time, but morale was high and his men proved themselves to be ready and willing to fight! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 15 For the next two marching days the regiment made good progress, nearly thirteen leagues. The wounded of the 4th Reserve Company still slightly kept the pace slower than Rowan would have preferred but he would not ever offer a single word of complaint to the many still injured. They had fought and held their ground while their friends around them had died, all in the name of Rowan and his infernal sword. They trusted and believed in him and he knew he must never let their faith in him down! If a few extra rests were necessary, or a slower pace taken in the afternoon, then so be it. Boyle kept at least three squadrons of his cavalry out scouting in all directions on their side of the river, at any given time. They were finding slightly more recent tracks of the enemy now and many signs of their cruel advance through these lands. Burned out farms, hamlets and villages were everywhere, with the few survivors seeking refuge to slowly add to their camp follower train. Many of the farmers had had just enough time to release their herds and flocks, giving them a chance to escape the always ravenous Boar-Men. The scouts were able each night to bring back a number of slain hogs, sheep or even a few sides of beef. Camping each night in the ruins of a sacked village, there were also a number of chickens that were easily caught and even a few sacks of grain or fall harvest produce left in barns that hadn't quite entirely burned down. For the moment at least anyway, this creative scrounging saved much of their wagon supplies while giving their folk two good solid meals each day. No one could ask for any more! As they traveled, the rear cavalry guard continued to report regular trace sightings of the goblins. The night-goers were still on the trail of the company but always staying at least half a day's travel away, keeping their distance, moving only by night, but following the regiment's tracks. With fresh mud from the autumn rains making their tracking easier, the more skilled scouts estimated that this was not a goblin war-band, but nearly an entire tribe of perhaps three hundred púcel. Even the Lore-Master had never heard of such a migration in these circumstances of an entire goblin tribe. Never did they leave their females and children so unprotected in the midst of a great war that surrounded them now on all sides. Grudgingly, it was agreed that this tribe didn't seem to want to make trouble... but no one could figure out at all what mission or mischief had driven them out from their homes in the Juniper Mountains, now quite far away. There was also little cover here on these plains to give them shelter at night, and it was decided that if the goblins were still on their trail in another day or two, then it might be time to send the cavalry closer into to get a better look at them. ************* During the next day, it rained heavily nearly without a pause and the regiment considered itself fortunate to make just a bit over five leagues. They held an extra long practice drill during lunch and quit early for the day to allow for a lengthy two hours of weapons practice. They reasoned that they might not always fight in good weather on firm hard ground, and so the companies toiled in the muddy fields outside of another burned village until they were completely exhausted and covered in mud. Still, most of them had learned at least a little now about how to fight with mud up to their very knees. After the companies were dismissed to clean themselves and their gear off in a nearby fresh stream, Rowan impatiently awaited the latest report from Boyle. The forward scouts had found nothing menacing in the way of their next day's march, but Boyle had accompanied the rear patrol today, to check upon their stealthy followers, the goblins. Just as the regiment was seating itself for dinner in shifts, under the roof of the old barn not burned down, his pal returned and with news. "We found the little buggers, camped out in the old village we stayed at last night. I could smell roasting chicken for miles away, so they caught all of the ones that our folks missed last night. They let us get to within about a hundred yards of them before they sent out a few arrows in front of us to warn us to stop, and we did. They didn't shoot any more at us so we stopped and waited for a while to see what would happen next. Eventually three of their warriors came forward with one of their holy men or shamans and we had a parley. Their shaman did all of their talking and he spoke the common tongue fairly well. In short, they're deliberately following us because they believe than an old púcel prophecy is about to come true and they want to be nearby to witness it in person." "Goblin's have prophecies? I thought that they couldn't use magic, even the wild forms!" Rowan asked the Lore-Master, as he and Boyle approached him a few minutes later near the cookfires, where the Lady Ayleth was holding court. "No, the goblins have never used magic, at least so far to my knowledge, but like us they have their own Moon-Women who sometimes speak prophecies. I have never read any of their sacred books, to read their predictions, but they follow the whims of the Weavers, as do we." "Further," Boyle announced, now that he had a proper audience, "they are very much impressed by our young commander and sword waving hero! They watched the skies over Elmcrygh blaze orange with fiery light and they would very much want to meet the man who made it happen. He is 'important' they say in what will come next. Then the old goblin shaman began to get very poetical and I couldn't hardly catch or understand a single word he said after that." "Their shaman wants to see me?" Rowan uttered in great surprise. "They do, and if you will come tomorrow morning at dawn, I think another parlay or even a truce can be arranged. I just don't think they're looking for any sort of trouble, not with all of their females and young present as well. Will you come? If we leave about three in the morning and ride briskly we should get there in time." "I don't think I have a choice, so I'll come. If the goblins want to talk, I'll listen. Anything to prevent a fight neither of us wants." "And I shall come as well, as shall my apprentice!" The Histrio announced. "For I think I know or at least remember a little of their language, so if their shaman speaks of their prophecy in their tongue, I might be able to learn a bit more. It has been since the days of the Dragon War that goblins and men spoke together in parley, and I am indeed eager to present at the next such meeting of these two long conflicted races." "What happened the last time the two races met in parley?" Boyle curiously asked the Foole, but seemed rather reluctant to reply. "An agreement was reached and their common goals were achieved... but there was an unfortunate misunderstanding shortly afterwards and the agreement was breached. There was retribution and revenge and the killing goes on to this very day. More than that I cannot say..." Nor did the Lore-Master say anything further on the matter that night or early the next morning. ************ Waiting outside of the village in the early morning cool air, Rowan found himself beginning to get extremely nervous and quite impatient. They had arrived near the ruined village about a half hour before dawn and their party waited well out of bow range until the sun began to rise. Along with Rowan, Boyle, the Foole, Ashburn, and a dozen cavalrymen watched in readiness, waiting for the shaman to come forth to speak to them. The sun was now fully emerged into the sky but yet the goblin leader had not come. "There has been blood shed inside of their camp during the night." Oddtus said, sniffing the air. "Quite a bit of it. Goblins have different smelling blood than we do, it's more coppery and has a bit of a stronger stench when spilled. Perhaps the shaman has been killed and there will be no parley. If they fire arrows at us again then we will know their mind and can quickly ride away, but let us wait yet awhile to see what happens. Perhaps they are still late in their own counsels." Indeed, that quite seemed to be the case, for it was several minutes later before the goblin holy man did indeed emerge from the town, along with his three bodyguards, two of whom showed bandages from a recent fight. "Oath-breakers! You have come... then is the flame-wielder present, he who bears the Daemon-Horn blade?" "I am Rowan, of Swanford Village far to the northwest, and I forged and bear the Daemon-Horn blade. With whom do I speak, that we might make parley?" With that acknowledgement, he gave the shaman a slight nod and then his drew his blade from its scabbard and held it forward, slowly pointing it down towards the ground and towards the goblin for his inspection, but never actually pointing it at him. Bidding his guards to remain where they were, the goblin leader walked forward to step nearly in front of the blade and cautiously looked it over from all sides, with his hands passing close to, but never actually touching the blade. With a careful glance at Rowan as well, the shaman took a few steps back and addressed the human party. "It is true, the Daemon-Horn blade has come to this world and has been forged." The shaman announced, with a slight bow of his own to Rowan. Then he turned to his guards and shouted "Ave'si!" The three guards then all fell to their knees in the soft roadway mud and bowed before Rowan, as his sword began to glow ever brighter, but not in a particularly threatening manner. The guards then arose and turned and ran back to their tribesmen and soon the sounds of "Ave'si" rang loudly from the town. Soon there came a flood of púcel, all running to the men shouting with apparent joy. The men were startled at first, perhaps expecting some sort of surprise attack, and most drew their weapons, but then put them again away moments later as each of the new approaching goblins fell to abase themselves before the infernal sword and its bearer about twenty yards ahead of the horsemen. "Curious!" The Lore-Master muttered, quite beside himself with confusion and surprise. "And most unexpected. It seems that their prophecy concerns your sword lad, and that is not altogether a good or comforting thing. This means it is most certainly the end of an age -- the end of the sort of world that we once knew. True, a new age shall begin... but change is always unsettling, and not always for the better." "What does 'Ave'si' mean?" Rowan whispered to the Foole. "Truth, or literally 'It is so!' Usually used in a divine sort of way, as if used in prayers, or discussing the laws of the Gods. This means that they accept the truth of the prophecy, and of you... for good or ill. Soon perhaps we shall find out why." Oddtus muttered, not at all comfortable with this curious new reality that he had suddenly found himself trapped in. "Indeed!" The goblin shaman pronounced. "It is indeed so! The 'oath-breakers', or 'Fex'oegh' have indeed come with the sword of prophecy and an old age of this world begins to reach its end. Some say that by the ending of an age that all oaths are thus broken and must be made anew at the start of the new one. If this be so, even the great oath-breaking can now be in time forgiven and perhaps forgotten. We cannot make peace-oath or alliance, nor of written treaty with you, the Fex'oegh, the most hated of our enemies, as of yet, until this age is done, but instead perhaps we can still make some limited agreement, or at least a truce between your small tribe of warriors and mine." "Such a truce or greater agreement would be welcome to me, and would indeed swear the oath of peace between us, if it were indeed possible to do so." Rowan replied. "Sadly, such a thing is not possible at this time, but our hands could be merged this day in truce. It is good that one of the Cisalo, the hands of our God Gléagerád, is indeed present to bear witness, also indeed fitting as one was also present to hold and take the oaths of our peace long ago. Such a misfortune that the Fex'oegh did not honor theirs and the Cisalo then gave only empty hollow words after the betrayal. I see the Foole knows of exactly what I speak. Do you speak belatedly now of honoring that ancient oath-debt or shall the race of the púcel remain forever isolated from this world and its peoples? Shall our creator, and his Cisalo as well, continue to deny us what was promised, what was indeed our rightful due? Offered freely so long ago but forgotten, like our race, to darkness." "Much was indeed promised long ago." The gléaman sadly muttered, unable to meet his eyes with either the shaman's or that of Rowan's, who was certain that some very important things had just been said that he didn't at all understand. Unfortunately the Foole didn't seem at all inclined to make any further explanations. "The god indeed made many promises that due to seemingly important reasons at the time could not be later upheld, nor would any of The Seven support his efforts to make restitution after those terrible and desperate days were over. This is much to be regretted, and I would have things differently, if I could." After this Oddtus remained silent, despite Rowan's increasingly firm requests for to him to explain at least some of this past history. "The púcel may not live to the length of men, let alone that of the other surviving races, but we remember and keep our histories well Cisalo, and forget little and forgive even less. Created in secret by the god of Mirth and Wisdom, we were to be his own children, but instead we found ourselves muchly abandoned to the care of the first-born, the Draca and their kin, who bore us little love. Still we served them with faith and honor. When the war began between the Dragons and the rest of the second born races began, we would have joined with our brothers and sisters if they had but once offered a hand in friendship, but abandoned by our god, the other races had little interest in us even as allies. Lost between worlds, we served not the Dragons and their kin, even at such times as our service to them might have given us great rewards that had never been offered by the other younger races, but still we keep ourselves apart. As the young race of men entered the battle in ever increasing numbers, it soon became clear to our wisest leaders that the deadly stalemate might now be over and with our help, Men, Dweorg, Ylfe and Púcel could indeed rule this world together, in peace. At length such an agreement was finally made, that the púcel would join with its few remaining brothers and sisters of the second born races, and help the young race of humans. It was we, the now despised goblins, that first taught men the crafts of the forge, and how minerals and ores could be dug from the earth to feed them, not the dwarves, for they had as little interest or concern for men as they did for us. Thus were we in fact betrayed twice, for the race of men rapidly became our masters in every skill we could teach them, and then they began to belittle our contributions to the alliance. Once the terrible war was over, the second born races all retreated into the darker hidden and shadowy places of the world, to hide themselves in their weariness and to forget. With none of their elders to stay their hand, and the Gods were now much weakened and exhausted as well. There was no one left to remember the many oaths that had been made to the púcel, and men soon drove us from the best lands, driving us in their greed to the wilderness and to the mountains. We well remember the oath-breaking, humans... but yet there is still a way that our races can work together, at least this once more." "Is this all indeed so, Foole?" Rowan demanded. "Did your god indeed create this race but abandoned them, and that men and goblins did indeed once work together in peace and cooperation? If so, this is indeed a most terrible oath-breaking that shames us all, and especially your god! How say you to these charges, for I see the disgrace in your eyes that speaks to the truth of his words. How was this dishonor done, and what can be done now to right those dreadful wrongs?" Still the Foole's eyes and mouth remained closed, and his head hung low in shame. Now Boyle and Rowan realized that the Histrio had not told them the exact truth long ago when he described the coming of the second-born and the great war that resulted. Indeed, if apparently the púcel were the very first of the second born, then they indeed had claims of their own to some parts of this world, long before the coming of men. Such an abandonment and betrayal did not speak well of Oddtus' god. Perhaps it was other such ignoble betrayals that led to the Banishment of The Seven... and just perhaps such a harsh punishment was in fact quite warranted. "The Foole's silence bears the truth of your words, good púca. Let us dismount and share counsel, for I hope that we can indeed find common cause and keep peace between us. I am but one man and the men that bear my allegiance are few, and I have no claims to noble birth or titles of honor, but I shall speak honestly my words with you and bind them with oaths as need be, whether you shall accept them as truthful or not." ************** The negotiations between the two races continued for some hours, and the goblin leader Jim'ose had tea brought for everyone, and even later some freshly roasted chickens. The men discovered that the goblins were rather clever and talented cooks and they feasted heartily. A concord was reached, and it decided that the tribe of púcel could indeed continue to follow the regiment, even to a much closer distance of less than a mile away. Still, for now at least, the two would keep separate camps. Of the exact nature of the prophecy, Jim'ose would say little except that the infernal blade would flame and fill the sky with flame twice more, and when a tree did turn to ever-burning orange flame as well, then the race of the púcel could cease their wanderings and make new homes upon land of their very own, and that peace would be restored between them and the Fex'oegh, who would be at last forgiven for their oath-breaking. Rowan arose from the counsel fire and swore his oaths of friendship to Jim'ose, who made a slightly lesser pledge of his own, that didn't quite hold to a binding of a formal oath. Still everyone was happy or at least satisfied. It took the remainder of the afternoon for the goblin camp to make the final march to join near to the regimental camp, and everyone spent a rather cautious but interesting night close by together. Not all of the men and women were happy about this new limited partnership, but despite a lot of loud debate no one felt angrily enough about being near the night-goers to vote their disapproval with their feet. And so a lengthy and gradually improving détente began between the two camps. Jim'ose himself stayed fairly near to Rowan's side nearly at all times, along with his three personal guards who tried to keep to a watchful but discrete distance. Regularly messengers went back and forth between the two camps, until gradually the distances between the camps began to close. Curious humans and ever inquisitive goblins soon mingled about in each camp, somehow without a major diplomatic incident occurring. Soon, even goblin cooks were preparing the meals for both camps combined, after they complained loudly about the terrible smell and the poor quality of the stews that the human cooks made every evening. Without a doubt, the goblin cooked stews were much, much of an improvement, and meals became anticipated, rather than endured. The goblins were also masters at the art of foraging, which they seemed to indulge in nearly every available moment. As the two camps marched each day with the goblins at the rear, they still found plenty of time to scour the fields in all directions for unharvested crops, loose cows and chickens, and they even rounded a great number of hiding human strays. These refugees, certain that they were heading for a goblin stewpot, were astonished and delighted to find themselves soon safe and secure with the other camp followers. Rowan kept having to explain to each new batch of newcomers that goblins had never eaten human flesh, quite unlike the cannibalistic Boar-Men, that even consumed their own wounded for their ghastly meals. It was alright apparently to occasionally kill, or often rob the Fex'oegh, but to eat any of the children of the gods, either the second or third-born, even the freshly slain, was quite taboo - and quite against the teachings of their holy books. There was a technical exception allegedly granted for consuming the flesh of their old hated enemies the Eorfleode, but conventional wisdom was that their flesh wasn't even palatable to a starving youngling. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 15 In one of the next burned and devastated villages, a famished but frisky large shaggy dog was found rooting about in the ruins. This huge dog was nearly the size of a small pony and quite taller than most of the goblins, who rarely grew taller than three and half feet. Finding himself an unusual friend, the dog became close chums with one of the smaller goblin warriors, who soon had the notion of trying to fit a makeshift leather saddle on top of the enormous dog so that it could be ridden. After a few test rides, the goblin declared that they were both ready to join with the cavalry, and complete with a long spear the two of them dashed forth after the horsemen, and quite managed to keep up with their galloping pace. Boyle wasn't completely opposed to the idea, and after he managed to stop laughing himself silly, he took the eager young púca trooper aside to offer him the very important task of being his personal messenger. The dog with its rider could follow the horses anywhere, so that Boyle could send the young goblin hero off on his fast charging mount to quickly catch up with any of the patrols, to either give new orders or to recall the squadron of cavalry suddenly in an emergency. Such an emergency occurred two days later when the marching regiment ran quite unexpectedly into a large war-band of about two hundred Boar-Men that had stealthily hidden themselves and evaded Boyle's advance front scouts, much to their considerable embarrassment. Now, these two forces more or less collided into each other, with relatively little prior planning and preparation. Boyle sent off his plucky outrider to recall his rear and side cavalry squadrons, and Rowan and Gwenda hastily commanded the regiment to gather into their usual prepared defensive line at the front, holding the 4th Reserve Company back to protect the camp followers and the women and children. The goblins gathered their own warriors, which numbered about eighty, and placed them to the two wings of the reserve 4th, and stood there in readiness, with their own females and young mixed in with the humans. Standing together in battle for the first time in this age, arms-men and women, and púca joined together in arms against their common hated enemy the Eorfleode. *********** As was usual, the Boar-Men ran in loose groups rather than as a prepared united front, and Rowan, situated as usual in the center of the line in front of the middle of 2nd Company, gave orders for the men to prepare their shield wall tightly, to blunt the attacking waves along their front. Gwenda, much to her annoyance, was firmly sent back to the reserve company, twice. Her wounds were much improved, but she was still not at her best, and her left shoulder was still too weak to even bear her usual thrusting dagger for very long. For a change, Rowan's regiment outnumbered this war-band, and he was fairly optimistic that his soldiers could hold and slaughter this sloppy charge without taking too many casualties of their own. They had been blooded, and knew now what was expected of them -- to hold and fight in their line, and save the suicidal heroics for their leader. The battle in fact did not take long, barely in fact more than a quarter of a glass. Not a single boarman broke though the line and they suffered only about a dozen casualties, mostly in 2nd company in the center of the line, of which only two soldiers had died. Everyone was delighted to face these more favorable odds and their morale only increased further, if at all possible. As usual, not a single boarman had run away, and every single one had fought to the death, usually individually facing a few members of the battle-line at a time, outnumbered, out weaponed and armored. In fact both of the fatal injuries had occurred after wounded Boar-Men had fallen and the human soldiers had relaxed their guard before the crippled but still fighting creature had been completely finished off. Rowan had tried to stay close to the battle-line this time, and kept his advance to only a few paces out in front, taking short rests this time in-between groups of fresh attackers. On his own, he thought that he had slain about twenty or perhaps a few more by himself, as he kept his anger and temper in check, not creating for himself as much of a preferred target for his foe. He had no wounds himself and he endured with remarkable patience the angry complaints of Gwenda, that he had once more placed himself into extra danger, while she had been held back, unable to protect him this time. The cries of anger soon turned to a flurry of kisses, and the two lovers held each other close for a quite a long time. Boyle's scouts when they returned belatedly, too late even for the mopping up, reported signs of additional war-bands in the areas to both their north and east, mostly the size of the group they had just fought, but a few with even smaller war-bands. There did not seem to be any large unified and disciplined armies here, and the counsel discussed this stroke of luck that night. Nearly unanimously (the Lady Ayleth opposing), the goblin shaman Jim'ose was invited to join the leadership counsel, and he attended the meeting and offered much sage advice. Oddtus, the Lore-Master, had remained mostly quiet since the peace-weaving meeting, and he remained silent as well for most of this meeting as well, except to add his 'Yes' vote to the idea of trying to locate and entice each of the smaller bands of Boar-Men to attack them piecemeal, so that the regiment could destroy each of these small bands relatively easily and quickly, one small battle at a time, until this part of the valley was clear. This plan proved relatively easy to accomplish, and the cavalry easily caught the attention of several other area war-bands, and in turn led them slowly to the regiment for their destruction. These smaller, easier battles provided excellent training for the soldiers, and kept their casualties low and quite sustainable. In fact new recruits from refugees that were still being rounded up, were replacing every single slain member, and even adding a few additional trainees to the reserve company, which soon numbered nearly a hundred and fifty. More of the older wounded were now mostly recovered as well, enough so that Gwenda expressed her full confidence in them that they could be aptly used soon, in the event of a nastier battle or emergency. The new masses of refugees unfortunately once again began to slow their wagons, but Rowan just ordered additional training exercises to keep the soldiers alert and ready in the middle of each morning and afternoon, until the stragglers had caught up. ************ Three days, and five small easily won battles latter, the forward scouts announced that they could see the city walls of Kenniford just ahead. A vast host of Boar-Men, certainly numbered in the thousands were outside laying siege. For now the great city was apparently safe, but their forward path was now blocked and they had no ready means of getting themselves inside the city walls to help the defenders. Rowan ordered most of the cavalry to remain close, within a mile of so of their camp, and he ordered the regiment to dig a large square defensive field fortification and lay spikes in front on all sides, upon a small nearby hill that seemed to offer the most favorable ground for a defensive battle. It wasn't much, but it was better than facing a possible large pitched battle right on the middle of the roadway. This way at least, the four companies could stand in a square battle formation and protect the refugees and camp followers in the center. The goblins were especially skilled diggers and helped to prepare much of the trench and earthen wall rampart that surrounded their impromptu fort. There wasn't much room for the wagons, but they were unloaded and placed into their sides forming an inner shelter for the women and the children that could be fairly well protected from the Boar-Men's arrows. By mid the next morning, Rowan and his company commanders were satisfied with the crude fortification, and Rowan released his cavalry to try and carefully entice just a small perimeter war-band or two to come attack their fort. In effect to piecemeal slice off just a tiny part of the army at a time, and for the most part, during the next two days of off and on fighting, they were largely successful. One by one, they enticed isolated war-bands of one to two hundred Eorfleode at a time to their fort, and killed them off there with relatively little trouble. But as the deep dirt moat began to fill quite up with Boar-Men dead, the officers started to become a bit more worried. In-between skirmishes, the soldiers tried to empty out the ditch they had filled anew with dead once more, but it seemed like the regular cavalry patrols were now attracting more unwelcome attention than they would prefer to deal with. When two separate patrols returned nearly simultaneously, each with several hundred angry Boar-Men hot on their trail, the counsel became more than a bit worried that they had bitten off more than they could chew. The moment of truth came when the ditches filled to overflowing with Eorfleode dead, and the survivors walked across a sea of the wounded and dead to climb over part of the hastily erected spiked pole barricade and nearly broke through the lines of 3rd Company in two places. It took the reinforcements from the reserve to hastily to throw enough soldiers in the line to seal the breaches, and the butcher's bill was high. By the time the final charge was routed, sixty soldiers had been wounded and another thirty fallen dead, all in their place along the battle-line. Once again, the regiment was down nearly a full company in strength, but the company commanders tightened up their lines a bit and evened out the manpower so that 3rd company was restored to even strength with the other two main companies. It was now the reserves that enjoyed the most manpower, even after the healthiest of the walking wounding had been sent to one of the other companies. No accusations of cowardice were made; if a man or woman thought that they could still stand and bear arms, then they did so, with no cowards hiding to the rear with minimal wounds, seeking to avoid combat. This was quite unusual for any army, but their moral remained high and the soldiers sang ballads of glory while their swords and spears did their grim tasks. Still, no one in the Counsel ever wanted another one of those sorts of battles again. *********** Boyle reported that the cavalry was finding it increasingly difficult to just entice a small war-band or two now. They had fairly neatly already picked off most of the outside roaming units, and that they would have to go within easy sighting range of much of the siege army in order to find any further small war-bands. Clearly this was unacceptable. While everyone wanted to do everything they could to clear the siege of the city, but facing that entire army, or even half of it, would surely overwhelm their smaller weaker force. No one had much of an idea about how to remedy this problem until the goblin shaman offered a suggestion. "Fighting from now on behind these earth walls would be a very dangerous thing." The púca leader said. "Already your lines are weak, inviting breaches. Also, behind these earthen walls, my own warriors have been of very little use, except to stab between human feet at the Eorfleode. We must now fight smarter, not harder! First, let us try a different and more subtle means of enticement. As the púcel are a common slave race of the Boar-Men, we should be able to send small groups well into their siege camp to deliver misleading messages to their leaders. If we can misdirect at least half of the army elsewhere, then the relief of the city would be nearly certain. Secondly, we can also deliver reports of the regiment to individual war-leaders who would be certain to want the glory of the killing for themselves. Thusly, we can carefully lead and direct their war-bands here at arranged times, such as dawn, mid-morning, noon, mid-afternoon and dusk, leaving several hours between these smaller battles for rest and recovery. Finally, I suggest that you assume once more a straight battle-line formation. The horsemen can guard your flanks and my warriors will join the bowmen by firing their slings. My warriors and even most of the females are very good with a sling, and the river nearby offers some excellent large and round rocks perfect for their missiles. If we carefully hold and then envelop our foe, a normal battle-line will quickly carve up their numbers, and with little cost in our blood." As no one had any other ideas that even seemed remotely serviceable, the counsel accepted this plan. That night, the púcel would begin their campaign of misinformation, while the regiment spent much of their own rest time preparing a new nearby field of battle, with as many sharpened wooden spikes placed in front of the center of their line as was possible. When done, Rowan released all but the night watch, mostly goblins now, to their rest. Rowan just prayed that he had been wise in his temporary alliance with the goblins, and that they were not even now betraying them for plunder. Goblins did like plunder, rather a lot. Would their mysterious prophecy be enough to bind their loyalty? Rowan did not know the answer, nor did he desire to talk to the sullen gléaman. He was certain now that the Foole was keeping some secrets from him, and he was becoming desperately frightened that at least one of these secrets, if not willing and honestly revealed could cost some of all of his friends their lives. Rowan and Gwenda, as usual shared their sleeping blankets together, albeit still chastely for now as her wounds still gave her some discomfort. Sleep would not come for either of them during all of that long dark and misty night, but huddled together for warmth, their companionship increasing became more of a cuddle between lovers. ************** About midnight, Rowan found himself too restless, his head filled with worry, to even consider getting any sleep. He knew that he hadn't been getting much lately, but sleep always seemed to evade him. His mind just raced, wanting to stay busy even as he tried to get a little rest. As he began to arise from his blankets, Gwenda, who was quite as awake as he was, began to arise as well. "Love, you never should have given up that tent they offered us. It did keep the rain off at the very least, and might have also provided us with a bit of privacy from time to time. I don't think we've had more than a few minutes of time alone together since we dragged ourselves naked and half-dead out of that damned swamp!" She whispered and gently bit his ear as she embraced him. "I just couldn't keep it. It didn't bother me so much that we only had a handful of tents and nearly everyone else that mattered to me was going to be sleeping on the ground and enjoying the gloomy rainy fall weather. It was the fact that the damned tent was the only place I could ever get two uninterrupted minutes all to myself, to think. In just two days of using it got to the point where I didn't want to leave the tent in the morning at all, because the second my nose poked through the canvas folks would start asking me damned stupid questions, as if they didn't have any mind left of their own! I knew that in just another day or two, I'd start to act like the Lady Ayleth, and keep to my tent and not even leave it for meals! Like it or not, I somehow found myself running this circus, and there are a lot of people... too damned many people, that look to me for answers. Answers that I usually don't even have myself. I can't even enjoy meals anymore, let alone enjoy holding a certain young woman that I've become increasingly fond of, but never have time to show it!" "Ah, well that my love, can be corrected... well at least partially anyway. It's a nice dark night and I don't think anyone will go into a panic if we wander off a bit for a late night swim! The river is just over there outside the camp and even with the cold rain the current is not too bad, especially for your strong arms and shoulders! Mine is still throbbing and hurts, and maybe a little stretching will soothe it and give me a few minutes of peace as well. Otherwise I've got to wake up the Foole and ask him for another sip of the poppy juice. I hate taking that stuff! It lets me sleep at night alright, but it makes me feel stupid and wool-headed in the morning, so I only take it when I have to, a few times a week. Tonight, I'd rather have a swim... and maybe a little romp afterwards, if I can persuade you to feel inclined." "Lady, I am always inclined, where you are concerned! It is true that we've not had an evening of proper privacy since we left Silana. Your shoulder, side and leg wounds haven't helped that matter much either, plus no one paid the slightest bit of attention to your shut bedroom door back at the Count's keep, and everyone and their dog kept barging in without knocking, and hovering over you like an invalid every few minutes. I despaired of even managing to steal a kiss, in-between all of the innumerable interruptions!" "Well tonight my dear, even if but for a few stolen minutes, at least some of our time will be our own once again!" She whispered, and again nibbled his ear while her right hand gently stroked his stiffening cock through his leather trousers. Together, now hand in hand, they quietly moved out of the camp down toward the riverbank, and once there they waved off the pair of goblins that were keeping the nightly river watch to move a bit further downstream, and the two lovers slowly undressed each other. The water was cold from the recent rain, but as long as they stayed close to the shore the current was quite manageable. They swam up and down the near side of the river, as deeply out as they dared, but Gwenda's shoulder soon locked up tighter, rather than loosened with the exercise. Apparently the cold water was worse than the chilly night air upon her wound. Far sooner than Rowan would have preferred, the couple quit their swim to huddle naked in their blankets together, along the grassy riverbank. With their arms now around each other, Rowan soon discovered that his girlfriend indeed now had other sorts of exercise in mind. "With our love having solely consisted of just my taking your seed into my mouth, or sprayed upon my fingers, our courtship has ill-progressed indeed. In fact, these were minor deeds I'd performed long ago for even my most casual lovers. As my heart-song, to be able to claim you wholly as mine, to mark you and accept you as my lover, but not yet my declared and accepted husband, it is past time that you accepted another of my gifts to you, specifically the taking of another of my orifices of love. As my flows are about to be upon me, I offer particularly this night my bottom for your acceptance and enjoyment. I've noticed that you enjoy looking at my ass, and now it is well past time that you had further and deeper enjoyments of that particular pleasure." With that she reached into a small string bag that she had brought along with her, and produced a small ceramic vial of olive oil. Once she had carefully lubricated his cockhead and shaft, she moved herself onto all fours and bid him to use his fingers to oil and gently penetrate her asshole with his oily fingers, to gently lubricate her passage before entry. She well knew that his cock was rather large and thick, and even with the lubrication she needed to grit her teeth a moment while she relaxed herself enough to fully take in his member. When Rowan had completely inserted himself inside of her, he caressed her hair, shoulders and neck as he gently began to thrust in and out of her. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 15 Soon her momentary discomfort at accommodating his great size began to fade and instead she found herself becoming increasingly aroused, and even feeling now quite warmer and more comfortable while exposed to the cool air. As Rowan's thrusting became more enthusiastic as he penetrated her ever harder and deeper inside of her ass, she began to glow all over from the stimulation and growing pleasure. Soon she dropped her head and shoulders onto the blanket with her face now caressing the soft warm wool as she held her ass high in the air for her lover to thoroughly penetrate and use for his pleasure. All too soon in her mind, her weary and bone-tired lover spent himself inside of her bowels and they collapsed on top of each other flat on the blanket with his cock still inside of her, mashed between her ass cheeks and slowly gently softening. Happy and in blissful peace, the two lovers just barely managed to cover themselves with their blankets before Gwenda dozed off into a restful sleep. Rowan spent the remaining hours of the night holding her and keeping her still recovering shoulder as warm as he could with his own, until he woke up at the first light of dawn. "Now at last my love," she murmured as she awoke, "I have bound you twice to me! And when the perils of our path do at last free themselves for our love, then shall the last of my gifts be presented to you and never again then shall we be parted, either by war or by stern duty. Then shall our love be made fully manifest, and our final oaths made to each other." The lovers cuddled for but a brief moment in the fresh sunlight of a new day, and pledged their love to each other, that despite the demands of honor and duty, their first responsibilities would be to each other. ************ All too soon, the heavy new duties of the brand new day fell upon them, and of the forthcoming and impending attack by a small war-band of Boar-Men, guided to them by the faithful goblins, who rapidly disappeared in the early morning light as their gullible prey was lead right to the center of the regimental battle-line. The early morning fighting was brief and not particularly heavy, and only a few soldiers received even minor wounds. The goblin's cunning plan was indeed working to absolute perfection, and the regiment eagerly awaited their next collection of foes. For all of that day and again all of the next, every few hours the goblins regularly and promptly delivered increasingly eager small war-bands of Boar-Men, who soon fell like wheat before a reaper at the front of the regiment's battle-line. Their casualties were few, and mostly minor, but a couple of brave warriors joined their previously fallen companions to make their journey to the Shadowlands. Soon, it was reported that most of the original enormous army had indeed decamped from the siege of the town and had moved on elsewhere, apparently somewhere to the east. Rowan was not at all sure that the startling success of this plan to relocate the army wouldn't in fact create even greater difficulties in the future, but for now, at this very moment, he was quite well satisfied. The remaining Boar-Men army totaled perhaps only about a thousand, and they were clearly insufficient now to force an entrance into the walled city. Now the counsel thought that their regiment could indeed advance onto the plains surrounding the town and decisively break the siege, assuming that any sort of support was available from within. More than once, Rowan had fretted about the complete lack of ship transport that could have borne at least a tiny part of their forces into the city, so that their efforts could have been coordinated. Without this option, and for the lack of any better plans, now that the remaining war-bands remained firm to their purpose, the destruction of the city, it was with great reluctance decided that the regiment must move forward and engage the remaining Eorfleode forces, even though they were outnumbered upon the field of battle. Still Rowan had little fear; although individually stronger and perhaps braver than most humans, the Boar-Men fought poorly and with few organizational skills. Accordingly, with his increasingly trained force, he viewed his individual soldier as being at least a match for any single boarman... and in concert with their companions, a far superior military force. The members of the regimental counsel may have had their individual misgivings, but no one could deny the fervor that their men and women felt, to drive off the invaders from their land and release their agricultural heartland from its oppression. Why Rowan felt the need to drive his forces onwards, into more than certain peril, he was not at all sure. Faced with the absence of the Oddtus's normally wise advice and counsel, the lad was now mostly on his own, save the advice that Boyle and Gwenda could provide him. Now was the time! Somehow of this he was certain, and he ordered the regiment forward, into the relatively flat and fertile river valley that surrounded the great city of Kenniford. This was to be his moment of destiny; to fulfill the oath he had given to the Duke of Broadmore. The Boar-Men would be slaughtered and the great city would be relieved. Of this he was certain. Nothing else held any other importance or significance to him. He would fulfill this great oath and then all of his duties would be done. Then he would once again become just Rowan the smith, with but simple duties left to perform. He would see his oaths done to assist the Lady to her cure, and everyone then home again safely... or at least back once again to their homeland, should any of it be left unspoiled. His job then done, the future heroics could be left for others, for hadn't he done already at least his own full measure? ************ The regiment marched into the valley, and the remaining thousand... or was it in fact several thousand, Boar-Men seized to their weapons and abandoned their final assault upon the city, and before they were quite aware their entire might fell upon Rowan and his friends, and their regiment, and the entire bloody affair soon descended into utter indescribable and bloody chaos. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 16 Survivors of the Battle of Kenniford swore that as bad as this battle had been, the dreadful defense of the town of Ruromel had been worse, but Rowan was not at all sure. Only the deadly accurate missile fire of the goblin slingers had kept the sides of the battle-line clear enough to allow the flanking cavalry archers the freedom to sweep the opposing Eorfleode ranks with bow fire deadly enough to keep their center line from being massively overwhelmed, right from the very start of the battle. Their companions fell like autumn leaves in the battle-line to be replaced by the next rank, and then the next, until at last the wounded members of the reserve came forward to desperately hold the line, but still the Eorfleode horde seemed inexhaustible. Right from the very start, Rowan placed himself into the center of the battle-line and his sword blazed with daemonic fury as the brave lad sought to carve down entire ranks of the enemy entirely on this own. No Eorfleode spear or sword could get close enough to touch him, but the field of battle was just too great for his prowess or skill with his infernal blade to have any meaningful effort on the final battle. Gwenda, once again right at his side, with dual weapons in hand and disdaining the use of a heavy shield, sought to keep his rear flank once again guarded, but he was on more than once occasion nearly overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. She looked to the city gates and knew that their relief force had been spotted, and that the main assaulting force had been diverted from their gates, but yet she could see no trace of any friendly sally from the gates, to fall upon the unprotected rear of the enemy that could deliver the fatal blows to their remaining forces. Surely the army of Boar-Men was now much decreased, but so too was their regiment! Soon their wounded would exceed their effective numbers of soldiers, and the battle-line must break and they would all fall! Rowan knew this as well, and even in his fury he could not slay the Boar-Men with his sheets of infernal flame fast enough. Even with the flames of his sword reaching out over a dozen feet in all directions, he could not seem to bear his implacable will upon the entire army all at once! He feared that if he surrendered himself to his growing rage that his own companions might be felled as well. But in growing frustration, as he watched his regiment falter and even take a few steps backwards under the irresistible press of bodies that faced them and bore down upon them, Rowan knew that he had to now do something, or else they would all be overrun. Bidding his regiment to retreat back yet further to a safer range, he at last unleashed his full inner rage and frustration upon his foe, releasing nearly the full infernal fury of the sword, causing a great blast of flame, like the rays of the early morning sun itself, upon the great host of his enemy, burning alive hundreds or perhaps even thousands wherever the point of his sword indicated. The entire battlefield became a flaming pit, not unlike the depictions of hell itself, as the hordes of enemy were felled in its place and devoured utterly by flame. In a matter of moments the Eorfleode no longer possessed an army, but a ravaged force of creatures that had seen and endured a horror beyond comprehension. Faced with certain death, the Boar-Men paused their final and certain to be decisive assault upon the arms-men of the battle-line, and paused in terror and wonder at the unearthly carnage that they had just beheld. For the first time in record history, an Eorfleode army had paused, stopped dead by fear and uncertainty in their very tracks by a nameless dread, the panic of facing certain and utter destruction in which they could gain no personal honor... only flaming death. A defeat that promised no sort of glory for their tribes whatsoever and a certain destruction that promised even the bravest warrior only a nameless grave, and with utter and complete certainty. Now, perhaps for the first time in their lives or their ancestral memory, the Boar-Men felt fear, and it bit at their heels like vipers. They turned and fled from this terror that they could not remotely begin to understand, even throwing their arms to the ground to speed their flight. For Rowan in his fury, this was still not enough, and he now called out for the remnants of his warriors to charge forwards and onward, over the bodies of their comrades, and over the heaping mounds of the seemingly endless Boar-Men dead, and into this fresh burning hell. Somehow his soldiers found the voice to cheer their champion Hero, and even more remarkably they found they had the will and the strength to run after their retreating foes. Being fleeter afoot, and with the help of Boyle's cavalry, the rout was made nearly complete. Even with the cavalry chasing after the fleeing Eorfleode, not quite all of them could be cornered or slain. Some few would yet remain to tell the woeful tale of their defeat to their companions, that proud men had withstood their greatest might and had indeed held unto the very last. In the end, it had been the Eorfleode who had fled in terror. They had tasted the dregs of bitter defeat, and perhaps now they knew the true meaning of fear. Even while they hunted down the fleeing Boar-Men, Gwenda could see the tears in Rowan's eyes as he saw for the first time what this seemingly glorious victory had cost his soldiers, in hundreds of lives and even more near-mortal wounds the survivors would bear until the every end of their days. *********** Even at the very last moments of the battle, the gates of the city remained closed. No avenging sally had ever emerged and the defenders of the city had seemed content to watch their relieving force nearly utterly perish upon their behalf. Even now, they appeared to have little if any interest in their rescuers outside of the walls and the city gates remained closed to them. Such dishonor was not at all to be borne! "Open the gates to the city!" Rowan cried out, as he rode up to the front of the ranks angrily waving his flaming sword before the startled guardsmen of the city gate tower. The soldiers were more than willing to do so, but the captain of the gate bellowed out loud orders for his men to hold firm and keep the gates closed. A younger nobleman at his side even had the temerity to fire a crossbow at Rowan, and with a fair bit of accuracy, but with a casual flick of his sword the bolt was knocked harmlessly away in a cloud of flames. "Go away!" The captain called out to the battered remains of the regiment assembled below. "For the gates shall not open to the ragamuffin likes of you! Soldiers in rags and bearing the banner of no particular Lord or Duke, not that we recognize or acknowledge any overlords over us any further. Be gone from our gates peasants, lest we let our arrows fly to sting you along your path!" Rowan could hardly believe his ears. He bore the authority of two Dukes and had rescued one of their greatest and most valuable cities from siege and sack, and the bloody foolish local barons were taking this moment to fully seize their independence. The lad knew he had little time to waste in parley with these ungrateful pismires, as he had a great many wounded that desperately needed urgent care if even half of the wounded were to be saved. To his surprise, the Lady Ayleth rode up to join Rowan, astonished that the gates of her own city were barred to her. Upon a brief explanation of the situation, the Lady went into a fury, and it was more than justifiable for once, and Rowan let the ducal daughter give the rebellious barons a good bit of her tongue. "Open the gates!" She cried out. "In the name of the Duke of Tellismere, for I am his daughter Ayleth, supreme commander of this regiment, fighting in the name of the Duke. It is to me that you owe your allegiance! I command you to open these gates at once!" The gate Captain laughed and the young nobleman by his side ordered a flight of arrows to launched from the walls. While quite a few bowmen balked at obeying this order to fire upon the Lady and her soldiers, some did commit this treason, and several dozen arrows now flew towards Rowan and Lady Ayleth. To her credit, she didn't flinch in the slightest as Rowan's sword burst forth a great swath of flame that devoured the arrows even before they reached half the distance to them. Commanding the regiment forward, the Lady Ayleth herself sounded the call to attack, and with a few carefully and artistically placed bursts of infernal flame, Rowan's sword blasted open the steel reinforced gates of the city. The survivors of the regiment, along with the goblins and camp followers, charged forth in conquest and triumph into the city, to a very mixed reception. The common people cheered them and even threw flowers in their path, and offered the weary and wounded soldiers food and drink. The upper classes were much less delighted, and soon were making hasty plans for defense against this quite unexpected upstart. ********** To the credit of the city, the vast overwhelming majority of the city guardsmen, after a single glance at Rowan's flaming infernal sword decided at once that they were quite unwilling to face a Duke's wrath, or a hero with a flaming sword that had nearly singlehandedly slain an entire Boar-Man army. They sided at once with the regiment and quickly swore oaths of obedience to the Lady Ayleth, and to the two Duchies, and were extremely prompt and helpful at pointing out officers and sergeants who had publically sided with the rebellious barons. There was a little bit of unsanctioned revenge as old scores were quickly and often publically settled, usually quite fatally, but the outer parts of the city were quiet and secure, leaving only the remaining rebels inside the city's inner keep. Once the wounded had been quartered and every medicus and wise-woman available had been summoned to their care, Rowan tried to will himself to relax but his anger at these rebellious barons and noblemen, who had now locked themselves in terror behind the stout walls of the city's inner keep, along with their personal men-at-arms, if anything only increased. Worse, the delay in receiving immediate treatment had been deadly to some of the more mortally wounded. The traitors that had timidly hid behind these fortress walls now had an even fiercer enemy, and Rowan was determined that he was going to make these rebellious and treasonous barons pay for every drop of blood that his regiment had spilled on their behalf. It was now going to be open civil war and Rowan couldn't have cared in the slightest. His remaining soldiers were now safe, his wounded were getting treatment and care, and the cowards who commanded the city defenses would soon learn that there was at least one person far more dangerous and deadly than any Eorfleode army. Gwenda appraised her lover's mood, and as she finished supervising the transport of every single one of their wounded into the city, she made a brief prayer for all of these foolish rich and noble men who had made their sacrifice unnecessary, for her beloved and kind-hearted Rowan would have no pity upon them or their souls! A blood debt was certainly owed, and payment would be exacted to the very final measure! ************* Rowan's eyes blazed with malevolent fury, and with an unearthly orange malevolent light, as he beheld the alleged obeisance of the sixteen Barons of Lloan Valley, all now in attendance before him. The lad was not at all impressed at what he saw, and from the surly looks on their defeated faces, the feeling was apparently mutual. The Lady had given the traitorous Barons, all sixteen in number, and their rich merchant allies, until dawn the following morning to submit themselves to her justice, but the deadline came and went without event. Even though virtually every member of the city guard had now sworn themselves now in loyalty to her, and to the Duchy, the large numbers of privately owned soldiers the barons kept inside made a normal direct assault on the inner keep rather problematic. Many of the senior officers of the city, such as the Gate Captain, had joined the rebels, but the vast majority of their NCO's, as well as most of the common guardsmen had remained loyal. No one wanted to be on the receiving end of that infernal sword! Rowan was little concerned. He hadn't planned for the two opposing armies to clash anyway. Some reports even had the Baronial forces outnumbering his total effectives by at least three to one. They had plenty of stored food, access to fresh water and the keep could withstand a siege for years, behind good thick and tall stone walls. That was nice, Rowan supposed... but they didn't have a Daemon-Horn blade, and a very angry willingness to use it! In fairness, once Rowan led the assault and cut through the steel barred iron-oak of the keep gate in just a matter of moments, even the most fearless of the baronial troops had little stomach for a direct battle with the angry lad. "Drop your weapons, surrender and you will live!" Rowan bellowed, but heard nothing by silence afterwards. Finally he let out a deep sigh and ordered his forces forward. Why was burning infernal steel necessary to resolve nearly every confrontation they found themselves in? With a blast of flaming fury the inner keep gate disappeared into flame and he charged into the maelstrom. The remnants of his regiment followed hot on his heels, but only rarely ever had to lift their weapons in actual combat, even briefly. The private guards of the rebellious nobles couldn't surrender fast enough. The Lady Ayleth, with Gwenda closely guarding her personage, tried to stay hot upon Rowan's heels as he blasted his way into the inner keep for his moment of reckoning. A few more burst down doors and portcullises led Rowan into the main audience chamber of the keep, where at last he came eye to eye with the disobedient nobles. While they were surprised and more than a bit astonished at how quickly their private guards had either given way or surrendered with little or no fight, the haughty noblemen were in little mood to make parley to save their skins, let alone inclined grovel for mercy. In a moment, three of the younger noble sons of the barons, including the sneering young aristocrat who had ordered the flight of arrows from the Gate Tower yesterday, drew their swords and charged Rowan, determined to cut him down. The trio were all indeed excellent trained swordsmen but the lad never gave them the chance to display their skill. Blasted in a sudden semi-circle of flame, the three rebellious youngsters were at once consumed, leaving nothing but ash and molten bits of metal to drip from the smoky air onto the stone floor. "Kneel in submission or die!" Rowan growled, and he meant it. Most of the assembled nobles did drop to the floor but a handful did not, and they haughtily sneered at him. One even spit upon the floor upon seeing the Lady Ayleth enter the room. She was quite out of breath and trying to look ducal while at the same time still hastily trying to reach her champion's side. "A few of these rebellious noblemen will not kneel to you, My Lady... shall I make them?" Rowan asked her in a loud whisper that everyone in the room could easily hear. "Do so, at once, my Champion!" She commanded. A couple of these remaining noblemen decided that they had been quite brave for long enough and they dropped to their knees, but four still remained defiant. The first nobleman quite kept his nerve as Rowan showing him his flaming infernal sword, and at a rather close range, but still he remained defiant. The lad, despairing of convincing the fool to listen to reason, brought the man to his knees by the expediency of slicing off both of the man's legs just below the knee joints. This demonstration quickly convinced the other three holdouts to submit, just as Rowan turned to face them as well. In a few moments, the entire room was on their knees, loudly, and mostly sincerely, craving mercy from the Lady, but she was not inclined to offer it. Now they had to decide what exactly to do with these rebellious barons, their families, and the rich merchants that had joined with them. When the keep was completely secured, Rowan consulted briefly with Gwenda, Ayleth and Oddtus, who had also just now arrived after the battle was over, and the four of them briefly conferred. Surprisingly for once, they all agreed on a common course of action for dealing with the rebels. "Take all of these rebel Barons and merchants to the dungeons, to a cell with a window that looks to the courtyard where they can watch a scaffold be erected for their execution. It is my will, and the will of the Baron of Broadmore as well, that every rebel captured in this room, whether noble or base born, shall be hung from the neck tomorrow morning, with every guild master and guards officer of this city watching in attendance!" The Lady ordered, and she displayed not the slightest hint of mercy. The wives and daughters of the condemned wailed in bitterness at his feet before him, but Rowan was implacable as well. Even the limited fighting to secure the inner keep had not been bloodless, and three more of his regiment had fallen in the brief fighting. Their tears, no matter how sincere, would not bring the two fallen arms-men and another brave lass back their life. In fact, even as the gallows began to be constructed out in the large outer courtyard of the keep, the counsel met to make their final plans for the disposition of the town. A small group of guild masters was selected, along with a couple of minor lords and a few senior city guardsmen, none of which had participated in the rebellion, to take control over the town and give a local voice of authority to the uneasy city. As for the private mercenary armies of the Barons, it was decided that a stockade should be erected outside of the town to hold these now master-less men, under guard. They were also put to work immediately gathering up and burning all of the Eorfleode corpses that littered the plains around the city. At nearly three thousand men, they could pose a problem, even disarmed. While technically rebels, for the most part they had been just paid soldiers or retainers following their lawful lord, and no one was entirely sure if their loyalty could be counted upon. For now anyway, the Counsel decided to park them outside of the city and wait until later to deal with them. ************** With the weak autumn sun just now above the walls of the courtyard, the sixteen condemned men, formerly barons of the two Duchies, were led forth to the beating of drums to their gibbets, as if they were but common thieves. To many of the common people that were present, who shouted scorn and threw rocks and rotten fruit and produce at the condemned, that was indeed how they were seen as, but common thieves that had ruled their fiefs like petty tyrants, and had overtaxed this once rich land into near poverty. There were few signs of pity from the crowd, save from the small circle of some family members of the condemned that were kept behind a row of guards near the scaffold, to witness the fate of their loved ones. Behind the long scaffold, with its sixteen hanging nooses, the next group of condemned, the somewhat larger group of wealthy merchants and factors that had encouraged and supported the rebellious lords, awaited their turn next. They stood quivering like frightened children, with nooses hung around their neck, marking them for execution. Being twenty-eight in number, they would have to hang in two separate groups later on, and already they weren't being nearly as brave about the matter as the condemned former barons. Loud, improbably huge sums of money were being offered, both openly and boldly, and clandestinely, for their lives and freedom, until laughingly Rowan ordered for the merchant prisoners to be gagged, as he and the Lady Ayleth moved to the front of the great crowd to get the executions started. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 16 The large courtyard was indeed completely packed, so that there was hardly a place for another single person to stand. In the front ranks to the left of the long scaffold, were the families of the condemned, bewailing the fate of their men. To the center were the new city selectmen, the guild masters, and other burghers of the city. To the right, were all of the senior officers of the city guard and the officers and commanders of the formerly private baronial armies. Then the rest of the courtyard filled with a great mass of the loyal men and women of the city, eager to see justice done. After a brief consultation with the still dour Oddtus, who was certainly not wearing his motley Foole's costume for this large audience, the Lady Ayleth stuck quite to her prepared script. Reading forth her prepared signed and sealed proclamation, attested to by the authority of two separate Dukedoms, she first stripped each of the baronial families of their nobility, all of their lands and titles being now forfeit to their respective Duke. Stripped even of their own family estate, the sixteen families would be escorted under guard to their homes and each only allowed to take with them such personal possessions as could fit unto one wagon, and their own backs, (which certainly did not include sacks of gold or silver plate) and given instructions to either abjure both Duchies forever, or else accept resettlement to some small minor wilderness lands. This was harsh, but fair. Even the Lady, ever sensitive to the better qualities of noblemen, agreed that these stern measures were necessary. Even with the rebellious barons executed for their treason, even a brief examination of their elder sons suggested that their pride and willfulness had not been tamed, or even much curbed. The eldest sons would assume the titles and would once again bear homage only reluctantly and under duress, and would undoubtedly begin to act independently once more, the moment any supervising army left their sight. Instead of a few very powerful barons ruling this vast valley, it was decided that having a great many smaller strong-holders would be better, at least for now. Her proclamation of justice finished, Rowan then spoke to the condemned, but his words were really more intended for the living. "Citizens of Tellismere and Broadmore, and of the city of Kenniford. See now the justice of your Dukes and of your selectmen. These scoundrels did more than wage rebellion against their own lawful masters, they betrayed the common people of the Lloan Valley at the very time they needed wisdom and guidance the most. Instead of marshalling their forces when the army of the Boar-Men came, the Barons, and the most wealthy of this region, sought instead to protect themselves and their treasures, and they left their charges, the men and women of this land to their own helplessness. In our travels here we saw many dozens of villages and small towns sacked, their inhabitants slaughtered or worse, but your barons never raised an army for its defense. Instead their mercenaries were paid to protect them first and foremost of all from you, their own people, so that their vast wealth, and their stored wagons of food and grain would not have to be shared with the common people outside of their keep walls, who already had little or no provisions to withstand further siege. This is true treason, good people! Treason to the land and its people, not just rebellion to faceless Dukes who live far away enough to be nearly forgotten or safely ignored. It is for this treason alone that makes these miscreants worthy of execution alone, as an example and reminder to others, so that in future dark times your lords provide a better moral example and leadership. Let the execution of these miserable examples of human beings begin!" As one, the floor of the gibbet was knocked loose, but the hanging men did not drop far, only a few inches, so that their necks did not snap and so they could slowly swing and choke to death. Upon The Lady's instructions, their hands and feet were free as well so that the condemned could kick, squirm and wiggle and die slowly, dancing for the crowd's amusement. It was to be a slow death, rather than a quick and merciful one, as would be inflicted upon the lowest of murderers or bandits. After several minutes, as the kicking of their feet began to cease and several barons had gone quite unconscious, Rowan suddenly at once let his sword burst into flames and with a single arc of magical flame, sliced down each of the sixteen ropes holding the hanging men, freeing them to fall to the ground. Then their families were permitted to assist their fallen menfolk, and very slowly all of them were somewhat revived into consciousness. Now Rowan shouted and burst another bolt of flame into the air over the courtyard so that everyone would stop their talking and pay him heed once more. "Men and women of this land, mark my words well for I shall utter them just this once. Heed now the wisdom and mercy of your Dukes! This is no time for any division amongst us, for the Boar-Men still consume this land and its people, and all must now fight to free our land, even those that have tried to steal it for their very own. Men and women, families of the condemned that stand now before me, if you would have your men but live yet awhile longer, get to your knees and give to me this oath!" Grateful, nearly every single member of the former baronial families dropped at once to their knees, but some still rebellious sons did not. His patience exhausted, these truculent lads were swiftly gathered up taken off to a dark dungeon so that their pride and tempers might cool... for years if necessary. As Rowan recited the oath, as one all of the rebellious families, and indeed many of the courtyard of witnesses as well, repeated his words, the formula of the old archaic Blood-Oath, which not only bound a mans loyalty, but his very soul to upholding the very spirit of the oath. It was a dreadful oath that commanded utter obedience until death, and the most dire of consequences for any who should disavow its terms. "By my heart, my blood, my will and my soul, I shall obey the commands of the Lady Ayleth, her Champion Rowan, and the Dukes of Broadmore and Tellismere, submitting in thought and deed to their will, summons and command, and I shall obey them with rightful obedience until the very last of the Eorfleode have been driven from all of the lands of men, then shall my past deeds be called in for full and careful measuring and accounting." The Blood-Oath was indeed a terrible one, little used even by the most ruthless of Lords upon their minions, but to the Lore-Master's thinking, this was the only oath powerful enough to bind the obedience of the rebels. As Rowan had also set a limitation for the length of their service, this gave them an eventual out... and plenty of time enough for both duchies to get their affairs into order once the Boar-Men had been defeated and completely expelled. Securing a long term peace could be someone else's problem, not Rowan's. What surprised Rowan and his friends the most about the additional city folk who accepted this oath as well, was that the sixteen mercenary commanders, the leaders of each of the baron's private armies, formally made their own submission, solely to personage of Rowan as well. They beat their fists upon their chests and shouted their oaths of loyalty and submission on their knees before the bemused lad, who accepted their service. Indeed he dared not to! This solution, to 'half-hang' the traitors, had been the best compromise solution that the Counsel had been able to come up with. Ayleth was utterly dead set against the common indignity of hanging noblemen, and even Rowan, Boyle and Gwenda weren't sure they had the stomach for the task either. A really good scare, they thought, then shoving an unbreakable oath upon them while their guard was down, proved the easiest way to settle the matter. And indeed the plan had worked to perfection. ************ Over the next day, the baronial families were brought before a special meeting of the Regimental Counsel, where each member was made to bow in supplication and given their instructions under oath-sign. For now, most of their large (and probably excessive) landholdings were confiscated to the Dukedoms, but some minor estates were allotted for the women and children of the baron's families. Their titles and noble privileges revoked, at least for the duration of the war, each of the barons, was directed to return to their homelands, and gather any and all of their former surviving subjects, see them back to the city in safety, and conscript every lad and man capable of bearing arms for the defense of the city, to be under the sworn command of the city counsel. They happily and even eagerly obliged. Each of them would wear the rope burn scars around their neck forever, a permanent reminder of how their lives, and their families as well, hung by just a thread, and they all swore a great many personal oaths to be good and very, very obedient. The noble sons and nephews, and other kinsmen, were all directly expected to volunteer their service to the Duchy and given the choice of either joining the regiment (which now with the addition of the mercenaries appeared to be more the size of a brigade) or the city guard, and in lowly positions not to exceed the rank of a sergeant. Most chose the city guard, but about two dozen of the braver younger sons, and a few daughters, that wanted to make a name for themselves, as well as help clear their tarnished family name, saluted before Rowan and Gwenda and offered their loyalty and service without reservation. They were each very skilled horsemen and Boyle accepted them at once into his growing cavalry squadron. Dealing with the wealthy merchants was a relatively simpler problem. As the barons and the treasonous merchants had brought into the keep a great amount of treasure for safekeeping, it was a simple matter for the regimental counsel to appropriate this ill-gotten loot in the name of both of the Duchies. This money, regardless of anything else, was forfeit, and if the terrified merchants wanted to keep their existing businesses, as well as their heads, then they would have to be very good and obedient, and exceptionally helpful as well. The new city counsel would be keeping a close eye on them and would keep their toes in the fire to provide anything that the city might need until the end of the crisis. The Lady Ayleth certainly had no qualms at all about hanging wicked merchants, and she made sure that they knew that their lives were still hanging by a slender thread as well. ************* The way their regiment had grown, with the recent addition of the mercenaries, and a good many city guardsmen and new volunteers from the city, they couldn't just take everything that they needed from the city. They decided this confiscated treasure gave them a means of paying for the supplies that they would need to get back into the campaign against the Eorfleode, and perhaps even offer their soldiers a bit of pay. Although the former mercenaries had agreed to serve without pay, having some cash on hand in the supply train would be definitely useful. Here while in the city, the formerly rebellious merchants were eager to offer every provision free without cost that the regiment needed, and they did need quite a lot, but this sort of treatment might not happen at the next town or city they went to. With coins, they could pay for the supplies that they needed. Even more of a concern was the idea of bonuses, especially for the crippled and wounded that could no longer now fight. The regiment had lost nearly half of its remaining soldiers in the battle outside of the city walls to either mortal wounds or crippling injuries. With Gwenda's leadership, an amount was agreed up to provide to all of the wounded here and back at Ruromel. Enough for each of the crippled to buy or start a business or a decent sized farm, with even some coin left over for future hard times. A smaller but still substantial bonus was paid to some of the widows among the camp-followers who had lost husbands, sons or fathers in the recent battles. Lastly, Rowan, Gwenda and Boyle passed out some bags of silver to their squadron and company commanders, so that the officers of each surviving unit could most properly award their soldiers who had fought the hardest or bravest. With coin in hand, their weary and wounded soldiers had more than enough with just their base bonus to thoroughly enjoy the delights of the city pretty much indefinitely. Much of the coin would end up in the pockets of tavern keepers and sisters of joy, but at least the men and women of the regiment would be able to make some bit of merriment in reward for their endeavors. Even leaving 90% of the treasure alone secured in the keep for safekeeping, until the Dukes could sort and collect it, the new brigade needed four extra-sturdy wagons to take the remaining bit of money, largely all in bags of small silver coins. Money was certainly one of the very least of their problems, and not for the last time wished that the clever old ship's captain had lived to see this day. Their temporary acting quartermaster was more than a bit overwhelmed by his duties handling even a few small companies, and this new much larger force was far beyond his abilities. After passing the word around for a few days, a local trade-factor named Denis volunteered for the job, and as no one else wanted that thankless duty, this offer was gratefully accepted. It took him about a week to get everything organized, but Denis indeed had the situation now well in hand, and never let anything get disorganized again. He was also provisionally invited to join the Brigade Counsel, as were two of the most senior mercenary commanders, both veterans of fighting in many lands, near and far. ************** The first problem that the counsel had to deal with, was how to sort and apportion all of the new men. Nearly overnight the former regiment of about two hundred human survivors was flooded with many times that number of mercenaries and with even more new recruits from the city. In total, now they commanded a true brigade of nearly four thousand soldiers, and the slight majority of these men and women were trained soldiers, many of them veterans. Simply for the sake of organization, the brigade also had now to divide itself up into two field battalions, each also with two very large regiments, except for the final 5th Regiment that included the numerous walking wounded from the old regiment, and the youngest and rawest of the new untrained recruits from Kenniford. They spent a day in conference and used up quite a lot of parchment, but in the end they had a soundly structured table of organization that everyone could live with and hopefully handle their greatly enhanced responsibilities. They would have to reply a lot upon the new untested mercenary commanders, who had been mostly all promoted into company commander slots for each new fourteen companies. The remaining two had been posted into the M Company, as trainers for the nearly two hundred especially younger and more innocent volunteers placed into the reserve training company, but these veteran leaders would undoubtedly get their own chances for command sometime soon, especially the way trouble tended to follow Rowan and his friends. The two most senior guard-captains from Kenniford, Harald and Guilliam, that had volunteered to serve in any position in the Brigade, were appointed much to their distress to be the two battalion executive commanders. Since they were both mid-aged grey haired veterans and hadn't actually wheedled to get the jobs, unlike several of the mercenary commanders, Rowan decided that they were just the men for the job and ones that he could trust... especially since neither of them really wanted these top day-to-day command positions and they both had to be gently encouraged to take them anyway. Rowan and Gwenda, the joint nominal commanders of 1st and 2nd Battalion, had far too much to do already than to be able to care full time for about 1600 men and women, each, on a daily basis. Like it or not, their XO's would need to tend to the minor, but already growing bureaucracy and paperwork, and attend to the thousand or more needs of their junior officers, sergeants and even spare a thought or two for the poor arms-men and women. Rowan was sure that he had forgotten to think of at least a hundred different important and necessary things each day that needed to be done, yesterday, and if they could help him to remember even a few of these things, then ever so much the better. More than anything else, their XO's, Harald and Guilliam, were needed to keep the camp disciplined and focused upon their next battle with the Boar-Men, and not accidently burning or looting the city that they had just liberated. After a day or two of pretty much uninhibited madness, the counsel resolved to get the entire brigade out of Kenniford, and only allow small groups at a time inside the city walls for liberty. The former all-too briefly occupied stockade for the mercenaries now became a proper military camp, and military disciple began to be restored. ************** Their provisions restocked and with the last of their badly wounded now able to be safely moved with the baggage train, which was constantly ever-growing, Rowan, Boyle and Gwenda were frankly itching at their need to get their large bulky army onto its feet and moving -- somewhere, anywhere! On the other hand, the Foole was oddly taking the Lady's position that more organization was still necessary, and that their scouts had not done a proper long range reconnaissance yet of the valley. That large Boar-Man army, or at least half of a full one, had been misdirected off somewhere, and could be back soon, before the barons and their escort squads had returned from their missions to gather every fighting man and supply available in the valley. They weren't due back yet for some time still, but since even the goblins weren't quite sure where they had misdirected that large and very dangerous Eorfleode force off to, no one was quite happy about leaving the most important (and only) city in the Lloan Valley largely undefended. ********** For most of another week, Rowan spent his days in a vague haze of constant war meetings, to decide this or that immediate problem, and his feet positively itched to get back onto the road, or rather into the saddle with Red once more. He had long since sent messengers to both the Dukes of Broadmore and Tellismere, and hoped that even a handful of troops, or even a reliable governor, could be spared to be sent to take over Kenniford. The new city counsel of selectmen was doing quite well already in everyone's opinion, but only Rowan or Lady Ayleth could really speak on behalf of either of the Dukes, and no one was quite sure what would really happen once Rowan's brigade of nearly four thousand men, not to mention the goblins, left out of sight... and probably out of mind. Word via Boyle's ever expanding cavalry scouting missions was also getting out the word to the valley refugees and survivors that Kenniford was safe and sound (for the moment) and that everyone, and as much of the fall harvest that could be safely gathered, should be brought into the city. Most heeded that advice, and fresh conscripts and sacks of produce and grain were being brought in daily. Many of the new arrivals wanted to join up with the brigade, but Rowan feared that every man taken now would only weaken the city's defenses, and he only accepted the service of about half of those that wished to join. The ruined front gate that Rowan's sword had carved apart was now mostly back in good protective working order again, but every spare townsman was sent to widen and deepen the small existing moat in front of it, just for added security. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 16 Slowly, as reports of the returning barons arrived, Rowan realized with relief that enough men and provisions were indeed on their way to the town to hold it secure and its people fed until at least the next spring planting season. Delighted at receiving three such reports in the space of two days, Rowan gave his brigade orders to prepare to break camp. It was time to load up all of the wagons and get the soldiers prepared for travel. Harald and Guilliam had been drilling every regiment and company hard for the last week, and they announced an especially tough scrimmage battle between the two equal sized and equipped battalions. The best performing company would receive a final pass into the city for a night of liberty. There were rather more injuries in this friendly scrimmage and competition than had been anticipated, but in the end it was an especially clever flanking movement pulled by the pikemen of C Company that won the day and the contest. These happy troopers rushed off for a last evening of wine, wantonness and song while the rest of the counterparts cleaned and repaired gear, and got their marching rucksacks into order. Boyle's enlarged cavalry acquitted themselves well also, and after their horses were groomed, their ever-cheerful commander allowed them a few hours of freedom in the city as well. ************** After yet another nearly insufferable and seemingly endless formal dinner in the keep, Rowan and Gwenda were just about to excuse themselves for the evening so that they could enjoy some privacy together, when an urgent message arrived. Boyle's most forward scouts had at last found that elusive army of Boar-Men! Rather than separating into smaller war-bands, the entire force remained together and more or less unified, and it had marched east down the good paved road towards Orshold, a large mining town on the border with Everdun. This town and its barons were also of a fairly independent nature, and Tellismere held only a slight and extremely debatable legal claim to this town, which was right on the edge of the foothills of Everdun, where a river flowed from the mountains into the great Emerald River. Even if the town paid no tribute to the Duke of Tellismere's tax collectors, it was an extremely important trade center; possibly even the single most important trade hub in the east. Nearly as large as Kenniford, Orshold also had good and very sturdy stone walls and supposedly enough good fighting men to keep and hold its independence against all comers. These barons of this mining and trading town were of a smarter and more industrious lot than the craven and greedy ones of Kenniford. Boyle's scouts reported that the surrounding countryside had been well warned of the Eorfleode advance south and east down the Emerald River, and of the fresh new army that had just arrived from Kenniford. The town was stuffed full of refugees and hastily harvested food, more than sufficient for most sieges, but perhaps not against the huge size of this monstrous army, which was estimated at a total of 25,000 Boar-Men. Already waves of attackers flung themselves against the sturdy fortifications that could never hope to restrain their assaults for long. The town pleaded for all possible aid and assistance, and as quickly as possible. Riders had been sent in all directions, to both Everdun, Tellismere and to Broadmore, but so far only the citymen of Kenniford, and Rowan's brigade had heeded their call. A short reply message of encouragement was inscribed for the messenger to send back to the brave defenders -- the brigade would march in the morning and would make its best speed on the road, but that the journey of nearly a hundred leagues to Orshold would take well over a week, perhaps even two if the wagons could not keep speed. But still, the brigade was on its way. A monstrous horde of Boar-Men outside of its walls or not, the town must hold! *********** Exhausted but mentally relieved, Gwenda gently but firmly guided her frantically worried lover to their bed. The Foole could certainly forge Rowan's name if needed, as the lad didn't own a seal or even a signet ring to press to wax. Oddtus was now revived as well, and much of his old happier self; he would know what last minute actions the brigade and city counsels would need to take, and what final preparation might be necessary. Already the city watch was recalling the hundreds of disappointed revelers back to their camp, and the sergeants and officers tried to get their excited men quiet, and laid down for at least some rest... there would be damned little in the long week or more to come! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 17 Although they had been sharing the same bed in the second largest suite of the inner keep for nearly two weeks, Rowan and Gwenda had had almost no private time to themselves. At night they would hold each other, mentally and physically exhausted, naked in bed, but their few pitiful attempts at foreplay had come mostly to naught. Tonight, they agreed, things would be a bit different. A large hot bath in a tub easily big enough for two had been prepared and Gwenda couldn't hardly wait to dive right into it. Despite being a woman of rather martial interests and pursuits, the appeal of frequent and very feminine baths appealed to her. With a rush, she near but ripped off all of her clothes in her haste and after giving her bare ass a lewd wiggle that certainly would have given Father Lankfred back home a heart-attack, she dismissed her two bath attendants, leaving the lovers alone to enjoy their hot water soak and play. They started on opposite ends of the large tub, but when Gwenda's toes got a little too frisky under the soapy water, and her red lips and large nipples became otherwise too inviting, the pair ended up in an embrace at her end of the water. Hands above and below the water began to get rather busy and it was only with the greatest self control that Rowan avoided entering into her wet and very stimulated cunt. She certainly wouldn't have said 'No', but the lad wanted that final act of love to mark their troth-oath, on some happier and more special future occasion, when their world was free from invading Eorfleode. Moving to rest his back once again on his own side of the tub, Gwenda cuddled up into his lap so that they might kiss each other, and so that Rowan could run his short bearded stubble back and forth across her sensitive breasts. For some reason, the tickle of his growing beard made her nipples extra tender and erotically stimulated, and it was only with very greatest concentration that she lifted up her asshole over his cock to gently take his wet soapy shaft deep inside of her ass, instead of deep inside of her cunt, where she would have much preferred to have enjoyed him. Sitting facing him and together holding hands, she began to slowly work her ass up and down on top of his cock, gently at first, more squeezing than pistoning, until his cock was completely impaled inside of her. Working her ass slowly and carefully, she began to rotate herself around his cock, until she faced away from him, in a more pleasurable and deeper angle of entry, to lay her back upon his chest. Rubbing his beard this time across the nape of her neck, her ass clinched even tighter with pleasure as a shiver ran down her bare spine, even in the nicely still warm water. Taking her breasts into his strong hands to caress but firmly hold her, they began to both gently thrust together, as she raised her legs up onto the sides of tub so that his prick could ever more deeply delve inside of her bowels and she rocked herself upon his lap up and down and sideways on top of his cock, as it savagely but so wonderfully filled her bottom with its warmth and fullness. With Gwenda's long and talented fingers gently tickling his balls, along with the pleasantness of the heated water, Rowan ejaculated a tremendous load of his cum into her eager appreciative ass. Slowly, Gwenda lifted her ass just enough from his shaft to free it and she turned around to cuddle and kiss again her beloved, but a pair of feminine giggles from the doorway distracted her. Her maids hadn't quite departed as instructed, but had instead stay to watch, and apparently enjoy the show. One was openly pinching one of her nipples under her dress and the other had her skirt hiked up high and was openly twiddling her own rather furry cunt. "I'd say begone, you sneaky peeping pair of young ladies, but I'm feeling especially hot and nasty right now and sometimes its fun to have an appreciative audience. No, I'm not going to let you share... he's mine -- all mine! But, let me just show you how much I indeed do love my man! Rowan, sit up here on the edge of the tub, so that they can watch me suck you!" "Alright..." Rowan said, a bit confused, but he willingly lifted himself up and seated himself on the edge, out of the water. The view of his still rock hard cock was rather prominent, and the two young maids got more than an eyeful at this remarkable specimen of manhood, and how his lover attended to its every need and whim as she slowly and loudly sucked him into her mouth. "Ummm, you remember where my cock's just came out of, don't you?" Rowan whispered hoarsely, with more than a hint of excitement. "Of course!" She said and smiled, giving his cock head and shaft an especially enthusiastic lick. "Ladies, heed me well and always lick your lovers clean and completely, especially after they have enjoyed the pleasure of your asshole. It's wickedly nasty, and shows your lover how much indeed that you do care for them, that nothing is taboo or forbidden to them, that everything of yourself can and should be offered freely to him, for his pleasure, by any means he wishes to take it. Do this girls, for the man that you love, that he will never even need to ask for anything that is yours to give... especially your love!" Her lesson to her young maids completed, she took his cock once more inside of her mouth and never again let it leave until a few minutes later, with his cock completely down her throat, he released his next and final load of semen for the evening, Although most of his cum had gone directly quite down her throat, she took extra time and care to lick and clean his cockhead once more, this time of any remaining drops of semen, and then loudly swallowed this last small gathering of semen in her mouth down with great obvious gusto, then licking her lips. "Now! Away, naughty young ladies! You've had your thrill and lesson, and a good deal more! And if either of us catches you spying on us again, you'll learn about the extra fun that lovers can have in bed with whips, using your bottoms as the example! Now be off!" The peeping maids were at last gone and their bedchamber door once again secure. "What's this about fun in bed with whips?" Rowan curiously but sleepily asked as he blew out the last candle and climbed into the much too comfortable bed with his beloved. "Done right, with the right company, it can be fun... the pain of a spanked ass can sometimes make the sex afterwards even more enjoyable." She whispered with a smile as she pressed her damp but soft and large breasts against his chest. "And just how did you find out this nugget of knowledge?" "As a teen girl just barely starting my cycles, I was spying on one of my father's stable boys, a lad who had a cock nearly as big and thick as yours! He was wanking it, after relieving his bladder, and he caught me fingering myself while I was watching him masturbate. When he saw me, he then spanked my bottom until it was red hot, and I begged him to fuck me there, right in my ass. I was a bit of a slut even then I think, at least in my head. I was always having nasty fantasies even as a girl, and on our big landholding it wasn't hard to watch the older lads and their lasses at their private love-play, either day or night. He fucked my tiny little ass good, and I swear I had a smile on my face for the next entire week. He liked fucking my ass, and he even made me suck him and clean his dirty shaft off a few times afterwards. I didn't really like it at first, except for the feeling of nastiness that it gave me, but after awhile I didn't mind the taste... and I discovered I really liked the feeling of power and control it gave me over my men. Doing this for them, I found that they'd in turn, do nearly anything else at all for me. Now, it's just another way I can prove my devotion and love to my heart-song, the man that I shall marry and love forever, for every part of ourselves has already begun to be merged, our souls tied forever. Our bodies have also been joined, never to be separated, even when we are not quite physically together. We are as one, and shall remain so, until the cutting of the shears!" Rowan would have quite agreed, except that he was already sound asleep, and Gwenda laid her head on his chest and shoulders and she too was asleep in moments. **************** Everyone agreed that the journey to Orshold should take at least a week, but it was also glumly concluded that there was probably no way that the walled city could withstand another full week of siege. The reported size of the Eorfleode army was just too great, even if their numbers had been exaggerated many times over. The brigade would have to make even greater haste. Additional teams of horses were gathered so that the pulling of wagons could be rotated, to keep the teams fresh and pulling at a slightly faster speed. The brigade was also now much better shod with better footwear and even more fully equipped than it had ever been. The soldiers were all at least slightly rested and everyone down to the lowest camp follower understood the desperation of the situation. There would be grumblings on the march, but they would be minor... and what army doesn't love to grumble. Still, Rowan had never dreamed of leading an army this size and it seemed to him that everything now took at least twice as long to do as it had taken previously. Even giving the order to have the brigade assembled and ready to march at the first light of dawn didn't quite actually mean that everyone was ready to go at the appointed time. In fact, with the size of his battalions, regiments and companies, it was another full hour after dawn before the last units of the rear guard actually marched out of the city gates. Soon, Rowan found it necessary to utilize his reserve cavalry just to ride up and down the long marching line to ferry and relay orders. The first brigade sized exercise they conducted on the road was a near disaster, worse even than the first practice attempt of their original small regiment a month earlier. Too many men and horses moving in all directions at once, with their battle lines becoming confused and quite misaligned. If this had been an actual alert for battle, the chaos could have deadly. Gwenda sought out her two battalion commanders and screamed at them to fall back into marching ranks and prepare to do it all over again, and again, if necessary until they got it right. The next time they did it better, but only just barely. The units resumed their march until a full two hours after sunset. Pushing hard and long, they didn't stop until Gwenda noted that they had passed a full ten league markers that day. Even long after they had camped for the night, Rowan and Gwenda were still trying to coordinate some smoother assembly strategies with their officers, so that the day's chaos wouldn't be repeated tomorrow. One hour before dawn, Rowan sounded the assembly to battle with his horn to awaken all of his sleeping soldiers, still weary from their blankets. There was no danger, but the lad wanted a rehearsal of what chaos would ensue if they had been attacked during the night. The results made Rowan nauseous with worry at how even a smaller force could have easily overwhelmed them, and Gwenda launched herself once more with a fury at her two battalion commanders. Since in every army, shit most definitely does flow downhill, they in turn reamed out their regiment commanders, who in turn raised seven flavors of hell with their company commanders, who in turn made their soldiers lives a living misery until they could assemble into formation quickly and smoothly. Rowan repeated the call to battle drill three more times until something more satisfactory was finally achieved. Getting another late start, they marched without a lunch break long into darkness once again, until Gwenda had determined that they had made another full ten leagues that day. And the next day as well, with just two battle drills each day, as they awoke from their camp and before they could halt to cook a quick but hot meal, long after sunset. Gwenda was determined that the just over ninety league journey could... and would, be done in exactly a week. Each of the next days afterwards, it was at least a full eleven leagues or even twelve that they made upon the good stone road, even as they once again began to locate increasingly large groups of refugees, which were herded towards the regiment for safety by the ever watchful cavalry. This time however, the rules had changed a bit. While the new arriving groups of women and children were encouraged to join with the ever-growing numbers of camp followers, Rowan instructed his cavalry squadron officers to make it blatantly clear to the new refugees that the soldiers, and their supply wagons, could not be delayed or slowed down under any circumstances. If the stragglers could not keep up with the rear reserve support and training regiment and the goblins, along with the supply wagons, then they would then be on their own. No one was going to wait for them to catch up, or come back to protect them if they were set upon. The relief of Orshold was too important. Daily, Rowan received updates that the city still held fast, but already they did not have enough guardsmen left to fully man all of their walls. If a final assault to all four of the city walls came at once, then the defenders could not hold the outer town. There was a smaller inner keep, much like at Kenniford, but it could not hope to hold off the entire horde for long either. Estimates of the size of the combined Eorfleode army continued to grow. New forces had come from the north, from beyond the Emerald River, much as Gwenda and Rowan had feared. These Boar-Men that had probably sacked the cities and towns north of the river, were likely also the very same tribes that had killed her father and brother. Anger and determination now filled Gwenda's heart as she longed to exact her vengeance for their deaths. She raged at her commanders and their officers to keep up the pace, furiously berating the increasingly tired soldiers who stumbled at their feet to keep moving, faster... ever faster, long after sunset and late into the night. That night the halt was not called until nearly midnight, and it took the motivation of every officer and sergeant to get the weary men and women moving on their feet once more at dawn. Again that next night, it was midnight or perhaps even later when then next halt was ordered. In spite of the assistance of the cavalry, units of the two brigades were now mixed and scattered, leaving an increasingly long marching line that was spread out over nearly a full league. Some exhausted soldiers collapsed to the roadside for a desperately needed rest and began to lag among the camp followers, who were now quite alone several leagues behind the reserves. Still, once again the next morning at dawn, Gwenda herself sounded the horn for assembly, and she had to prod the sleepy Rowan up to his feet and see him once more mounted upon Red at the front of their army. With only eighteen leagues to go, she rode up and down the long line of soldiers, ordering, begging, pleading with them to keep up the pace, but still their line drew out even longer with weary stragglers. Even Rowan begged her to allow the exhausted men and women to take a rest at nightfall, but for the first and perhaps only time in her life, Gwenda defied her lover, and her commanding lord. The march would continue, she barked between clinched teeth, until at least some of the brigade arrived within cavalry scouting range of the main Eorfleode army. Then, and only then, could they rest while a final scouting report was completed and a decision for battle made. Rowan was sure that most of the soldiers would indeed collapse under this final relentless death march, but he saw the determination in Gwenda's eyes and her need and overwhelming thirst for vengeance. Silently he nodded his head in agreement and joined her in riding the full length of their marching column, nearly three leagues long now in length, to encourage some last final reservoir of strength and stamina from his soldiers. "Just a few more leagues... we're almost there!" He'd murmur to each group, watching as they'd blindly stumble with exhaustion in the dark, in a haze of bone-crushing weariness as they grimly planted one foot in front of the other, again and again, to take yet one more step towards their hated enemy. All through the night, the vast majority of the men and women continued to march onwards, until at last near daybreak the order was given to make camp and rest. To the end of his days, Rowan never really quite understood what misplaced loyalty and determination caused his soldiers to complete that long desperate march, fraught with pain and constant fear of what evils their eyes would behold should they arrive but an hour too late. They had done the near impossible, and made a march of nearly a hundred leagues in just under a week. The walls and gatehouse of Orshold still stood, and while various Boar-Men units staged separated and uncoordinated attacks upon the town, with no more than three sides of the walls faced peril at any given moment. Their guardsmen had held. ************* Orshold was right at the foothills and border of Everdun, right where the small but mighty Roth River flowed from the hills and nearby mountains and became navigatable, running into the Emerald River. The town was at the top of a hill with a good sized sturdy wall all the way around it. At every point an attacker had to charge uphill and into a good killing field. No wonder that they had survived a siege of several weeks against enormous odds! There was good iron and copper in the surrounding hills and much of it was mined and processed here into ingots, to be taken downriver to Swanford, and the City of Tellismere. As at Kenniford, the allegiance of Orshold to the Dukes of Tellismere was rather much in doubt. Nominally, the Duke of Everdun recognized the town's independence, defying the Duke of Tellismere, but they rarely involved themselves with the town's political arrangements. While the local barons liked to pretend that they were the ones in charge of things, it was the local independent miners and merchant factors that really ran things. Trade was the life-blood of the town, and even the largest of the land-holding barons couldn't collectively control more than a small fraction of the wealth flowing downriver. This tended to keep the local aristocracy, which still thought of earning coin by working trade as beneath them, rather more manageable than the misguided barons of the Lloan Valley. These much poorer rural noblemen would keep to the status-quo; revolution and true political independence would hurt trade, something the factors, miners and merchants would never tolerate. Unlike the rebels of Lloan Valley, these noblemen would be very happy indeed to see Rowan's army outside their town walls! Unlike Kenniford, the town had received quite ample warning of the first horde army of Eorfleode coming south across the Emerald River from the Strook River valley and also the Great Yarmouth Pass from the Brittle Mountains. They had time to gather in food stocks from the nearby Lloan Valley and evacuate most of the outlying settlements. They had plenty of arms, the means to craft even more, and quite the willingness to use them, but no one ever anticipated the size of the Boar-Man army when it arrived. The addition of yet many thousands more coming from the greater western army over the last few weeks had quite nearly collapsed their hopes for rescue. Being a mining town, they had long been prepared for such a great misfortune and had constructed several secure tunnels that went under the city. In an emergency, the townsfolk could be taken out under the city to another smaller hidden stronghold further east, up in the hills. Other smaller tunnels were quite suited for using as sally ports to attack the flanks of an invading army and make fast escapes back to safety. A few more tunnels emerged near or just under the river, suitable for sending out messengers for help, such as the ones that had reached Rowan. Now he could send back his reply. Other messengers reported that the Duke of Everdun had a good part of his own army on the way, estimated now to be about three days away still, but there was much uncertainty as to whether the town could hold for yet another three days. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 17 With these fresh reports from the town's defenders, Rowan wrote a message to be smuggled back into the town that his brigade was nearby and that the town must hold for just one more day, until his stragglers could be collected and his weary troops rested just a bit before battle. Yet to be decided was whether his brigade could or should be smuggled inside the town via the hidden tunnels, or if they would wait for the arrival of the Duke of Everdun to make a concerted attack upon the horde. This now was probably the single biggest decision that Rowan had ever faced, and he was quite now at a loss about what to do. **************** The Eorfleode army had not been at all understated. It was every bit as large as the reports had indicated. Between twenty to twenty-five thousand strong at present, with several more thousand now lying dead on the hillside or in the surrounding valley. Their attacks were becoming increasing desperate, but still badly coordinated. Perhaps their supply rations were running low. Boar-Men never did understand or study logistics and a large carnivorous army needs a lot of provisioning, even if they cheerfully cooked and ate their own dead. Any overwhelming assault could have taken the town weeks ago, but as always the various war-band leaders never wished to share the glory of a victory, and attacks had been piece-meal, albeit frequent both night and day. Rowan was glad that the overall horde-leader, the alleged boarman wizard and his colossal beast, was elsewhere. Apparently, only their fear of him was enough to make the various tribes cooperate together, keeping them focused and the various tribes working together in unison. Fortunately, he remained with his western horde, and the tribes here in the east, although nearly as massive of an army, were squabbling and not even remotely cooperating together. Gwenda was not quite so certain that the town could in fact hold out another full day, let alone three. Already the women, elderly and the severely wounded were guarding the walls day and night against the constant attacks, tossing rocks down upon the scaling ladders and bringing sheaves of arrows to the mostly unskilled bowmen. Even without a single coordinated overwhelming assault, these constant piecemeal skirmishes were grinding the few trained guardsmen down. The miners and townsmen were quite doing their best, but she feared that it was not going to be enough. When Gwenda received a messenger late that afternoon reporting that an especially determined assault had nearly overwhelmed and swept over the western wall of the town, she knew that she needed to bring the brigade into action the next morning. All day long the weary final stragglers of the brigade had been making their way into camp, and that the refugees and the rearmost camp followers were now starting to arrive as well. Summoning Harald and Guilliam for an immediate Counsel meeting, she set forth her request that the brigade assemble for battle in the morning, but she received little support. Even in her enthusiasm, she had to admit that most of the reasons against her plans for an immediate all out attack were good ones. For starters, attacking eastward in the morning, their soldiers would have the sun in their eyes behind their enemies, never a good tactical position to be in. Secondly, four thousand tired and footsore soldiers fighting possibly twenty-five thousand Boar-Men at once was also a rather poor strategic situation. That smacked too much of desperation, and it was certain to make the common soldier quite unhappy with the odds, and the dim-witted commanders who placed them into certain doom. It was much safer and wiser, Rowan thought, to bring the brigade into the tunnels into the town that night and allow them to take over the defense of the walls, until the Duke's army arrived in a few days. This plan also had the different problem, the Foole noted, of placing both the soldiers of Tellismere and Broadmore in a passive role, perhaps for the duration of the siege. It would then be the Duke of Everdun who could quite rightly gain the credit for the relief of the town, thus placing Rowan into the possible situation of being unable to fulfill his oath to the Duke of Broadmore. As he might not be in the position to defeat the Boar-Men army himself, the Duke in turn could disregard his promise to send his own army north. To defend his honor and his oath, Rowan and his army needed to be once again at the sharp point of any battle, but if the town fell while he passively waited for reinforcements, then his hope for relief for his homeland was lost as well. For a moment, it appeared that Rowan and Gwenda might actually argue and exchange heated words, but it was the goblin shaman Jim'ose who saved the lovers from nearly certain harsh words that neither of them actually meant nor felt in the anger and frustration of the moment. "Young fools, you've been around the Cisalo for much too long, and his love of both overly rash boldness and transparent attempts at audacious cleverness has infected you. It is reckless to think of engaging into mortal combat with ones most hated enemy when one does not possess the correct information of their disposition and intentions, and of what additional allies might be found with a more careful examination of the facts, of which you now possess but few. In audacity, you wish to strike, and while this courage is admirable, it is yet quite unnecessary. Let me correct your aim, so that when your blow strikes but a little later, it shall fall harder and more truly." "What information do we not yet have?" Gwenda sharply enquired. "We know more or less where the Duke of Everdun's forces are, yet some days away, and our scouts have marked where most of the great war-bands are assembled in the valley and we know that they little scout the areas behind their camps, so they are unlikely to detect our own forces. So what critical observations have we missed?" "Of consequence? Little, but yet much! Since my tribe has entered into these valleys we have noted well certain signs as well upon this and other hills in the area, we know that numerous other tribes of the People of the Púcel are nearby, undoubtedly serving their masters the Boar-Men in such menial matters as our often enslaved race is suited for. Being a weak people, without the protection of our God, who has rejected us, and our betrayal by the Fex'oegh, and the other oath-breakers who rejected us, such servitude has been often our lot, but is not surrendered willingly. Should they remember the signs of the prophecy, and heed my call to join us, many could or would, if they were able, escape from their bonds and join with us to again become a free race of people, living once more with honor." "How many of your people are there down there, serving the Eorfleode? And will they heed your call and rebel? Will they fight for their freedom?" Rowan exclaimed excitedly, for even the hope of a few more bow or spearmen could well mean the difference between success and victory. "I am as of yet unsure, but I must go down to my people and find out the answers to these questions, and I must make haste! Noble Rowan, it is near certain that I might need your services before this long dangerous night is over, for my people are a clever but suspicious folk, and extraordinary claims often require extraordinary proofs. Do you see that tall tree to which I now point, two hills away, overlooking the valley where my people and the Boar-Men camp? If it can be made secretly safe and secure, go at once and await my return to there, before the first light of dawn, for it is written in the holy script that the honor-bringer's sword shall again shine its light over the entire valley of the Eorfleode, and solely by its light shall victory be won, for the sun shall not rise upon them that day. Tomorrow morning, they shall learn true fear as they are burned away from the weaving of this age, and they shall break and fall before the shields of men like water poured across a hard stone. By the blood and peace that his sacrifice shall bring, will the homeless be honored and the ancient oaths reforged." "Holy Shit... we're fucked." Boyle muttered. Oddtus, his face clouded by a combination of fear and wonder, just nodded his head as well. Gwenda's anger abated, and with tears in her eyes she met the sad gaze of the man she so dearly loved and placed her soft hands into his. As they held each other, she collapsed crying into his arms and defied him to ever release her from his comforting grasp. Sadly, they could not embrace for long, as Rowan grimly took Gwenda's hand and together they followed the shaman and his small troop of attendants towards the selected hill with its large and massive tree, perhaps one of the very tallest trees that either of the couple had ever seen. This portended something significant; they were both sure, but the future showed only darkness for them both. They found no boarmen guards or defenders upon the hill, Rowan and Gwenda quietly waited under that massive tree for much of that long night for the return of the shaman, with swords sheathed but at their readiness, eager for the news of the tidings that he would bear. *************** Alone now, once again for the first time in about a week, Gwenda spent the long hours talking quietly, and holding each other, eventually settling down at the base of the tree at the top of the hill to kiss and embrace each other both more passionately and more franticly. Full of needs that could no longer be restrained or denied any further, the couple found themselves naked, or quite nearly so, and surrendering her hopes and prayers for the future, she accepted her most fervent desire of the moment, to feel Rowan's penis enter into her, to feel it fill her womb with his precious seed, to lie together as true lovers at least just this once, as his geféra, his wife in all but formal oath. She was not a virgin, but she nevertheless she cried out soft tears of joy as she lowered her hips over his, as he laid on his back on the cool autumn night grass, as she slowly eased him inside of her cunt. He was snug, and his cockshaft filled her ever deeper until her pubic mound pressed full against his and she thought that she could feel the tip of his cock press firmly against the entrance to her womb. She did not think that the moon-flow was quite right for his seed to grow within her, but she prayed for this miracle nevertheless as she worked her cunt increasingly harder and faster upon his rampant member, determined that she should feel his true love flow inside of her at the very earliest possible moment. With their first true fuck together, Rowen could not help but sadly remember the events of that last fateful past summer night with Cedany along the dark warm grass beside Lily Lake. He had fully taken her love then as well, declaring and marking her to become his... forever. A handful of hours later and she had been taken from him. Was Gwenda now to suffer this same dreadful fate? Or, as the goblin prophecy had hinted, that it was his blood that would be shed so that the others might live. He thought that he could accept this harsh fate, but he knew such a doom would darken Gwenda's heart forever, for even as his cock pulsated and erupted inside of his beloved, filling her womb canal with his seed, he knew that it was indeed Gwenda, and never Cedany, that his soul had been truly bound to. Should either of them perish, never again would the other find or accept any other love in substitution. ************* Together, crying in love and in fear for their future, the lovers held each other for several more long hours, until about an hour before dawn a loud clearing of the throat and the sound of soft footfalls reminded the lovers that they were quite unprepared to receive company. They were still finishing getting redressed as the shaman and his men, along with a full dozen new goblins, apparently all leaders from the various enslaved tribes, joined the couple under the tree. Rowan started to apologize for any perceived disrespect, but Jim'ose laughed his efforts silent. "Never regret any moment in the embrace of true love!" The goblin shaman wisely suggested. "The mark of the Weaver's is plain upon you, and your threads are bonded that none might separate them. It is good and right that you have acknowledged this and surrendered yourselves to their weaving, for by such will you find your fullest measure of happiness and delight. Never let another steal that special divine joy from you!" The shaman then muttered a prayer of his own in his own tongue, and together Rowan and Gwenda bowed their heads. While the words were quite strange and unfamiliar, each knew that already their unspoken troth-oaths from their hearts had been accepted, and from this very moment on they considered themselves to be forever marked as husband and wife. A more elaborate and formal ritual would still have to wait until later. For several long minutes, the shaman explained to Rowan what indeed needed to be done next. The lad wasn't at all confident that he could do it, that he could once again fill the skies with orange flame, with great burning clouds of his implacable wrath, but he bowed his head and promised, as always, that he would do his best. Then, with Gwenda close behind him following his every step, he began to climb as rapidly as he dared up that great tall tree, up to near its very top, so that he might best see the Eorfleode army, and mark it for flaming destruction, or so he hoped. ************** Once at the top, as the slowly brightening sky hinted of the sunrise shortly to come, Rowan had climbed as high as he dared and he could now easily see most of the valley, and its encamped horde of warriors in the dim pre-dawn glow of light. With Gwenda nearly by his side, just below him in the tree, he drew his infernal sword and it burst into flames, but try as he might it would not explode forth again into the sky, filling it with his wrath. Indeed, for now he realized that his heart was not at all filled with anger towards his enemy, but instead it was still radiant with his overflowing love for Gwenda. That he realized at once was the key, to transform this unending reservoir of love into a furnace of rage, that this army of foul malevolent creatures could somehow yet separate them forever, with one of them apparently fated to fall under their might, and their cruel desire to destroy all that was decent in this world. Fueled now by this growing ire, the sword burned ever brighter and just before the first tip of the sun appeared over the eastern mountains, the skies grew bright with the sword's infernal light, and not the pleasant rays of the mid-autumn sun. As the flame clouds grew above the valley, with the walled town in the center of it, a bright terrible ring of conflagration began to fill the sky, and the first blots of fire, much like enormous drops of rain, began to fall unto the frightened hordes in the valley, burning and devouring them with infernal and implacable flame. Now facing the burning sky, as promised by prophecy, indeed every single goblin tribe present at once cast off their virtual shackles of slavery and lifted a stolen weapon in quick murderous revenge before slinking off into the shadows into the hills, to freedom. While nearly two thousand Eorfleode suddenly fell to surprise treacherous strikes from behind at the hands of their former slaves, or had their still sleeping throats swiftly cut, it was the growing hailstorm of flaming rain that devoured the very heart out of the Boar-Men army, as over ten thousand of the evil creatures were struck by falling balls of flame from the ring of angry fire that filled the sky, consuming them and all that the flame touched. Making their escape quickly, the flames bypassed the fleeing goblins, who soon lined the nearby hills loudly cheering at the demise of their hated former captors, for many of these tribes had been in subjugation for many generations. The sounds of their anger further fueled Rowan's burning rage, as Gwenda whispered comfort into his ears. "Burn them all! Kill them with your fire, all that you can, and cleanse the world of their foul race! May their funeral pyres burn long, in memory of my father and my beloved brother, might their spirits watch their flames burn from the darkness of the Shadowlands, and may their burning warm the cold from their dead spirits! Burn them all my love, fill them with the heat of our anger and vengeance, that might they never forget this day and the disaster that befell them deep inside the lands of men, that they might never again enter our lands!" Burn them he did, and for longer than he thought was possible, until ten thousand, or about half of the mighty horde had been scourged from the earth by his infernal flame. Only then did his resolve finally weaken and the flames burned out of the sword for now, but still the sky was burnt orange with smoke and clouds so thick that the sun could not be seen at all. Truly, as the prophecy had foretold, the sun would not rise for the Eorfleode army today! The tree that they had climbed was also in flames, but they didn't burn or even seem to actually consume the tree in any way. Brightly burning, the tall tree was now shrouded in perpetual ghostly orange flame, and would remain so for a very long time to come. Many long generations later the tree still emitted a permanent magical orange glow. The púcel tribes thereafter that accepted the forgiveness of the Fex'oegh oath-breakers and swore peace with human's, used the symbol of the orange burning tree thereafter, for their flag markers outside of their settlements and treated the tree as their most holy and sacred site. Most of the púca also tended to wear a braided orange cloth or a orange glass bead or stone bracelet around one of their wrists, in memory of the long ages that they were slaves and how their freedom had been won. "Come down my young couple!" Rowan heard the gléaman shout, down from the bottom of the burning tree. "For the brigade is aligned for battle and ready to march down into the valley to complete their ruin! For today shall the will of man and púcel alike be impressed upon the Boar-Men forever, and none that have wrought ruin upon these lands shall ever know the comfort of peace again!" Hastening down the now orange tree, the weary couple joined the Histrio, and the ever growing host of púcel, tribal leaders and common goblins alike, that wanted to first see, then praise, then even briefly touch the hands of their liberators, and marvel at the tree that burned, but was not consumed. While small and relatively poorly armed, the goblins had found their soul once again and were as eager as Gwenda for the final accounting with their hated enemy to take place. Rowan had little time to mutter in wonder, for his place was at the head of his two marching battalions, and if his messengers could get the plan of battle spread out to everyone in time, he had a certain adjustment to the line of battle that he wished to make. Nothing, not even his death, was going to prevent this utterly devastating victory he had envisioned, and he wanted for as few survivors as possible to escape from their lines, to return to their far remote primitive mountain villages, to weep, if they were capable of it, for the virtual destruction of their tribesmen. ************ With his sword again unsheathed, and once more burning brightly, Rowan was the perfect and irresistible bait to entice the entire remaining ten thousand Boar-Men into battle, and much like the bloody siege assault upon Ruromel, the entire horde was already starting to come like an enormous steel wedge directly pointed at him, at the very center of his lines. Should he live, or not, and if the battle-line remained ready to move as he directed, at least this one gigantic horde of Eorfleode was not going to live to see the sunset of this auspicious day. Regardless of the outcome of the slaughter that was certain to ensue, by the end of this very day his oath to Duke Kelvin U'Roth, the young leader of Broadmore would be fulfilled, and hope would come for the remnants of his own Duchy, as at least two human armies would now be free to confront the one vast remaining horde, now far to the west. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 17 With a song of joy in his heart that even cold steel could not forever extinguish, Rowan charged into the very point of the horde's attack wielding infernal metal and fire as he spun into the very heart of the charging army, further and faster than the horrified Gwenda could move to follow, to aid and protect him. Despite her orders to remain behind the lines in safety, she tried desperately to reach him. Soon she was in a frantic battle for survival all of her own and when the first wave of Boar-Men reached her she couldn't even see the flame of Rowan's sword deep in their midst any longer. With her own death-song now on her lips, she shouted to command the two battalions on either side of her to form in a fighting 'V' wedge, as Rowan had requested, to force and grind the point of the Eorfleode ever deeper into the bloody center of the battle-line. Now trapped, the still vast horde could be ground down and destroyed in piecemeal, surrounded on both flanks and soon cut off from any possible escape to the rear by the circling archer cavalry and the thousands of angry goblins. The púcel were now arming themselves with whatever weapons they could scavenge, and slowly cutting down the flanks and rear of the horde, one hated enemy at a time. When the crash of a great heavy warclub to the side of her skull soon drove Gwenda helplessly down to the ground, the fighting wedge had been solidly formed and already the great slaughter on the flanks and rear had begun. Her lover's plan had worked, and even should they both have fallen together this dark morning, the battle was near to already won. As the great club started its final decent that would send her off to the Shadowlands, she surrendered to the pain of darkness without any thought of complaint. If her true love was not already there waiting for her, then he soon might be there to join her, together again and for eternity. Such a victory, and such a reward was more enough for her. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 18 *********** CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "You've darned near had your darned fool skull split wide open! So remain still and rest your eyes. You'll probably be seeing stars for awhile yet and you'll be dizzy for a few days." Ashburn gently advised her, when she had awoken in pain and darkness later. The healer's voice was trying to sound stern, but Gwenda could hear the smile in his voice even though her eyes were still shut lying in bed. Her head still hurt with a near constant throbbing, even now apparently several days after the battle. "Everyone warned you that you weren't healthy enough for battle yet, but still you had to go charging off after him... and without even a helmet to cover your thick head!" "Well, as I've shown you, my skull is nearly quite thick enough to do without one, but I did just barely duck in time to only get a glancing blow from that warclub." Ashburn laughed. "By glancing, you just mean that it nailed you nearly dead solid on the side of your skull and knocked silly! If I hadn't been right behind you all ready to grab your feet and yank you back into the lines, his second club blow would have pulped your head like a ripe melon. You realize that your lover can well handle himself, he had a circle of flame around him at least thirty feet wide and not a single boarman so much as scratched him. Your antics, on the other hand, caused two of my assistants to get killed. A young lad and lass that had no business being so close to the battle-line, except that they were terrified that you would be hurt! They went haring after you, and I went chasing after them, to get them into our lines. They willing gave their lives to try and save yours, so there is a blood-debt, but as their master, of sorts, I'll exact a promise from you to never again set one foot ahead of the rest of the battle-line! I'd order you to remain behind it, in the reserves, but knowing you, you'd break that oath within the first five minutes of the next battle. Remember, courage and loyalty are good things, but if your overly brave it just gets young soldiers, and healers, injured or killed trying to match your example. Remember this, if your dented skull can!" "I shall!" She vowed. "Thank you for your efforts... I shall promise that they shouldn't ever be needed again." This was the second time that she'd gotten herself badly hurt while disobeying orders, and she had little doubt of what her lover's anger would be if she allowed herself to get carried away by the emotions of the battle yet again a third time. It had been foolish, and she knew it. Mentally, she added the names of the young slain couple to her growing list of names to honor, for naming her future children. "Save the thanks for later, you'll still be doped up on poppy-juice for the next few days. Oddtus thinks you've still got some minor brain swelling and he very nearly decided to poke a few holes into your skull to relieve the pressure. The only thing that I think stopped him was that Rowan was already a basket-case worrying about you, and he's been in a near nonstop row with nearly everyone since the battle... especially with the Duke of Everdun, who arrived early yesterday." "What is Rowan angry about, exactly? His battle plan went off exactly according to plan, from what little I've heard; the Boar-Men were routed with nearly no survivors, and we took astonishingly few casualties, fewer dead than even than at Kenniford, but we do have a lot of wounded." "Well he's angry about everything and at everyone, which means he's really mostly angry at himself. He did get a little carried away himself during the battle and he went into far more danger than he ought to have had." "It was that stupid goblin prophecy!" Gwenda exclaimed. "It had us both convinced that either one or both of us would die during this battle!" Ashburn laughed. "Even as just an apprentice Histrio, I can decipher the proper meaning, and it did not require the loss of either of your lives! 'Blood and sacrifice' the prophecy said, but did not your army give both during the battle? Certainly your own wounds bear this well enough. But in fact, the true sacrifice was made when Rowan boldly told the Duke of Everdun to quite frankly 'go fuck yourself' and to pack up his 'sorry ass army and take it back home, that it was unwanted and unneeded'." "Rowan told a Duke to go fuck himself? Are we at war now? Why didn't the Foole get off of his duff and straighten things out? He has been less than his formerly helpful self as of late." "My master is bothered by a great many things, nearly all of which are too weighty to be discussed with his new apprentice. In this particular instance, Oddtus was quite beside himself with laughter, and he too could see the plain writing of the prophecy in Rowan's actions. The Duke was horrified to find that men had made peace-oath with the púcel, and he had demanded that Rowan break his word-bond with the tribes, and drive them forth away from the camp and the town. Quite rightly, Rowan refused... and plainly said so in clear unmistakable terms." "Indeed, it was quite well and aptly done!" The Foole agreed, as he entered into her healing room. "Sometimes, ever so rarely in life, there are second chances! Once long ago, men faced a similar decision... and chose poorly. Yesterday, Rowan held firm to his honor and said that he'd sooner fight the entire remaining Eorfleode army all alone, and without a single ally, than to once more break an oath between the races, to again and forever doom us to be Fex'oegh, and without honor." "So, the Duke of Everdun has left, and has taken his army back with him?" She enquired. "Actually, the good Duke is still with us, along with his army, and he, Rowan and Boyle have been drinking together, and rather heavily, since last night. The Duke, grudgingly, admires Rowan's courage and honor, and before everyone got entirely too drunk to speak reason, the Duke even made his own peace with the púcel. He's certain that he's going to be murdered for doing this, once he returns back home, but even his officers are finally getting used to the idea of peace between the races. The Count of Orshold has even formally granted several of the tribes lands of their very own in the hills near the town, including your ever-burning tree, which they're already turning into a shrine and holy spot. They do make adequate miners and have some slight skill at the forge, and in short time they will add much to the future prosperity of the town. They even have their own war-banner now, a flaming orange sword upon a green tree and a black sky, and every single rescued tribe will now staunchly march with the army now with every step further that we take. Although, it is now time that our group takes a temporary leave away from the brigade for awhile." "Leave? To go where?" Gwenda asked, already much puzzled with the recent events. "Why to Corælyn, of course. It is still very necessary that we go there, and I'm sure the Empire would be unhappy at our bringing an entire army along with us. The Duke of Everdun brought a full brigade of heavy cavalry with him as well, and if the slurred cries of loyalty that I heard earlier are entirely to be believed, then the Duke will escort our army west, to meet with Broadmore's at either the coastal towns of Penryn or Lydham, or at the city of Broadmore itself. Duke Kelvin is certain to be near one of those three places, fending off the Drakland landing forces." "He's taking over our army?" "Well, at least for now, marching it for us anyway. It's going to take them a couple of weeks to get there and there will be nearly nothing to fight along the way, so we won't miss anything interesting. All of the Eorfleode here in the east have now been settled for; the land here and in the Lloan Valley is safe. We'll be missing none of the glory, to be sure lass! Duke Kinsay O'Naold I'm sure can march our forces straight and true. We're going to travel with him, together down the road on the march south, until we both get to Samhold. Once there, he'll embark the army on rafts and boats going down the Penryn River to the coast. He's already sent riders back to Everdun to scrape up every soldier that can be spared, to have them come here and take the Emerald River west, to head straight for Crystal Lake and put themselves directly into your Duke's command, assuming that they arrive in time! Other riders have been sent to Oswein, to request their help as well. It is good and right that all of the Southern Duchies should now join together, and I'm certain that they will come. Their navy, built to ward off Caestor, is large enough to embark all of their forces, and it is hoped that their fleet will arrive in Broadmore in time to gather all of the waiting armies there. Then it will just be a matter of convincing Drakland to quit their private war and attend us... but that is a problem for another day." "So, just our original party will then keep going south from Samhold? To Lydleford and then Dragontooth? That will indeed take us most of the way there. But why is it so important that the original quest be continued, and right now?" "At least one important event still needs to occur, if Tellismere is to be saved. And it is of very great importance still. Not to mention, that some relaxation away from the worries and cares of tending to an army will do both you and Rowan good! Boyle could much do with a rest as well, he's been so busy as of late that he's completely forgotten to talk and act like the village idiot! So, our paths need to diverge from our army's for a short while, certainly no longer than a month, but fear not! It will still be yours to command upon our all too hasty return!" "Good. I could really do with a bit more rest. How soon do we start to travel?" "Another day or three, until your head stops throbbing enough so that you can ride and the other wounded are a bit more recovered as well. Longer, if the lads don't eventually break up their drinking party!" ************ "Damn that drinking party!" Rowan exclaimed, as he came to sit down next to Gwenda a few hours later and he took her hand. "That damned fool of a Duke thinks that he's a Dweorg lord, and he throws down ale like fish drink water! I'm scared to go to bed because I'll just pass out and wake up tomorrow still probably drunk, or hung-over enough to want start drinking all over again! My love.... exactly what part of, 'You're still wounded, so stay just behind the battle-line!' didn't you quite understand?" "My love, I might well ask you as well what part of my warning 'not to go too deeply into the Boar-Men lines' did you not quite recall during the heat of battle? Not content with just leading your army to victory, you apparently felt that you also had to kill far more than your own fair share of the enemy! This embarrasses your other officers, who feel that you are depriving your own foot soldiers of their minimal tasks, and preventing them from obtaining but a little honor of their very own. For shame!" Gwenda giggled. "Alright... I admit that I got a little carried away. That was wrong, but I did want to make sure that the wedge of their attack came directly to me... although somehow I did end up in the very middle of their army. That wasn't quite what I had intended. I do realize I frightened everyone." "And badly! Just promise me, before witnesses, that you'll not do that ever again... or at least not until I'm well enough to guard your back properly." "So sworn! I promise to be good. Boyle is still with Duke Kinsay, matching him mug for mug, although both of their eyes were quite drooping and I'm sure they'll be snoring soon. I'll not want to have either of their heads, when they awaken later! When I left them they were singing... someone needs to remind Boyle that he hasn't the voice for it, especially when he can't remember all of the right words to the songs!" *********** Snoring himself soon, in a large comfortable chair perched next to Gwenda's bed, Rowan first updated her with the rest of the relevant news. The brigade had taken startlingly light casualties, with less than a hundred dead. Miraculous, for a force that was still nearly outnumbered by about three-to-one. The V wedge battle line shield wall had restrained the vast majority of the Eorfleode army, pinning it helplessly to be ground away at the center. The cavalry and the goblins carved away mercilessly at the flanks, and Rowan himself had been a cyclone of fire eating away at their very heart. He had killed thousands, alone in the great center of flame, and not even the longest spear could get close enough to touch him. Now, the brigade was enjoying the hospitality of the town, and likely as not heavily drinking as well, and for free. The Eorfleode camps had been well pillaged by the happy soldiers and púca, and enough coin and loot had been gathered, and fair equitably distributed, to keep the army wined and dined in town for a month or more, not that they would get the chance. The Everdun army, mostly heavy cavalry, arrived a full day too late to enjoy even the last little bit of the mopping up, and they had cheers of joy for the victors, and the two brigades had already now merged seamlessly into a single great army. The townsmen and women of Orshold had opened their gates once the envelopment of their enemy had been complete, and a small but fervent strike force had come out to help surround the enemy army, and they accounted themselves well. It would never be said that they hid behind their walls and demanded to be rescued, unlike the disloyal barons of Kenniford. Oddly, it was the goblins who received the loudest cries of praise and cheers, when the army paraded through the relieved town afterwards. It was they who had had shed the most blood, fought the hardest and with the worst odds with inadequate weapons and little or no armor; out of honor, and for their hopes for the future. Already the púcel were starting to build their own huts for a permanent village and dig yet more tunnels under the hills of Orshold, and indeed their future now look bright. The hated words nihtgenga, or night-goer, were already seldom heard now, and with a little more time there was every indication that a long very unhappy past between the two races could be soothed into peaceful coexistence, and even cooperation. ************** The journey south to Samhold, down the great stone trade road that ran from Everdun to Dragontooth, took the combined army a little over a week to travel. At ninety-six leagues, it was just a little longer than the Kenniford to Orshold road, and there was fortunately no need for any long forced marches. Once per day, at midday, the combined army would try to practice a field problem or two, usually with satisfactory results. Except for a couple of small isolated war-bands, which the patrolling light cavalry handled easily alone, the region was now free from threat, and slowly everyone began to relax a little. Her head still wrapped in a bandage, Gwenda kept her duties to a bare minimum and she let her two battalion commands work directly with their Everdun counterparts as much as possible. She still had a near constant headache, and was often too dizzy to ride her horse, but everyone assured her that this ailment would improve over time. It certainly convinced her that wearing a helmet was a prudent idea. For most of the trip, she shared the Lady Ayleth's carriage, and slowly and very gradually the two women began to talk out their differences and a tentative peace was established between the two strong-willed women. Traveling with Duke Kinsay, the two lads found themselves liking the older man quite a bit better than their first awkward meeting might have portended. Kinsay O'Naold, Duke of Everdun, was a short, stout and excitable man of middle years, who was fast to anger but ever faster to laugh and swear friendship afterwards. A bit bandy-legged, the short warrior had spent much of his life in the saddle, riding with his soldiers. The mountains and hills of Everdun seemed to be magnets for bandits and lawless men, and a good many other monsters other than just Boar-Men. Nominally the richest duchy of the south, its lord had to spend freely to make sure that food stocks flowed into the land and its precious ores flowing out, without disruptions. His was the largest and best trained force in the entire region. His fast heavy cavalry, with long sharp tipped lances and his slower, but more agile, mountain archer squadrons mounted upon smaller mountain ponies rode along now at his side. True to his word, he had sent several messengers back to order to Crystal Lake as many of his six regiments of heavy foot infantry as could be spared. Some few minor war-bands of Eorfleode were still currently raiding into Everdun, but he was certain that even the local guard companies left in the cities and towns could handle these stragglers with ease. If indeed even half of all of his infantry could make it down the Emerald River to Crystal Lake in time, his would be the single strongest force in all of the Southern Duchies, and potentially with enough soldiers to turn defeat into a glorious victory. Politically, things within the Duchy were secure enough that he had few concerns about being away from his home for potentially several months. His wife, the Duchess, was more than a capable hand for any eventuality at the court, and she normally handled the vast majority of the routine functions of government as well. She had more than enough steel in her littlest finger to keep even the most opportunistic Earl kept well in place, so even with the vast majority of the army gone, all would be kept in order. ********* Upon reaching Samhold, there were already a good many boats waiting for the Duke, and no shortages of trees on either bank of the Penryn River, where already the local woodsmen were starting to gather great loads of logs for building rafts. Like Orshold, Samhold was very near the foothills that were the border with Everdun, but here where the river come out of the mountains and into the forests of eastern Broadmore, the political boundary was a bit clearer. Rowan, with his charter from Duke Kelvin, had no trouble with any of the local barons here, and in fact, they were eager to prove their usefulness... and loyalty. The examples that had been made of the treasonous barons of Lloan Valley had well caught their attention. Their local companies of troops had been gathered into readiness, and with Rowan's thanks, on behalf of their Duke, he added them into the army, which was already starting to be called the Army of the Southern Duchies. The call to arms in all directions continued to be made, and Rowan and Duke Kinsay were assured that many more hosts of men were already being gathered from the south, to be sent onwards down the coast into Broadmore to join the other ducal armies there. As a parting gesture, Duke Kinsay demanded to be allowed to knight both Rowan and Boyle. It was only fitting that such brave lads who had assembled and commanded such a brave host be fittingly awarded with at least minor titles to the nobility. Boyle accepted, but after some careful thought, Rowan declined. The politics, he apologized, were just too strange. A lad from one duchy, the champion to its heir, who also held a charter to command in the name of another Duke, to then be knighted by yet a third. He was honored by the thought, but in order to better serve the two Dukes he currently held duty and honor to, he sadly had to decline. Duke Kinsay then laughed and muttered that he'd go knock some sense into both other Dukes right away, and he'd see that the lad become at least an Earl by time they next met, and before another ale keg ran dry! They laughed and parted the stoutest of friends and allies, with plans to meet again soon at the camp of the Duke of Broadmore, somewhere south along the coast. Then, truly would the Army of the Southern Duchies be complete! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 18 ************** It was rather strange, the feeling of being alone or nearly so, on the road once more. Just the pair of lads, Gwenda, the Foole and his apprentice Ashburn, and of course the Lady Ayleth. It was frightening how fast they could ride on the good southern road without a regiment, battalion, brigade or now an entire full army to deal with. No one was bothered in their sleep now with constant requests for orders that needed to given, and for at least now, there were little or no worries about the future. They covered a full twenty leagues the first day alone, allowing their horses to stretch their legs into a gallop for a full league at a time before giving them a rest and then into a slight trot. The sixty-two leagues to the base of Dragonstooth Mountain were accomplished in three solid days of travel, allowing them to take the twisting serpentine road half-way up the side of the mountain to enter the main great stone city gates just before mid-day. Dragonstooth was a very old city, perhaps one of the oldest surviving ones that the Histrio knew of, but now it was a warren for tradesmen, rather than misshapen monstrous creatures of past legend. Dragonstooth Mountain was once an old home of the Dragonkin, ages ago, the Lore-Master quietly stated, as they crossed under a great many of the old carved stone arches that led to different parts of the city. Carved into the very sides of the great cone shaped mountain, which did greatly resemble a great stone fang reaching high into the sky, the city was as much a cave complex with buildings carved right out from the heart and sides of the stones, as it was of brick, dressed stone or timber. Arches supported upper buildings above while new alleyways were dug ever deeper into the sides of the mountain. "There is more loose coin to be gathered under these arches or inside of these innumerable caverns than anywhere under the skies. More perhaps than in rich Corælyn herself. There is nearly no trade that happens anywhere in the Southern Duchies that the factors here do not collect a few pence, and all land trade from Broadmore to Aldaria must traverse this mountain city and these pathways. It is here that the old and the new cross pathways... for a gléaman, there is almost no better place than here to listen for news of the world, and to gather coins for travel. We shall stay here and rest for a day or two while I do both. Within a week, should we find a swift coastal ship, we shall be wallowing in the wickedness that is Corælyn, to see her thousands of exotic sights, and to complete at least part of what we have struggled to achieve!" "Must we delay here?" The Lady Ayleth grumbled. "We really can't get there at all soon enough to satisfy me! I must get back home, to tell my father everything that has occurred so far, and to see the despoliation of my lands, where the Boar-Men have already crossed into our western lands. I fear that I will return home to nothing but waste, to find that all has been lost. This quest has brought nothing but grief to me so far. So many have already died, while I have fled from danger and have been packaged off under protection, away from both harm and glory. When the gléamen sing their songs of these fearful days, my name, and that of my father, will be sung of little, save in belittling satire, and of how others died in our names while we suffered not a scratch. Speak not of the honor and the glories of Lady Ayleth's Own Brigade, or even her Regiment, for those glorious deeds were done by others, and concern not me!" Her outburst completed, the Lady resumed her normal silence, and prayed that sometime soon her ordeal might yet be over. In truth, hearing of the great accomplishments, glories and deeds of her famed army now quite galled her! Her champion had indeed led with his sword in her name, but never had she been allowed the slightest order or command to be given by her own voice. It had all been done in her name only, with her as the merest figurehead, no longer even nominally essential any more. In the new even larger army structure, no one even marked her presence. She had spent her entire life using people, and rather enjoying herself in the process, she had to grudgingly admit. But now, she was the one who had been used, and she didn't much at all care for it. More than ever, she wanted for this to all be over. She wanted to return home, even into the very teeth of danger. At least this way, she would be once again in command of her own destiny. She would regale her father with the terrors that she had seen and she would gather up the western duchy army with her own hands if necessary and prepare it to fight! If she had to command it herself, she would do so! Scars on her face be damned! If the Foole kept playing his silly games with everyone while the armies of the south pissed away their time waiting for the Duke of Drakland to see sense, then her home and her people could all be destroyed while everyone else fiddled away their time! The Foole and even the damned Moon-Woman were right about at least one thing, she had allowed herself to not care about the Duchy for some time, in fact, quite for most of her life. But now she did care, or at least enough now to want to do something about it rather than being set aside under constant guard in her tent, to be kept away from trouble at all times. Ok, she sometimes hadn't acted her best during this trip, but why didn't anyone trust her now to do the right things? When the moment came to act, she would be ready! Of that she now vowed! ****************** For Rowan and Gwenda, their arrival at a fine inn near the top of the mountain city, meant that they had some real privacy together for the first time since they left Kenniford. The Foole was well known at this inn, which catered to the most well-heeled of travelers, and even his demand for four separate bedrooms with their full board as well, in return for his professional services for a few days, didn't deter the innkeeper in the slightest from agreeing to the bargain. For the duration of the joculator's stay, his taproom would be filled to capacity and coins would be happily spent like rain falling from the air, while the gléaman was in residence. What Gwenda and the Lady Ayleth soon discovered, to their immense delight and glee, was that there were two private bath rooms in the bottom cellar, complete with piping hot water from the mountain. As one of the bath rooms were already taken by a mixed group of other guests, the ladies at once appropriated the other one and wasted little if any time scraping off their dirty traveling clothes and immersing themselves into the steaming mineral waters. "Do we still have a truce?" The Lady Ayleth asked her companion, with but a barely cracked eye as weeks of travel and emotional strain began nearly at once to melt off of her body. "Oh... yeah... definitely!" Gwenda lazily replied as she sunk her still wounded shoulder under the delightfully soothing hot waters. Her headache, which still affected her off and on, was receding very much into off, and she soon even dared herself to completely relax for the very first time since her family holding had been overrun months ago. Freed for a time from the worries of the brigade, and ensured that Rowan couldn't agonize excessively over the fate of his men and women, she surrendered to the comfort and placidness of the hot tub, which could be easily kept heated to the perfect temperature by the slow adding of additional near boiling water from a pipe that came straight from the volcanic depths of the mountain. Too tired now for words, both women just snoozed exhaustedly in the great steaming wooden tub, and only Ayleth could manage to even crack an eyelid when the bath room door opened, to reveal the curious faces of Rowan and Boyle, who had just had the notion of enjoying a hot soak themselves. They were just starting to close the door, to leave the ladies to their peace when Gwenda invited them in. "Come join us!" She purred. "The water is just wonderful!" "They can't get in with us!" Ayleth squeaked, lowering herself into the tub so that the water came right up to the top of her neck. "It wouldn't be proper! They could easily see that we're undressed!" Gwenda laughed. "My, you have had a sheltered upbringing! Men and women bathed together all of the time, at my old home. And Rowan's told me that the custom was the same back at his home village. The tub room next door is certainly filled with both men and women, all from Aldaria, I think. They certainly have very little if any modesty there either! Besides, I rather think I'd enjoy having Rowan wash my back and then just hold me in his arms. And if you'd like to play footsie with Boyle under the water, I'm sure that we wouldn't at all care or mind!" Gwenda stood up in the tub to greet her lover Rowan, giving his friend Boyle a rather good look at all of her charms. Boyle smiled but shrugged; it was quite true that in regards to bathing, there were very little if any taboos on nudity, and even the sight of an another new pair of rather pretty breasts was quite unremarkable. Becoming nude themselves, the lads slowly climbed into the large wooden hot tub and eased themselves into the hot steamy water. With a laugh, Boyle couldn't but help to notice that the Lady Ayleth, while protecting her own modesty, had taken quite an extensive look at Boyle's own more intimate regions, apparently quite intrigued with the overall size and thickness of his manhood, which compared nearly quite as favorably to Rowan's just slight longer member. "You're gawking, My Lady! Perhaps you'd now like to come and sit over next to me, so that I might scrub your back, should you wish? I'll even play footsie with you, if you'd like!" He laughed, splashing some steaming water at her. Ayleth, for her part, just hid herself deeper into the water, and tried to keep herself as far away from the lad, and other the increasingly amorous couple that was kissing next to her, as she could. Their back washing now quite done, Gwenda was now sitting on Rowan's lap, facing her lover, and the two were softly but deeply kissing. Some splashing below the water, from some adjustment of Gwenda's hips, strongly suggested that the young woman had just mounted herself upon Rowan's cock. Slowly and not particularly overtly, she was grinding and thrusting her pubic mound into his, letting her talented cunt muscles perform most of the hard work. Increasingly embarrassed, Ayleth decided that for decency's sake, she really needed to leave, to allow the increasingly passionate couple some privacy. But on the other hand, if she arose from the tub, then Boyle would have an unobstructed view of her own naked body. This was an indignity that a noblewoman couldn't allow. "Boyle, please... can you turn your head so that I can get out of the water and wrap myself into a towel to leave?" She asked. The lad just laughed. "Mi'lady, your soft white breasts are really little different than anyone else's, and you should find little shame in occasionally displaying them to public view, but I shall do as you request... even though admittedly, you did not offer the same courtesy to me when I disrobed earlier, and in all fairness I would be more than due a quick peak at your lovely bare ass!" "You wouldn't!" She hissed, but her mind wasn't quite on the matter of keeping the bold former stable boy in his place. From the corner of her eye she could see that Rowan now had both hands wrapped around Gwenda's breasts, squeezing them, alternating taking each long lovely nipple into his mouth for loving attention, as she more than obviously was riding him. Ayleth's own crotch was tingling with need; she still hadn't managed to give herself even the smallest bit of an orgasm since that dreadful day at the pavilion, and she was nearly overwhelmed with sexual frustration. She just couldn't watch any more of this passionate exhibition, watching the lovers embrace so boldly, and so publicly... and so much obvious love and affection. In an instant she realized what had been bothering her so, watching Gwenda ride her man and giving him pleasure. She was jealous! She wanted to be the one mounted upon her champion, to feel his thickness stretch her wide and deeply for their pleasure. It was his seed that she longed for to fill her, to bear the future king of the south, for that she was now sure must be their destiny! Only Rowan, and his sword, could bind together the five duchies in war... and later in peace – but he would need a suitable bride of noble birth, to bring legitimacy to their... his claims. But as always, someone was constantly standing in the way of her perfect plans! With anger now roaring through her veins, Ayleth stood up in the water exposing her naked body quite fully so that Rowan could see what was being offered to him. But lost in his passion for his beloved, Rowan had eyes only for Gwenda and he was oblivious to the sight of the other nude offering before him, his eyes and lips remained focused on his beloved companion. "Nice tits." Boyle casually commented. "And your ass looks quite nice as well... which reminds me, I owe it a hard spanking for that nonsense that you pulled on me for the Dead Tree Island rescue fiasco. Would you like to enjoy it now, or should I take an appointment for later?" "Much later!" Ayleth snarled and turned to step out of the tub, but in her anger and due to her haste, she slipped and stumbled while trying to step out of the large wooden tub and fell backwards, right into the alert waiting arms of Boyle. Now caught quite tightly in his strong arms, Ayleth found herself quite helpless, still naked and squirming in his burly grasp. The swine even had the nerve to pinch her ass with his right hand, as he held firmly onto her butt cheek and hip! She squawked and thrashed her arms and legs about, but he held her quite secure. Arising himself from the water, Boyle carried the helpless Lady out of the tub and then gently set her feet down onto the stone floor and to freedom and handed her a towel to cover her dripping naked body. "Please My Lady, do let me know if I can be of any further help or assistance to you!" He said with a wink, and he just stood there smiling at her, quite naked, and with just a bit of an erection growing as well. Sour personality or not, he had to admit that Ayleth was a rather attractive young lady with a good figure, who would make entirely adequate dalliance material, under the proper circumstances. In her shame and fury, the Lady threw on her robe and gathered up her clothes to leave, but not before briefly pausing for another examination of Boyle's increasingly more aroused nether region. Impossible behavior or not, she had to admit that the lad was more than well equipped for properly entertaining amorously minded young ladies. Later she tried to masturbate herself for several long hours afterwards to the thought of Rowan thrusting inside of her, just as he had serviced his doxy earlier. Somehow her fantasy lover kept turning into a cheekily grinning Boyle and it was his large slab of cockmeat that she saw in her minds-eye instead, swelling up for her for her pleasure and delight. Horrified, that she could even think to masturbate to the thought of being serviced by a stable boy, she gave herself a colder bath from an icy cold water pump until she quite shivered all over, but no longer from arousal or sexual need. Her long postponed orgasm would have to wait yet awhile further for relief. ************ For the Lady Ayleth, the three days that she waited in Dragontooth were the longest days of waiting that she could ever remember. She paid hardly a concern to the information that the gléaman obtained concerning the latest political events of the Imperial Court in Corælyn, and even less about the tedious mundane gossip about which factions were in and out of power in court, except that she remembered hearing that the Yfelde Soð religious faction was very much in ascendance these days, and involving themselves in an active military purge of the remaining factions of the other Banished Gods. While she quite enjoyed court gossip under most circumstances, the love that the Aldarians had for official dueling and murder as acceptable court politics, quite astonished and confused her. As the Foole reminded everyone, when their swift coastal ship took them into the western entrance of the great canal of Corælyn, less than a week later, "The Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire, like its very name, was an overly excited amalgamation of a dozen lands, customs and interests; often all quite contradictory. They're an excitable race living in a hot and humid city sandwiched in-between two sea coasts, so they live and breathe on the edge of their skin, with a flourish of emotion. They wear few clothes, even in cool weather, have fewer morals, let alone any codes of ethics, and view our more northern inclinations toward excess honor as both curious and lamentable. They live for trade, for wealth, and the physical comforts that this brings them. They take offense at the drop of a hat and duel, often to the death, at any affront to their peculiar codes of social status. As foreigners, we are exempt from their dueling codes, but kept your thoughts, eyes and hands to yourself, and above all, when in doubt keep your mouth shut as much as possible!" ************* Perhaps the largest city in the known world, even greater than Caestor, Corælyn, the capitol of Aldaria, and the Blessed Sapphire Empire, lay on both sides of a long canal separating a long isthmus, north and south. While both the northern and southern parts of Aldaria possessed good farming lands, as did several colony and client states to the southeast and south, it was trade that made this great city the very byword for wealth and excess. A very famous Caestorian poet remarked in one of his epics that "Not every man can go to Corælyn!" The city was famously expensive and notorious for its licentiousness, being filled with literally tens of thousands of brothels in all sections of the city, with services for every taste and budget. For every need, no matter how base, there was someone willing and eager to supply it. With the long canal stretching between the Great Western Sea to the Inner Sea for about twelve leagues, the city sprawled out over this full length between the four great forts that protected each north and south entrance to the great canal, and thusly well protected, the merchants, factors, sailors and noblemen all lived life to the fullest. Earning vast fortunes and spending them in ever greater and more ostentatious manners than their neighbor. ********* Living life to the fullest, the men and women of Corælyn also spared no expense or excess in their service to the gods. In fact, it could be clearly noted that every temple to each and every one of the banished or lost gods remained open, and with complete services rendered, to the best of the priests limited means. Particularly, the great open air temple to the god Lufestræm, the God of Love, located upon the highest southwestern hill of the city, was still considered the largest brothel known of in the entire world, said to have over a thousand sacred temple prostitutes. Despite the Banishment, it was still considered part of the normal historic rite of passage for all young women to formally symbolically offer up their virginity to the god, to serve for a day as a temple prostitute on their sixteenth birthday. Losing their virginity to a stranger, via the proxy of a small fee paid by a masked stranger to the temple. Disturbingly often, this service was secretly performed by a father, uncle or other close male family friend, and occasionally by all the above at once. Incest was just one of many vices that were mostly topics for amused gossip rather than a scandalous act of shame. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 19 If Boyle had been amused by the Lady Ayleth's modesty back at the hot tub in Dragontooth, her reaction to the casual partial nudity that was common in Corælyn, was even more entertaining. Even in the late autumn, the humid and warm winds from both sea coasts kept the temperature quite pleasant and the attire rather stimulatingly casual. For women, the presentation of mostly bare breasts, and their virtually always pierced nipples, was quite the art form. The Foole, quite sincerely, tried to explain to the newcomers the august importance of the many strung colored beads that hung from most nipple rings... and the even more personal piercing rings hidden below the very short dresses, skirts and loincloths. If read correctly, the Lore-Master insisted, the types and colors of the beads and styles in which they were strung, could recite the entire social history of a woman. They indicated exactly who her lovers had been, male and female, their status, if she was married, how many children she had borne, and if any of them had died with honor in duels. At a glance, two strange women could tell which of them was the social superior, regardless of their normal jewelry or their minimal sheer clothing. In fact, the fashionable dress this year was a slight silk sheath that was hung from a strap from the nipple rings, exposing most, if not nearly all of the breast to view. Most noble women, and ladies of the very richest factor and merchant classes, gilded their aureoles and nipples with gold leaf, with the ladies of the middle class usually wearing some sort of silver shield or ornament around and through the nipple, to display their wealth and status. Men of the upper classes had intimate piercings of their own, but after the Foole started to describe exactly where they were located, both lads decided that they'd much prefer to remain happily ignorant. The idea of poking large needles through that sensitive body part frightened both of them beyond any remote measure of esoteric curiosity. Even before settling into an upscale inn, the Histrio guided his charges quickly up and down the winding hilly streets to the southeast quadrant of the city, where the famed great temple to Árfæsliss was located. This area also held the palaces of the Imperial Court, and most of the finer houses of the aristocracy as well. The inns in this quarter were expensive and exclusive, but the gléaman laughed that he'd have little difficulty getting them suitable accommodations. Although he normally stayed at in the merchant quarter, across the great canal to the northeast, he had acquaintances in this part of town as well, being the best place to gather gossip and tales of the ill-doings of the great nobles. Despite the extremely long walk, which took most of the entire day, the thought of recovering their horses and riding them across town was laughable. Corælyn was a very old city built on marshes and hills on both sides of the great long canal. The streets were too narrow and winding, even along the docks of the canal for horses. On the main streets, the prosperous hired palanquin's, sedan chairs or even curtained litters, complete with club wielding attendants to clear a swift path through the crowds. No one who claimed to be anyone of any importance, ever walked anywhere. Usually the main streets were jam packed with bearers, attendants, hangers-on, and armies of well-wishers publically praising their patrons, or would-be clients, boldly accosting their betters to lavish them with praise in hopes of obtaining some sort of largess in return, perhaps a small business deal, scraps from their would-be master's table. Exhausted from pushing their way through the noisy and unruly crowds, it was quite time for the evening service before the frustrated gléaman had guided his charges to the temple. Now, finally at the end point of their quest, the group had to wait for well over an hour before a senior priest could be made available to speak with them, and even after being told what they had come for, the decision to grant this request could only be given by the high priest himself, and another two hours were spent in waiting before that exalted personage came to speak with them. From the frown on the High Priest's face, as he entered the private meeting room to speak with the group, Rowan could tell nearly at once that their entire original quest had been for naught. ********* "Am I to correctly understand that you require the gift of one of Árfæsliss's Tears?" The elderly priest inquired. "Indeed, that is quite so." The Foole replied, making a slight bow before the holy man. "The Lady Ayleth, here now before you, was attacked and bitten, scarred seeming forever by the fangs of one of very great Infernals. The foul creature was slain, by this young hero, Rowan, at my right, and he bears the hopes and prayers, and the writs from nearly all of the Southern Duchies, petitioning that a single drop of Árfæsliss's Tears be granted to us, that her restoration might become possible. We ask this not for ourselves, or for vanity, but that via this process the duchies can more easily unite, to stand all together against the vast army of Eorfleode that threatens their entire destruction." 'So," the wise old priest mused, not entirely unkindly, "then the rumors that we have heard are indeed quite true. That vast uncountable armies of Boar-Men have gathered south from their desolate mountain homes and now ravage the lands of men, slaying all in their path?" "That is indeed quite so, but I can now report some happier news that under the command of this young man, Rowan of Swanford, that the entirety of the eastern hordes have been met in battle and resoundingly defeated. With the aid of the Dukes of Broadmore and Everdun, his army broke their forces and slaughtered them without mercy. The southern lands of the east are saved, for now... but the lands of the west remain very much in even greater peril, and if our task was not so critical, we would be even now with our army, traveling there to stop this last great danger to all of humanity, for should they win, their wickedness would not stop in our lands, but fair Aldaria would fall into mortal peril as well, and perhaps all of the other lands of men." The priest looked more attentively upon the young lads, and especially Rowan, giving his sword an especially careful glance. One of his senior priests whispered for a moment into his elder's ear, and the High Priest nodded. "Indeed as well, some odd stories, undoubtedly much embellished with the miles of the story's passing, had reached the city of this lad's prowess as well. That his sword bears the anger of the very gods themselves, and all that face it perish in fire. Surely this account is somewhat exaggerated!" With a sigh, Rowan slowly drew his out his sword and taking it into hands, the lad held the softly glowing weapon before the priests, that they might examine it. After a moment of silent reflection, the high priest slowly but directly placed a single finger onto the blade, and let it slide for just a moment over a single glowing rune before he withdrew his hand backwards, with a slight clinching of his teeth. His hands once more in his lap, the high priests eyes shut and he remained silent in mediation and reflection for many long minutes, before his sad eyes reopened and he spoke his judgment to Rowan, and to the Foole. "That such a blade alone should have ever been crafted, let alone wielded by any young mortal, no matter how goodly of heart, speaks much about your Foole... or rather Cisalo, the very hands of your God Gléagerád. Such an unthinkable undertaking should never have been done, regardless of the dreadful need. It marks the absolute ending of this age and the start of a very new uncertain one that perhaps shall be even worse and spell the ruin of mankind. There will be more death and destruction than even your mind can conceive of, Cisalo! And not all necessarily for the better! Lands shall rise and fall, and the Weaver's will, ever uncertain, will be make manifest in new uncertain ways, and not always for the better. Such an action, to precipitate this change, was foolish, even for you Foole!" "Aye, it was! And my path will consume yet uncounted thousands more, err it is completed, but I believe the future that comes will be a better one... perhaps directly leading to the return of The Seven themselves, and the lost one, my god's sister, who sacrificed herself for us." "True. This is but the first step, our own prophecies say, for their return, and indeed that day shall come sooner as a result of this first reckless step, so perhaps not everything is be regretted. Still, I would have had these deeds befall one of my later successors, in a time when our means might have been more able and our strength, more significant." "Of your aid, we require little. We do not call to Corælyn for more armsmen, although a stronger force would indeed be welcome. We ask only for the Tear; that alone shall sustain our efforts until the next great stitch of the weaving of the loom has befallen us." "Alas, such a holy and rare gift, one of the very real and physical tears from the eyes of our Goddess, is now beyond our gift to grant, even should we be so inclined to surrender such a powerful and irreplaceable relic. Ours has been seized from our vaults, taken with force and malice by the arms-men of the Justice God, and their own champion duelist, the Viscount Gart d'Bournyss. They overran our temple grounds with great force but a week ago, taking all that could be easily and quickly gathered and destroying all that could be not, slaying any and all that stood in their path. Our priests are sworn to non-violence, and we could not raise a hand in our own defense." "Do the minions of the injustice godling bear arms now, as well as ill-will to the memory of his brothers and sisters? That the streets of this peerless city now run with holy blood? Such a deed is quite unthinkable, to my mind and to my astonished eyes." Oddtus said, rather quite astonished at the news. "Indeed, our war of words descends now into a baser, more dangerous path that we are forbidden to follow, even in reprisal. This has stained our reputation much in court, and we have indeed suffered now much since, with no champion of our own to uphold our honor, as none will dare to face the deadly blade of the Viscount." "I shall uphold your honor!" Rowan stated, plainly and with little emotion, raising his sword up held in oath, and grasping the old priest's hand with his other free hand. "Even without our expected reward, such an unspeakable doing must be avenged, and before the very court itself. Such a fearsome pride, to have untaken such a forbidden act, shall cause them to pay dearly. Upon a suitable provocation, they cannot tolerate the honor loss to be ignoring a challenge to their usurped authority, to remove the final traces of The Seven, so that the injustice god can reign alone. Of this I shall swear!" "Such a deed of honor indeed speaks well of your lad, but your opponent is dangerous and cunning, and entirely without your code of ethics or honor. He will not face you willingly as an equal, and he has many lackeys to do his ill-bidding, so be wary of him. But should our honor be restored to us, as well as our divine artifacts that were stolen from us, your boon shall be granted, and the gift of the Tear bestowed unto you, but I cannot think highly of your chances. Still, my young friends, and even you Foole, I offer you our blessings and prayers, for such alone is all that we can offer you!" With the meeting now very much at an end, the discouraged quest companions traveled in silence to a nearby inn where the Foole could make himself welcome and obtain them some rooms for the night while he performed, mostly musically and without song or jest as his heart was rather heavy still that night. ************* Together, in their own room, Gwenda and Rowan tried to find some comfort in each others arms, but the mood for more intimate embracing eluded them both. Rowan's skills of swordsmanship had much improved in the months that Gwenda had been tutoring him, but with her most recent injuries she had not been able to fence with him at her best skill. Even with the help of other experienced swordsmen from the Brigade to help hone his developing skills, he wasn't at all sure that he could be considered an expert and deadly swordsman, such as his new rival, the Viscount, who was accounted by everyone he asked in the inn to be a murderously efficient and cold-blooded killer with a blade and no conscience. Gwenda was a bit more hopeful and confident in her lover, and she soothed his many fears and worries in her arms long into the night, until at last they managed to sleep a little. The Lady Ayleth was in a more pessimistic mood, and she feared with the Tear now in the possession of the most legendary duelist and murderer in the entire city, that her last chance for saving her Duchy was gone. The Foole had been insistent, as had the batty old Moon-Woman; without the success of the quest, all back home would be lost. If this Tear was indeed essential to everything, then no option could be dismissed when trying to obtain its recovery. She brooding most of the night, but at length she thought that she had a plan that might recover the Tear and save Rowan's life from certain suicide or murder. She would need a little help to pull it off, but she decided it was her best and probably only hope. Spoiled or not, angry at her so-called friends or not, she found that she did care very much about what happened to her homeland, and a little sacrifice and a few indignities were well worth the cost of its preservation. With a smile on her face as she considered her plan, she fell into a happy and rather contented sleep. ************** The lads were all for going straight to the Imperial Court, right straight after breakfast, and after an especially lengthy bout of sword practice for Rowan, but the Foole disagreed. The nobles kept late hours with their play, and the court only rarely began to get assembled a few hours after lunch. This was well enough time for the lads to put on their own set of court clothes, but the Lady Ayleth was in a panic because nothing remaining in her limited wardrobe was quite suitable for this court. Her few well travelled gowns had much too high of a neckline, far too low of a hem, and they most certainly didn't expose her non-pierced nipples for public inspection. She did need a new gown, probably scandalous by Tellismere court standards but still rather modest for Corælyn, and Boyle cheerfully agreed to escort her to a nearby fashionable dress shop and back. This delay suited everyone fine. Gwenda wanted to take Rowan with her to visit her uncle, who lived in the northeast merchant quarter, and Oddtus and Ashburn wanted to visit their own temple to Gléagerád, also across the canal to the northwest. They agreed to separate for the morning and meet again back at the inn in the early afternoon. Together, Boyle and Ayleth left in a sedan chair for the dress shop, in the hopes that something already prepared would suitably fit the thin young Lady, and indeed, after discarding several far too immodest gowns, Ayleth found a thin silk sarong style gown that mostly covered her delicate regions. Her shoulders and much of her back were indecently bare, as was far too much of her thighs, and the thinness of the costly material didn't hide her poking nipples in the slightest. Still, for Corælyn, this was a fairly conservative outfit, and it would have to make due. She paid for the gown and left her older one to be wrapped in brown paper and delivered to the waiting Boyle outside. As she had hoped and expected, he had quite tired of the view inside of the dress shop and he was waiting outside, sipping a cool drink sold by a street vendor and watching the constant parade of society passing by him, with plenty of bare, or nearly so bouncing breasts to watch. Boyle was a womanizing pig, Ayleth decided, but still a rather nice kindly one, and it was with great reluctance that she set the rest of her plan into place, and after paying each of the attendants an extra silver, she bade them to keep Boyle distracted and busy for a few minutes, while she scurried quickly out the back door of the shop, and into the rear alleyway. It took no time at all to make her way to another busy side street, where after a few minutes she hailed a passing empty chair to take her right away to her final destination. "To the Viscount Gart d'Bournyss's, residence... and hurry!" She commanded, and after a short trip of about half of an hour, nearly all uphill, at the very top of an especially fashionable hill, the Lady found herself at the palatial mansion of one of the most dangerous and powerful men of the city. She was certain that with a little effort she could bend him to her will, recover the Tear and stop the duel hopefully before it ever started. She might have to make a few small promises that she had no intention whatsoever of delivering. Any oaths made to such an evil and dishonorable man could surely be easily annulled by the High Priest of Árfæsliss, or even any of his lesser priests, and would trouble her conscience little. A few minutes later after announcing herself to the nobleman's wary doorman, the Lady Ayleth of Tellismere, sole daughter and heir of the great Duke, boldly walked into the lion's den and threw herself upon the mercy of Viscount Gart d'Bournyss, Champion of Yfelde Soð, and infamous duelist. While her motives might have been vaguely respectable, to entreat him to accept her hand (and the probable rulership of a unified Southern Kingdom), in return for the Tear, and Rowan's life – it didn't take her long at all to learn that she had helplessly delivered herself into the hands of a fiend incarnate, a man totally without the human abilities for compassion, pity or even remorse. ************ All that remaining day, and long into that long unspeakable night, the Lady Ayleth, much to her heartbroken despair and misery, learned that the Galdorfǽmne had been all too accurate in her prophecy. That long before the first glimmer of sunrise had come, she had indeed fully learned the true meaning of utter despair and the very deepest misery. As the full awareness of what she had done slowly penetrated her, the last flickers of hope began to die from her heart, which like her shattered and horrifically abused body, cried out in anguish, and slowly she began to surrender her hope to even live. *********** For many long hours that entire first day, Boyle and his companions searched the city for the missing Lady but found no trace of her. With his heart heavy with sadness, Oddtus accepted and unwrapped the paper wrapped package that had been delivered to them at the inn. It contained the Lady's new silk gown, and the thin skimpy panties that she had worn underneath. The note accompanying the parcel, was even less encouraging. "I thank you for the gift of the young noblewoman, my friends and I find her quite delicious! She takes to the whip with delight, and writhes delightfully like an experienced and talented whore to our every embrace. While she is not entirely to my personal taste, I do appreciate the thought involved in her offer, and I will soon find a more suitable master to better suit her suitably submissive tastes. If you leave the city now - at once, my lackeys will have little need to drive away, or should you prove more sporting, I'll await exchanging some more personal measures with you at three glasses after noon, in the main Imperial Palace courtyard. Gart d'Bournyss, Viscount, and Protector of the One True Faith" A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 19 ************* There was little discussion back at the Inn. The Foole started his evening with a performance so mournful that the innkeeper nearly drove the morose gléaman and his guests out onto the street. For the rest of the evening, he forced himself to laugh and make merry as was his duty and calling, but inside his heart was dark and sad with depression, and not even a dozen flagons of good Aldarian wine could mellow his spirit. When his last audience member had gone to their own rooms or to their homes, the joculator who had so wittily made the room merry, now cried the first tears that he could recall every releasing, as he huddled in abject misery before the dying embers of the great stone fireplace of the taproom. No Cisalo had cried in an age, if ever, but flow the tears did as for a time the burden of his duty was far too great for him to bear, but as he saw Rowan and Gwenda descend down the stairs the next morning, he once again donned his mask of good humor, but his heart remained black with despair. The lad was going to face a far more potent swordsman than he had ever fought with before and his skill couldn't possible be enough to hope to win. Still, he had the Daemon-Horn Blade and the blessing, for whatever that was still worth of The Seven. Sadly, Oddtus realized that the old priest had been quite right, that the Foole had indeed been far too foolish! He had sought to tamper with prophecy, and with the very weaving itself, and surely he was going to be punished! The Lady Ayleth had already fallen into depraved darkness, perhaps beyond rescue or hope of saving, and now the seemingly fearless and noble young lad Rowan, already tormented with cares and fears of a man far beyond his years and experience, would yet once more shoulder another impossible burden against odds that he couldn't hope to understand, and for the birth of a new age in the world that he could never comprehend. Likely he would die for nothing, a pawn in a Foole's hands who had been forced to move too quickly and dangerously for any mere mortal hero to hope to survive. Oh, the sword would continue in this world and be wielded in turn by others, and perhaps the distant future might again become someday brighter, but now, at this very moment Oddtus only saw darkness and destruction, and he and his apprentice Ashburn escorted Rowan and his beloved Gwenda to their appointment with destiny. *********** The wicked Viscount spoke quite truthfully when he had stated that the Lady Ayleth was not at all to his personal tastes and inclinations. For starters, she was much too old for him, even at just eighteen. He preferred his fruit quite a bit greener from the tree. She also wasn't nearly terrified enough of him enough, and even after her third brutally harsh whipping her eyes just glazed into beads of hate and despair... not fear and terror, as he preferred. While he had taken his pleasure with her once, in her tight ass that had been just newly branded with his mark with a red hot iron, this was only a token act to mark her as his. Tonight for his own amusement, he as usual dallied with a young pair of youths, both brother and sister and without yet their first growth of maturing intimate hair, while he watched his many friends and lackeys amuse themselves with their new toy. Aroused, watching his new slave of a plaything being forced to debase herself in every possible way, he allowed the young siblings to suckle him and restore him to full engorged stimulation. It was with a thrill of pleasure that he watched the whip fall, splattering blood from her tattered back while three of his gallant friends filled each of her anguished holes, all already well filled with cum from over a dozen previous men, with yet another dozen or more ready to await their turn, anxious to further defile and use the young noblewoman. It was not often that a high aristocratic woman, especially the daughter of a Duke, fell into his depraved hands, and after they had enjoyed a great deal more of further sport with her, with every possible indignity that could be imagined, she could given or sold off for marriage to some Aldarian nobleman, who could make better use of her title. With the Southern Duchies in obvious disarray, facing certain destruction from the Eorfleode invasion, the time would soon be ripe for the Empire to swoop in and gather up the waiting harvest. Even the idea of a new kingdom, created from the ruins of the duchies, as the stupid and helpless girl had original suggested, wasn't entirely an unthinkable solution. Especially if the new king in turn bowed its knee to the Emperor, and owed a debt of perpetual gratitude to him as well. Advantageous trade monopolies, at a very minimum, would add immeasurably to his already great wealth and power, and the clergy of the south could be completely purged and reformed, with zeal only for the words of his divine lord, Yfelde Soð, who after these long years could truly command the sole worship of every subject, bringing in time this chaotic and senseless world into order. Embolden and aroused by his plans for ever great power, he took delight in roughly sodomizing in turn the young siblings, bring out their tears of pain and fear for his eager eyes to feast upon, while long into the night, he watched the beatings and the rotation of fresh aroused male flesh into every orifice of the helpless former young noblewoman. Branded now as a slave, she was nothing now but fresh meat for their carnal lusts, to be used and abused as would best amuse their master, the Viscount, even to her consuming their other bodily fluids, and they forced her to drink their urine until she vomited, and then she was made to consume yet more. Long before the Viscount and his toadies arose from their slumber later the next morning to take yet some more brief but degrading humiliations upon her, Ayleth had shut her eyes tight in her misery and already she willed herself to die, err she ever again wake to more such ill-use and treatment. Chained to a secure metal post in the center of the floor, where hundreds or perhaps thousands of other slave girls had amused their unspeakably corrupt master, even to the torture and final destruction of their bodies, she lay quiet in her pool of piss and semen, and prayed silently that Rowan might somehow defeat this unspeakable enemy and somehow later rescue her, before her body exhausted its will to live and she escaped to the mercies of the Shadowlands. Her rest was brief and all too interrupted. Desiring that his new captive be suitably amused during his absence at court, the Viscount allowed his guard-officers the temporary enjoyment of her debased body, and they in turn, as they wearied, summoned forth their sergeants and favored corporals as well, so that the slave captive, in her ever increasing despair, had much to do to please her tormentors enough to keep the whips from further flaying her already bloody back, tits and stomach, and as yet more semen entered into her. With every gulp or trickle, she prayed every harder for the Viscount's own horrific destruction at the hands of her champion, whom she had abandoned and so long spoke of with anger, overly willful pride and even jealousy. Later, as the long woven and knotted leather whips yet again beat upon her without mercy, she surrendered to the unendurable pain and fell into happy darkness, a merciful state of deep unconsciousness where she no longer heard the cries of her ravaged flesh or her wiser, but hopeless feeling soul. ************ Even in her tormented dreams of darkness, she found no peace. In her delirium, her old slain attendants, with Cedany at their forefront, whipped and tormented their mistress yet further, even from the vale of the Shadowlands. With their decapitated heads, and showing every tear of their eviscerated groins and bowels, they held her weak spirit down, and laughed at her. Daring her to regain her will to fight them, or even to gather her will to continue with life, and the unendurable ordeal that it had already become. Facing her primary accuser, her old friend, lover and companion Cedany, who had once been Rowan's love, she grasped her hands into the shadowy spirit grass, and willed herself to fight, or to at least arise to face her tormentors. Climbing on upon her knees, she whispered before the dream shade of her former lover and begged her for forgiveness and mercy. Sincerely and contritely, she even kissed the slain girl's ghostly feet, weeping ghostly dream tears of own, that washed away clean Cedany's bloody feet, and she felt the chill of her shade touch her head in forgiveness and benediction. "Be well my sister in love and oath-duty, for we shall be sisters of the heart as well, but it will be long again before our next and final reunion. Know truly that you shall never share Rowan's heart, for he has been tied by the Weavers to Gwenda. Forever shall they remain united in life and in the Shadowlands, before they are yet called up again to do the will of the Weaving. They and their descendants shall not always know peace or happiness, or long lives with many children at their feet, but their will shall ever do the Weaver's will and do what must be done, now and until the end of the Ymbwyrcan, the Great Tapestry of Life. Endure the unendurable, my sister, for your return to the light is now near upon you. Give my beloved my prayer of hope that his days are long and happy, for he also has endured misery, fear and pain beyond the dreams and terrors of all but a few men of this world, and his duties yet remain incomplete. You must be his strong hand in the hard days to come, and give forth your love for the land that it might flow to their rescue, for he walks in the shadow of the léaslic, one of the seven hands of his god; an ever dangerous path, but it is the one that you both must follow. Be at peace, my sister, my lover and my friend, for your ill-deeds of childhood are absolved and forgotten. You are now a grown women, born again anew in blood and suffering. You have but our love and our faith, so that you can stand strong, render good leadership and bear your own desperate fear when all seems hopeless, and there is naught but death and destruction that surrounds you, that your final selfless act of redemption might indeed save all that you have belated, but sincerely come to love. "Be well, my sister and dearest lover, Ayleth cried as the shadows of dream departed, like a pebble over a great cliff, she fell back into wakefulness, and a world of searing pain that not even her freshly revived spirit felt it could long endure. As yet another group of men knelt down to take their sport with her, she once again returned to her real world of uncountable sorrows. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 20 *************** CHAPTER TWENTY Boyle, tried to project confidence that he didn't quite feel as he reviewed with Rowan and Oddtus for the last time what his arranged role was in the madness that was about to occur. Somehow, despite his growing nervousness, he kept his head held high and somehow a smile on his hard-edge but still round face. In the trials of the last seasons, the formerly stocky lad had replaced most, if not quite all of his flab with honest hard muscle. His eyes, like Rowan's and Gwenda's, were black pits of anguish, regardless of their actual eye color, that showed to all that their lives had been one of pain and hardship, and that many of their companions and friends and fallen to their dooms by their feet. They spoke of death, and the willingness to see yet more blood shed, if need be. "Implacable!" That was the Viscount's first instant opinion of Rowan, as the two men sized each other that mid afternoon in the wide green and pleasant gardens of the Imperial Palace. Indeed, most of the nobility had shown up at the court dueling circle to watch the legendary swordsman dismantle yet one more overly confident young lad. Somehow, this time, he wasn't quite so self-assured, and his friends by his side in turn also saw something different in this new challenger. The lack of anger, or even fear... or of even any kind of emotion whatsoever. The young lad already had a swirl of controversy and countless rumors around him in court and a thousand improbable stories of his heroicness had already spread. Single-handedly he had killed entire armies, and even the hard-faced woman at his side whose favor he now wore on his arm, was reputed to be a sword-mistress herself. Probably a demoness straight from hell, who supplied her infernal power to her illicit mortal lover. Looking at her malevolent gaze, the Viscount wasn't quite so sure that the rumors had been mistaken. Even the large young straw haired warrior that was his second for the duel, next to the gléaman in full colorful motley and bells that was now whispering into his ear, looked like a man who could be an extremely dangerous adversary. His uncle, the great Arch-Bishop of the church, had been equally unhappy with the rumors that he had heard, and earlier had advised his nephew into taking some caution, for just this once. "Gart, I like little what I hear about this renown young warrior Rowan, and fear even greater the infernal sword, which he admits to bearing. Do not let him use this against you, for little but do I fear the waning powers of the Banished, but still some sort of vile wickedness might have given from them, much to the bane of the world. I like this not, and had rather wished that you have not given mortal offense by the seizure and ill-use of his ward, since as her acknowledged champion, he must now challenge you for her return or be forever dishonored! Indeed, force him to do so, so that the choice of weapon will be entirely yours. Prevented from using his infernal blade, he can weave no further wickedness, until it can be safely stored and ultimately destroyed, in the good hands of our church. Even should this duel somehow fail to take place, or have an unexpected or unhappy outcome, I feel that it is necessary that the full martial weight of our order be taken again this man, and the unspeakable evilness that he bears!" Now, facing the man in person, the Viscount now shared his uncle's uneasiness, and for once he doubted the lack of wisdom and unashamed boldness that induced him to capture and so violently deflower and further ravish the noblewoman, Ayleth. While he didn't quite regret his actions, he rather now wished that this particular duel could be avoided. Indeed, despite the urging of his companions, he resolved that he should accept the challenge first, to more safely steer the outcome more favorably. Boyle, on the other hand, was equally determined that the wicked Viscount would be the first to yield to the pressures of honor, and in collusion with the Foole, together they had devised a plan suitable for obtaining every and all possible advantage to Rowan that could be mustered. Now that the parley of the seconds had begun, the smiling but grim lad was determined that he was going to put the over-confident nobleman completely out of his game plan. Indeed, it didn't take long for the insults to come, hot and heavy. ********** "What rabble is this I see before me?" The Viscount snarled. "Nothing but artless footlickers, unworthy even for the ill-shod boots of the Boar-Men, whose prowess in battle these youngsters have quite fled, seemingly in pants-wetting terror! These misbegotten and malodorous sheep-humping duchymen indeed have few qualities to recommend them, save that they did possess enough courage to attend our little gathering, having not the wit to take sail to back to their own flea-bitten shores. Truly, they art very ragged warts upon my very sight, and I would much rather that these currish hedge-born bladders go relieve themselves elsewhere, and apart from the sight of men and women of gentle birth! Fly young fools, and consider yourself chastised, and unworthy of my eyes, for the horrid image of thee doth quite unfix my hair!" "Quite nicely and artfully spoken for thy wit is indeed a most weak sauce, and poor fare indeed for such as strapping man as myself." Boyle cheerfully replied, having been well rehearsed for his role by the wise Foole. "Indeed, in falsehood you would bait us, but such simpering is womanlike, but alas yet your weak attempt at a beard forbids me from interpreting you as such so. Indeed, His Grace, the Viscount is so much removed from words of honor that I need think thou never wast ne'er at all anywhere near those sacred fields where grace, duty and honor were summoned. Thrice would I deem you a greater fool than even that of my gléaman, for thine wits are clearly befouled, as you are naught at all but a scullion of a flesh monger, and a coward of one at that, too befuddled with ego or strong drink to prey upon even a yeasty hair-goblet of a strumpet, straight from the stews, but instead seizing upon a Lady of noble birth and lofty rank and station from thy very doorstep, like an ill-timed delivery of horse-apples, yet more maggot-pie for thy dark and shameless soul. Indeed, I am quite sorry that such meager meat is unworthy of carving. As a duly knighted nobleman of Everdun, and liege lord of young master Rowan, a useful man, but one of no rank or title of his own, I cannot allow him the pleasant pleasure or duty of challenging you. Much as I can see that this thought cheers you, for your over-red face doth betray thy fear, marking you well as but a lily-liver'd roaring boy! Enraged beyond endurance, the Viscounts thick fencing leather glove did quite strike Boyle full in the face. By all the formal rules of the Code Duello, a challenge had indeed been formally made! "Face my blade, you frothy jolt-headed brazen-faced gudgeon of a fool with no wits than your Foole! For I shall see you struck dead for the insults to my honor that you have plied upon me!" "As for your honor, there is little enough of that to be concerned about. I shall cast what little exists of your honor against the stones of this courtyard, so might its bleeding be an object lesson to others. By your honorable codes of duello, as a nobleman who has been challenged, I am permitted to select a champion of my own to represent my personage and defend my honor, for it is indeed unseemly for a pair of noblemen to be seen brawling like common cutpurses, as if fighting for the very dingleberries off of a poxed harlot's ass. Accordingly, I shall select Rowan of Swanford. As the challenged, it shall be with my champion's sword that he shall tend to thee, and return you to a baser state than thou already art, but dust under a tomb, forgotten save for a tale told by the gléamen of how ignobly the wicked perish. In fury, the Viscount had to be restrained by his companions from running Boyle right through on the spot with his slim dueling blade. The rules of the Duello Code had been confirmed by the Emperor himself, and were most firm, especially for a nobleman of the highest stations. He realized that he had been tricked, quite out-maneuvered by this young knight, undoubtedly due to the wiles of the gléaman, to be rejected from any direct assault upon the Lady's champion, but to instead find him facing that same man, but in defense of the honor of another different nobleman. As the courtyard cleared to allow the two duelists to face off against each other within the stone circle, the evil Viscount whispered for his friends and companions to settle the score with the impertinent young knight, right after he finished off the grim faced lad. The lad might be a dangerous foe, but he couldn't have much, if any, experience in duels, a more formal ritual of sport rather than normal mundane combat. With his slight dueling sword, little thicker than a river reed, the Viscount danced upon his feet and with blinding speed charged inward with a vicious lunge that should have skewered Rowan straight through his very heart, instead in but a casual swipe of his greater sized sword, the lunge was blocked down by the now slightly burning blade, which quite easily sliced through the slimmer dueling blade completely. His favorite dueling sword ruined, Gart had to settle for another dueling sword offered by one of his friends. With that new blade in hand, he suddenly tried a complex stomp, slash and thrust routine that would have impaled the vast majority of his opponents, but once again the infernal blade cut away this new blade as Rowan casually parried the slash, long before the fatal thrust could be made. This was more than a little disturbing to the Viscount, who once again selected a slightly heavier and firmer blade that was offered to him, only to find that this weapon as well was quite inferior to the infernal metal of Rowan's blade. At last, he was forced to select an even heavier blade still, one that was not at all to his liking or comfort. While he still felt himself to be the superior swordsman, he was now fighting a much different sort of duel than he was used to, using a awkward and rather uncomfortable larger and heavier weapon that constantly maladjusted his timing and sword stroke combinations. Furthermore, the implacable look on Rowan's face continued to eat away at the nobleman's nerve. In every other previous duel, his opponent had either been over-confident of their ability, and soon defeated by technical skill, or else had been defeated by their fear from the very moment they had entered the Duello Circle. This lad displayed no such concerns at all, and he too gently floated around the circle staying mostly on defense, but making no ill-considered moves and failed each time to enter into traps that the more veteran swordsman had set for him. In fact, it was the Viscount who was becoming increasingly angry! His borrowed sword quite weighted upon, costing him extra energy to keep on the constant attack. Already he could feel a slight ache in his elbow from the considerably extra weight of the unfamiliar weapon. He made a note to himself to practice much more often with heavier training weights to build up extra muscle, instead of his normal training that emphasized quickness and speed, using his flimsier dueling foil. This lack of training preparation was now costing him, as sweat began to flow from his brow. As for his opponent, he swung that great infernal sword as if it was weightless, blocking, parrying or dodging every move the Viscount made. Already this duel had lasted longer than any he had ever fought before, and the murmurs from his friends, lackeys and assorted friends in the court began to grow louder. "Stop playing with the bumpkin and just finish him off!" His uncle cried out, becoming equally disturbed with the lack of progress his nephew had made in the duel, and in fact it was Rowan who soon carved the first blood, as he spun in a complicated maneuver of parries, designed to allow him a quick offensive slash of his own, without danger of reply, along the right side of the nobleman's upper thigh, just below the hip. The gentle flames mostly cauterized the wound, but it stiffened on him nearly immediately and made the Viscount's next clumsy offensive thrusts even more easily parried. The murmurs of confusion now became cries of alarm from his concerned audience, and sudden for the very first time, the cruel nobleman lost his confidence. Resorting to desperation, he feigned the start of an especially vicious attack and then pretended that his wound hurt him more than did as he completed the attack move, and moved instead into a weak defensive position to blatantly protect the injured leg. Rowan was not at all fooled. Gwenda after her earlier wound leg at Ruromel, had pulled the exact same trick on him repeatedly, until he learned how to use her sudden defensive to offensive thrust against her, for a proper counter-attack of his own. As the now off-balance nobleman lunged forward to commit himself to his sudden thrust, Rowan had already darted quite aside from the over-extended thrust, and was swinging in turn with a massive strong slashing attack that the Viscount had no hope of parrying. The infernal sword bit deeply, well into the nobleman's ribcage, and through to his very spine, near cutting the wicked warrior into half. Falling in a spray of blood to the rocky ground of the dueling circle, the Viscount never looked up again to see the next cutting blow of the cut that completely severed off his noble head. Stunned and astonished, the entire audience watched the demise of their most feared and respected swordsman, defeated, seemingly casually and with no concern or regard. The flames of the sword burst a bit higher into the air, to burn and cleanse away the blood of the fallen Viscount, like a burnt offering made to the Gods, and everyone present stepped well away from the lad, unwilling to even meet his implacable eyes, which dared the nobleman's friends and former companions to step even a single foot forward to avenge their master. None did. Boyle then, his cheerful face as happy as ever, then turned to address the crowd, which was rapidly beginning to disperse in obvious fright and near-panic. "As winner of this duel, as so aptly accomplished by my champion, I understand, by the rules of the Code Duello, that a great portion of the late and unlamented Viscount's estate is now due to me. As I understand that the late Viscount does not have any acknowledged children or heirs, that I may have now, by right of conquest, the right and even the duty to assume the Viscounts title and such parts of his lands that are not taken by the Emperor, about two-thirds I believe of the estates, am I now entailed. Is this not so? Can anyone speak otherwise?" No, the frightened audience of noblemen and women knew the law well, and as claimed, the Viscount had no acknowledged family, other than his uncle, the Arch-Bishop, who was also expressly forbidden by Imperial and church law to inherit land in his own name. Even with the Emperor taking his usual one-third inheritance fee, Boyle would still be one of the largest land-holders of the empire. Upon his demand, the Viscount's cloak and wallet were produced, bearing the emblem of d'Bournyss family, which Boyle now formally put on, announcing his acceptance-oath of the family titles, lands and other material possessions. That a rude young Everdun lord could manage such a usurpation of Alderian rights was unthinkable and probably intolerable, but it was all unfortunately entirely within Imperial law, and a not uncommon result of the Code Duello. Like it or not, this upstart knight was now a Viscount of the realm. In yet another even greater surprise, the new Viscount Boyle announced before sworn witnesses that he intended to file a stewardship charter with the great temple of Árfæsliss, whose works he very much admired. Granted custodianship, rather than actual ownership of these lands would make the temple wealthy and more than well respected once again. And their many charitable deeds could now be increased. The High Priest, present and silently watching from the rear of Rowan's party, stood forward to accept Boyle's oath. The formal papers would be prepared later and soon signed afterwards, but with the oath-taking, the majority of the task of the actual land transfer had been accomplished. In fact, a rather complicated but efficient arrangement was granted giving the temple full stewardship over all of the lands, with Boyle receiving half of the rentals and other fees. The formal stable boy, knighted by the Duke of Everdun, was now a very rich Aldarian Viscount, but no one doubted that the cheerful lad would be changed at all by his new wealth and power. First however, before anything else was done, it was time to march up to the former Viscount's great estate, up upon the hillside, to rescue the Lady Ayleth, as the former wicked nobleman's friends and associates, now with great fear for their very lives, assured Rowan and Boyle that the Lady Ayleth should still be in fair health, but that swiftness should guide their feet as their former master had accepted an enormous payment for the captive noblewoman just before he had left for court. A good many of the former retainers of the Viscount offered in turn their services to Boyle, to be their new accepted lord, but he refused them all. To each he tersely commanded that they each had until sunset to leave the city and to exile themselves forever to their remotest country estate, or else he would send Rowan, or even worse, Gwenda, after them. The evil smile she gave as Gwenda kneeled over the dead Viscount to smoothly castrate and defile his corpse, quite indeed frightened most of the minor noblemen nearly just as much as Rowan's awful sword. ************** Unfortunately, the simple and straightforward rescue of the Lady Ayleth soon became anything but that. To a man, the simple guardsmen of the household immediately swore allegiance and loyalty to Boyle upon his arrival, and upon his orders they prepared the household for siege, and in the nick of time. Already the numerous arms-men of the Yfelde Soð temple were gathering, and soon the streets outside of the Viscount's house were running ankle deep with blood. The young Earl who had bought the Lady Ayleth from the wicked Viscount was present upstairs with a handful of his own personal guard, and together with the full dozen of the household officers and sergeants that had been taking sport with the Lady, they knew that they would receive no forgiveness, ever. They all fought quite to the very end, even over the battered, bleeding and unconscious form of Ayleth. One particularly ill-minded sergeant placed a blade to her neck, promising to cut her throat if he and his pals were not given a safe path to escape outside. Gwenda just smiled and with a sudden motion too fast for the eye to follow she hurled a throwing dagger right into his eye, piercing his brain, felling the screaming soldier, who lived just long enough to feel next his sudden castration and his bleeding genitals thrust far down into his bellowing mouth, choking him to death. Even the few that tried to surrender after this demonstration were cut down, and with no mercy. Boyle slew the panicking Earl himself, and with as little regard as he would a wounded rat. Even a cursory search of the household possessions revealed a well stocked treasure room with many sturdy chests, including one new chest with the dead Earl's seal that was full of strings of gold coins, looped a hundred to each string, and there were several hundreds of strings. Other chests were well stocked with enough silver and gold to make even the baron's loot from Kenniford look like pocket money. A fortune that made even the weary gléaman's eyes widen with wonder. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 20 Truly, the Viscount Gart d'Bournyss had sold the Duke's daughter for a literal kings random. Undoubtedly the misguided Earl thought that he had bought himself a sure path to a throne with a crown to wear upon his head. Instead, Gwenda had cut him down into small pieces, with a single small wound at a time. His head was now mounted up on top of the roof, on a spear... complete with his genitals excised and stuffed into his mouth, which even in death, his face looked on with quite utter astonishment. Slowly, the pressing gangs of soldiers loyal to the Justice God began to take over the streets and even begin to press their way into the house. Rowan and his infernal blade could not be everywhere, and Boyle's newly sworn and loyal men were heavily outnumbered and very sorely pressed, falling back inside the house finally even to the great staircase that led up to the Viscount's private chambers, where the Foole and Ashburn slowly tried to tend to all of the Lady Ayleth's wounds. The skin on her back had been flogged mercilessly quite to the flesh, and would prove to mend into another set of permanent scars that no normal healing could ever restore. Gwenda herself commanded the defense of the staircase and none of the church soldiers could stand for long against her. The fallen were all male, arms-men of the temple, for the Justice God did not allow women to serve him in any but the most menial positions. She fought like a demoness, every later story account of the battle said; her ferocity and boldness quite drove the survivors into fear, and slowly the battleground was again pushed outdoors again to the wide cobblestone city street, where a river of blood now quite flowed the entire way down the hill. Boyle admitted later that the situation was looking mighty dodgy when another two companies of church arms-men arrived outside of the house. But just as Rowan had gathered everyone to retreat to the rooftop, and was gathering his fury to roast the zealot warriors in the streets below with a taste of infernal flame, the other oppressed churches of The Seven had each finally gathered their few arms-men and faithful followers as well, and they collided with fury into the rear of the Justice-men. The slaughter was appalling on all sides, as no quarter was offered or given to the wounded or the helpless. Terrible carnage was done by both sides, until the very last of the surrounded red garbed Yfelde Soð church soldiers fell in one great last stand, bravely and honorably dying fighting to the last, refusing to retreat or surrender to the very end. ********** With nearly all of the Yfelde Soð temple guards and their most zealot supporters now slaughtered, the great vast crowds of people loyal to the memory of The Seven, banished as they might be, filled all of the streets of the city and in a three day long public riot, burned down the great temple of Yfelde Soð, and most of the smaller temples, churches and shrines as well. In fact, anyone at all wearing their red and silver was in much danger from the crowd mob, as the lampposts and trees filled with the hanging rotting fruit of former priests, and also the more zealous worshipers. The air was filled with soot and the smell of rotting flesh for nearly a week, until the final fires died out and the Imperial Guard finally took to the streets to belatedly establish some order. The suppression of the Justice God in Corælyn had been complete, and even the few surviving priests and lay-fathers quickly left the city, abandoning their few remaining worshipers. Most took ship north to the Great Northern Bay, and the island of Graymyst, where their next largest temple became their sanctuary. It would take many years for them to regain much of their lost power. As a militant God, who enjoyed by far the lion's share of the temporal power since the Great Banishment, most of their mundane worshippers were either soldiers or nobles from the upper classes. Ever seeking to deal with a 'winner', and never clinging to the past or history, some now found comfort in the increased social and financial success of the Goddess of Mercy, but the many more cynical paid but little mouth service to The Seven, worshiping instead ever more at their existing altars of greed and vice. ************ Forbidden by the Weaver's to directly intervene and protect his temple and his followers, The Justice God brooded, and made his own plans for punishing Corælyn, and the Empire that had allowed this travesty to occur. *********** "The bastard pedophile cocksucker pierced my clit, cunt lips and tits!" The weak but lividly angry Lady Ayleth shouted, as loudly as she could manage. "I look exactly like the lowest sort of whore, and one for the rough trade, besides! The pig fucking sodomist could barely get it up enough to deflower my virgin ass and he had to have a friend force my maidenhead in his place. Oh, he talked a lot of shit, and he had no trouble fucking and terrorizing a pair of kids that couldn't have been any older than eleven, but he had others to do all of his other dirty work, on me. I hope he is severely burning in Hell! The balance-keeper won't abide his wicked sort for long in the Shadowland, and burn he shall!" Gwenda, who was trying to tenderly soap Ayleth's slowly healing wounds on her ruined back, didn't entirely disagree, and she hoped as well that the vile Viscount would meet severe punishment from the moment he began his path through the Shadowlands. Still there was only so much mouthiness that she was going to take from her own personal slave girl. "Hush your mouth you silly cunt, or I'll find some better use for it!" Gwenda gently muttered, gently kissing the unhappy and injured girl on the back of her neck. "I warned you plain and true what would happen to you the moment you disappointed me again. Rowan and Boyle accepted and understand your explanation, and have mostly, more or less, forgiven you... but as far as I'm concerned, until you are standing upon good duchy soil once more, and hopefully with a spear like a proper warrior-maiden of old in hand, you're going to be my personal attendant, and treated with every bit of the same care and courtesy you used to offer your old playmates. You're going to eat my cunt, and often, until you're heartily sick of it! And if I hear any more complaints out of your mouth, I'll even make you clean me out after Rowan has filled me... in both my cunt and ass! "Yes, Mistress." Ayleth said with a slight giggle. From the moment they had set foot onboard ship, the Lady had prostrated herself, quite willingly for Gwenda's revenge, and her 'mistress' had been indeed been taking good care of her new slave girl. Her body was much to ravaged for any sort of ill-treatment, like more whippings, but she was still quite suitable for the thousands of menial tasks that the stern red-haired girl could endlessly devise for her. "Frankly, I like your new bare golden rings," Gwenda said, as she let her fingers softly roam to her slave's pierced nipples to tweak and pull them, "and as soon as I can find some, I'll get you your strings of beads to wear off of them! I'm going to get you a nice turquoise bead for your left nipple ring. That stone is Corælyn social shorthand for 'I like big fat cocks and a lot of them, all at one time!' A true shameless party-girl who loves to attend to every cock in the room, and in every hole at once! For your right nipple ring, I need to find a soft light blue stone. That means your lesbian lover is a minor member of the nobility, as my father was only a knight and not quite a baron, at least in title. Another bead also strung off that one will of course be a bright yellow, indicating that you drink my piss gladly as if it were the finest champagne and tend to my toilet needs, although not my ass-fruit... that would be a different brown stone, for a different sort of toilet slave. Pray that you don't piss me off ever again to ever earn that stone! Another bead, of iron, shows that you are my submissive, bound to me in obedience. In fact, that stone should fall after the blue one and before the yellow. Since I now in fact possess you, lawfully loaned by Boyle who is very much now your legal owner, by Corælyn law or at least until you reach home anyway, I am quite entitled to place another string of these stones through your clit ring as well, since I lawfully control all of your rights to sex. I'll pick nice heavy stones too, certain to make your clit tingle with need every time that you take a single step, wiggling your heavy piercings. As for your cunt rings, by custom you could have quite a long string of stones strung there, one on your left lip ring for each of the nearly four dozen men who has taken you so far in your life. Again on your right lip, for the women lovers in your past life, you can add the dozens of attendants that served you there well! In fact, a stone to honor each of their memories, would indeed be a very good thing, if indeed you are quite now determined to act with honor now in your life, as you have so often claimed this last week." "I shall act with honor, for the words of the Moon-Woman were indeed true. I have acted faithlessly and without honor, and I truly deserve to serve you now in penance. I spoke earlier of my dream, of meeting my slain attendants once last time on the border of the Shadowlands, and of my sincere regrets. I shall do as you say, wear a string of stones for my lost friends. It shall be a long string of beads, I fear, perhaps longer than the nearly four score men who violated me, but to remember the harsh lesson of my ill-service to them, and having fled my friends, companions and protectors for folly, I shall wear their stones as well... although I feel that I am now too soiled, a well used slut, for any noble husband to ever accept me, even for my lands and titles, or even for the inheritance of the Duchy. The shame of my complete disgrace will forever be too much for any man to accept." "Perhaps not quite all men." Gwenda whispered, gently kissing Ayleth's cheek while her right hand gently tugged on her labia lip rings and briefly casually caressed and twisted her clit ring. "There are yet a few good men in this world who could see past your dishonor and accept your troth, and to honor you thereafter." "Such a man would be indeed a prince among men!" The Lady gently wept as she held herself against Gwenda, with her head lying soft against her mistress's bare breasts, already well bathed earlier in the small washing tub that had been so laboriously heated and filled, once taken to Gwenda's cabin, which she shared with Rowan. Today was their first day on the great warship, under sail with a great convoy of other ships from Oswein that had sailed into the great canal of Corælyn, a week and a day after Ayleth's rescue. Her strength was still not great, and she moved slowly, even without clothing, as her slowly healing whip marks began to fade. The Lore-Master had tended to her physical wounds well, but now Ayleth's inner wounds, those to her soul needed healing as well. Gently, and with sincere fondness, Gwenda kissed the lips of her slave girl and together they shared their very first kiss together. "My dear silly cunt, you know we all do love you, much in spite of yourself! Never fear to trust us ever again! Your plan wasn't entirely foolish, but a little extra careful examination of the man's foul character would have shown you that such a logical and obvious attempt at negotiation was quite doomed to failure from the start. If you could not wait to act, then you should have at least spoken to us before you left, so that proper security for you could have been provided. Perhaps then, if Rowan had slain the evil Viscount there that afternoon at his home, all of the riot deaths might have been avoided. Still, it was very good to see the dreadful priests of the Justice God put into their place! "Indeed! In fact I think I shall banish a few of their priests as well, once I get home, like that nasty one that ran the village church at Swanford. I could never stand him!" Ayleth smiled, as she nuzzled and kissed her mistresses breasts. She had given them lots of loving attention with her mouth earlier, while she had bathed her mistress, but aroused by Gwenda's tugging of her rings and the hot kisses, she yearned to serve her in further more intimate ways now. "My love, now it time for you to assume your place, on my bed with your tongue quite busy on my own clit!" Gwenda giggled as she arose from her tub, allowing Ayleth to dry her all over with a towel. "Perhaps I shall ask Rowan to pierce me as well, as he much admires the simple beauty of your rings as well, as does Boyle, whose trousers quite become tented and uncomfortable with an erection when he looks upon them. I shall have a good deal of strung beads to add to my own lips, as my history has been a bit slutty as well, for I do admit to having a most intemperate youth! Still, my heart-song Rowan loves me for who I am, and not the dozens of lads and lasses who I shared some fun in a grassy field, haystack, bathing river, or secluded barn with at home. Your true-lover, when you find him, shall bear you the same honor and forgiveness!" ************ An hour later, Gwenda was enjoyed a screaming orgasm that was so loud and violent sounded that it suddenly brought a sheepish Rowan and Boyle charging into the cabin, expecting to find that some sort of attack or mischief had been done. Instead, the ladies smiled at their men and Gwenda kissed Ayleth tenderly again, before moving placed her own lips and tongue upon her slave girls still tender pierced clit, and rewarded her for her good service. Together, sharing love as equals for the moment, they put on such a torrid show that Boyle quite fled at once from the room. Surprised and slightly aroused, Rowan semi-discretely left the cabin as well, but continued to watch with some interest through the crack in their doorway. Not in the least fooled, Gwenda at length order her slave girl to retreat to a small chair, to watch as she beckoned loudly to Rowan to come back into the cabin and strip, to satisfy her need for his cock. Watching from her chair, the Lady watched and masturbated as Gwenda first sucked her life's-companion to full rigidity, and then climbed upon his hips to ride upon his cock with a fury until he had achieved his copious release inside of her. Arising from the bed, Gwenda approached her slave girl to offer her the opportunity to clean out her well-filled cunt, but the Lady Ayleth declined sadly. "Cedany swore to me that I would never touch her Rowan in love-play. Such a reward was for you, my dear mistress only! I am not worthy of tasting his ripe and flowing seed, and as such it belongs entirely to you, for you said to me earlier that your moon-cycle was nearly perfect tonight for taking his seed into your fertile womb! Instead, might I use my fingers to scoop out his creamy goodness for you to taste? This service I would indeed be willing to serve!" With Gwenda's nod, her devoted slave gently spread the wet cunt lips of her lover and after giving her mistresses clit a small kiss, she inserted her fingers as deeply as she could to scoop out every single drop of Rowan's seed that she could, placing fingerful's into her waiting lover's mouth. When at last she was done she was surprised to find Gwenda's sticky mouth questing for hers, and a tiny remaining part of his semen was in fact shared by the tongues of the two lovers. "Lick my cunt, lips and clit well, my dear for it is not Rowan that you share in love, but instead me! Lick your tongue deep to clean me well as I set myself onto your face as my dearest enters into my ass. Also, I command you to lick his balls well as they empty again into me, for this shall be for my pleasure and not his. Your services are to me, and for my duty, and let me, not the shade of his departed, color the terms of your service to us. No, his seed shall never enter your womb, but let me decide what an act of love is, and what an act of duty is instead! " Indeed, it was a long night one for the three lovers together in bed, but at no point did Rowan's cock ever enter into the Lady's well eaten cunt, but it must be admitted that her mouth and tongue were put, in a dutiful sort of way, to a great deal of wandering about in her cleanup duties! *********** "What was that about being a shameless slut in your youth? And who says that your husband is going to tolerate any of that sort of behavior any further?" Rowan jokingly asked Gwenda, later when they were alone in bed. Her slave having curled up earlier in an extra blanket on the floor was already apparently fast asleep. "Old, ancient past history... as long as you promise to not make a fuss about the remarkable number of beads I add to both my past male lover's bead-string on my left cunt-lip ring, and my female lovers on my right one, as soon as you have me pierced." "Are you really sure you want to follow this one rather peculiar Aldarian custom? I intend to be a respectable smith again some day, and I can't have my dutiful and obedient wife displaying all of her exotic jewelry down at the local lake or bathhouse! They'll get curious, and you'll start corrupting perfectly decent ladies into becoming shameless lovers, for the extra beads, if nothing else." "I promise that once we're a respectable married couple, I'll refrain from my earlier wanton ways. Besides, I've always preferred just a single lover at a time, and not quite an entire group of men or women all at once. The Lady Ayleth needed a bit of sincere comfort and a sign that the terrible things that had happened to her shouldn't ever shy her away from feeling love or enjoying sex again in the future. I do not intend to bring her to our bed, with you my dearest, again, or at least not soon; that would only confuse her and possibly lead her away from the path that I think she needs to take next. You should have fucked her nice little well-scarred ass when I gave you permission to. The way she licked your cock clean after being in my ass was so nasty that it kept you rock hard for the rest of the night. You should have accepted her offer to screw her little juicy ass silly!" "I wanted to, really... but I didn't think it would be right. You've seen the way Boyle looks at her! The two of you can have all of the feminine fun that you want, but I'd rather her first true sexual love be with sometime more special to her than me, even if you keep giving her lessons on how to give the perfect blow-job, using my cock as the training instrument!" Your right about Boyle, and I just got carried away with all of the nasty fun. She is really quite sincere about her wish to reform, so start cutting the silly girl a little slack. When we rejoin and merge with the other ducal armies, our budding young noblewoman is going to have to start to stand up on her own two feet, and without any of us cringing too visibly every time she opens her mouth. When we get our army home we're going to need her to be able to command, for real and not just for show. The Foole says that he will continue do his best to guide her, but I'm going to need to be there with her, as a friend and as a companion, and not just a lover. We've got a pair of duchies still to rescue, and it is now time for duty to take the place of fun and dalliance. Like it or not, our little holiday in Corælyn is now over. We've got the Tear, taken from the Viscount's private treasure horde, and we need to form back up the Great Southern Army and get it ready to take back Tellismere, before the Foole says that the Tear can even be used. Sometimes I don't understand Oddtus at all, or exactly what perverse game he's playing! No one understands the rules of the game, and I'm sure that a lot more friends, companions and even lovers are going to die before we get this insane confusing mess straightened out!" A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 20 "Well, at least now we have your uncle's permission to formally consort." Rowan whispered, gently kissing his concubina's nose and lips. He's a nice old bird and well educated! I even asked him what the word léaslic meant, what the old Moon-Woman had called Oddtus, when she saw him. He said it was an old archaic word that meant 'false', literally something that is a profound lie and against the rightful order of things. It had been used, he said, to name the first great seven wizards in an old history that he read once, the original ones that had been granted the direct power of their Goddess." "Indeed? Well that explains much! Sleep now my love, or our pattering will wake Ayleth, and my clit is already well worn out from her attentions tonight, so let us sleep and forget our trouble for another night. Danger grows ever closer to our bow!" ************ The Lady Ayleth, who wasn't quite as sleep as her friends had expected, couldn't have agreed with them more! The time for folly and willful interference was over. Like it or not, a great many thousands of people were going to depend upon her, and she couldn't keep running and crying to Rowan and Gwenda, or even the Foole for help every single time. The moment her ass set foot upon the docks of Broadmore, and when her mistress again allowed her to again wear clothes, she was going to have to put on her big-girl panties and learn how to rule! This time hopefully, wisely and honorably! Her father, if he was still yet alive, wasn't going to be able to recognize her, and the moment he again dithered about getting soldiers out to the field of battle, she was going to ride roughshod all over his indecisive ass, and lead the entire damned Duchy to war herself, if she had to! In fact, she was quite now looking forward to it! A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 21 *********** CHAPTER TWENTY ONE Not quite a full hourglass from time Rowan and his companions set foot from off the ship onto Broadmore, on the docks of the walled City of Penryn, right at the mouth of the Penryn River in the Southern Gulf, they found themselves outside the great walled gates of the city facing three great armies, of which only one was their own. There, out of a great field outside of the walls of Broadmore's second greatest city, was the invading army of Drakland which stood ready for battle, holding it under siege. To their north, the assembled army of Broadmore, gathered together originally for the purpose of traveling northwest, to fight against the invading great horde of Eorfleode, that was still ravaging the western coast, nearly now up to Crystal Lake itself, but now ready and even eager to throw the invaders back into the sea instead. To the east, was Rowan's army gathered from the east, the combined force of his now well trained brigade with the addition of nearly the entire cavalry of Everdun. These three forces now faced each down each other with near equal malice Now in addition to the south, unloading off the vast host of ships now at the docks, was the entire ducal army of Oswein, as well, and a steady stream of their excellent heavy infantry marched now outside of the city gates to stand ready... for what, no one was quite at all sure. Together, these four great armies all glared at each other, across the early winter mud of the great field outside of the city. Parleys had been agreed to and held, but nothing of any consequence had been resolved. Now four Dukes stood at the center of this large mucky field, empty of nearly all life and growth since the cutting of harvest, and now it waited being plowed by the marching boots of soldiers, to be fertilized with their blood and bones. For the first time in over a generation, nearly all of the leaders of the Southern Duchies were now present at the same time and place. A truly historic and auspicious moment, the Foole was certain, assuming that he could keep all of the dense hotheads from slaughtering each other! And from the looks of things, it was not going to be easy. He hinted, cajoled, pleaded and made suggestion after suggestion, but when all was said and done, there was a lot more said than actually done. If anything, the increasingly heated words between the elderly Duke Enos Fallorian of Drakland and Kelvin U'Roth, the young Duke of Broadmore, just showed that both leaders would have much rather been exchanging sword blows than words. Challenges were uttered and accepted and seconds were dispatched to find a relatively dry patch of land where the Dukes could more permanently resolve their differences. The Foole, throwing his hands up in the air in disgust, called the pair of them idiots, and stomped off to find a large wineskin to soothe his nerves with. Pissed off beyond all words, Rowan then stomped out onto that bleak field to add his own angry voice to their counsels, and to bear warning as well that the first officer or ruler of any of the four armies that so much as stretched out a big toe out of line was going to get it burned off, with an angry infernal sword! In his ungentle and rather direct manner, he ordered the two Dukes to stay their itchy sword-hands until the real enemy, the Eorfleode, had been defeated. Then, and only then, could the two go ahead cheerfully cut each other's hearts out... and Rowan would even offer referee the duel. The Dukes then both politely suggested that the lad get his burning sword out of their faces or else they'd both, in surprising cooperation, take it away from him and shove it up his ass. Employing both armies to do it, if necessary. Lady Ayleth, listening to the ever escalating arguments in increasing dismay, now decided that she had much to say about this waste of manpower and confused honor, and since she alone could really speak for the Duchy of Tellismere, she decided that it was time that she put in her oar, so to speak, at the council. Grabbing Gwenda's arm, they marched over to join the Dukes, and they quickly decided that the situation had already spun quite far enough out of control. The Lady put on her best 'I'm really pissed off' glare and set about to turn four angry Dukes into four rather frightened oversized boys. "Alright, what is this I hear about a duel to the death, and before the Eorfleode have been driven from our lands? How just like an inconsiderate man! To dwell upon the pretext of honor, while in actuality just using it as a mask to cover your personal vanities! Women and children have died by the thousands, and yet still die today... and many more will undoubtedly die tomorrow, all because you two dimwitted school boys can't resist the opportunity to whip out your tiny cocks to see whose is the biggest. From my particular vantage point, they're all equally small, and unworthy of the attention you're giving them, so lace up your trousers boys, there is some real fighting yet to be done!" "Lady, you don't understand!" Duke Kelvin whined. "Duke Enos has already declared himself to be king of these lands! An outrage that no one shall stand for!" Indeed, the other two Dukes of Everdun and Oswein nodded their heads in agreement. "Is that so?" She calmly spoke, in a tone that suggested an icy frozen wind had replaced her breath. "There will be no king over these or any lands of the Southern Duchies unless all of the Dukes of the land, along with all of their Earls and other nobles of the land, do agree so. Calling a duck an eagle just makes the declarer to be a fool, and it embarrasses the duck and doth mightily offend the eagle. Duke Enos appears to be of the size of my lack-witted gléaman... perhaps a change of clothes is in order? Shall I measure you for a motley, my fool of a Duke?" "Things are what they are, young Lady." The elderly Duke Enos muttered, as if repeating a long established story from rote memory. "Through the laws of inheritance, of blood and kin, this land upon which I now stand was entailed to me, and not the Earls of U'Roth, who usurped my inheritance. If that makes me a king, than so be it. My own nobles uphold my just lawful claim and are gathered upon this field to see that my rights are defended, with their blood if necessary!" "How very tedious!" Ayleth casually remarked. "That you cannot ever let go of anything of the past. Do you still sleep at night in your old nursery, with a favorite old toy tucked under your arm? No, or at least I should hope not! Things are indeed what they are, and you landed upon these shores a Duke and you shall remain so when again you leave it, or are buried underneath its good soil for holding to an impractical claim. While some technicalities of law perhaps slightly support your ancient claim, many far greater claims of others are set against you, for it is very true that no man present here will bend a knee to you. You may make what claims you wish, but you are not, and never shall be... our king." "As my claim is just, not just a technicality, I must do as my honor demands. Aye, even if it means war against all four duchies, with all hands raised against me." "You call that honor?" She laughed. "That isn't even within the faintest whiff of being within smelling range of honor. True honor means doing one's duty, to your fellows, to your people and to the land... and lastly yourself. All else is puerile vanity! In example, if you were indeed appointed, anointed or otherwise crowned to become our king, what is the first royal command you would give?" "Why, to demand the full submission and obedience of my Dukes, of course! For they will be a rebellious lot and I must force strong oaths upon them for their behavior!" "Indeed? How tedious. I suppose you would also have to put a great many of your soldiers into their keeps and castles... for extra insurance?" "Obviously. That goes without saying. The lands must be held securely and all of the lords and barons kept to their oaths." "Indeed? And I of course assume that a good many of your Earls and Counts, and other loyal nobles and knights of Drakland have been promised new titles and lands, within your kingdom. Perhaps significant ones, displacing some or many of the existing barons of the land?" The would-be king hesitated for some time before answering. "It is only proper for a king to properly reward those who have served him faithfully for the longest, and that they should sit at the highest counsels of his table. Such is the way things have always been done." "Indeed? For now I see much of the hollow nature of your so-called claims to honor! You take an old unobtainable inheritance and use this as a means to enrich your own land-power nobility. You much exaggerate your claims for justice and offer the spoils of the entire Southern Duchies to your noblemen, offering lands and titles that you hold no just claim over to others. Indeed, I clearly see that should you wear the crown of this kingdom, not a single squad of your soldiers would ever in fact face the Eorfleode, for even the lowest of your officers would be raping these lands for what bounty and treasure it still holds. You would be the lowest, most base sort of king – one who would take the lands from others without recompense and send all who would wish ill of your to battle in your stead, while you remained in safety behind. Surely, even with the direct threat of the Boar-Men destroying our final towns and cities, the true men of honor that remain would still fight against your injustice first. Such a delightful pleasure, unfortunately, at this time would be too inconvenient. Despite our disgust at your rapacity and selfishness, the dangers of the Eorfleode are yet far greater still, and it is against that terrible danger, in your shame, that you should look for a more practical demonstration of your so-called honor!" "I bear no shame for my defense of my honor!" Enos shouted. "Then you are a witling, Sir. A man of too base character to even lead as a lowly baron, let alone as a Duke. I know you well, My Lord, for I once thought and acted just like you once, when I was a very foolish young girl. You are unworthy Sir, even for the rule of your own island. A Duke, or a Duchess, must love their land, and if they cannot love the people who make it prosper then they should at least be able to respect them. This is why you are a poor Duke, and why you must never be allowed greater and loftier responsibilities. Your very arrogance insults the ground on which we walk, and disrespects the soldiers that you have brought to this land, in your vanity, that will all die unless you can find some means of reducing your severe personal demands of honor." "Were you a man, and not still a girl, I would draw arms on thee for your insults to my personage and honor!" The elderly Duke muttered. "Indeed? I almost wish you now would. My champion, a man who truly understands what honor is, and what it isn't... would be delighted to take off your gentle head right here and now, and I'd wager that not a single other nobleman here present would mutter a word of disapproval. In fact, it's really the best option for everyone! Your head is far too full of misunderstood and faulty notions of honor and duty to be of any use to any of us, except perhaps as a future example to others. A lesson for fathers to tell their sons about how one should never promise with their mouth what their coin purse or sword hand can't deliver. Please, my Lord, open your foolish senile mouth yet but once more, that good Rowan here, a man far your better in every measurable way, can remove this one loud angry pimple from the ass of the Southern Duchies, that all might live and breathe easier!" "My Lady Ayleth, you have gained much in wisdom since we last spoke!" Kelvin U'Roth said, smiling. "But you are negligent in one small but very significant matter! The good Rowan, as you say, is yet still a commoner, and it would set a rather bad precedent for such men to be decapitating Dukes. In fact, with your permission as he is your subject, I would like to correct this slight difficulty! As he saved all of my lands in the east, and defended my honor boldly against my rebellious barons, I would have him kneel before me that I might reward him appropriately." "Indeed!" The Duke of Everdun added. "I would have knighted the lad myself weeks ago, and indeed I well should have, save that he was acting upon your behalf, and he did not wish for any confusion to arise between the Dukes of the land. If you will allow me to join you as well, I too would offer my sword to knight the lad!" "As would I!" Interjected the mostly overlooked Duke of Oswein, a short baldheaded and hard-faced weather-beaten man of middle years who looked like he'd spent his forty years traveling nonstop between battlefields. "I've met the man but recently, but I'm still hearing entirely new tales of his valor and courage, and not just from the glib words of the gléaman! Duke Enos, if you had a shred of true and honest honor within you, you'd offer to add your authority, such as it is, to this knighting too. The duchies have damned too few good honest men of principle and integrity, especially in the ranks of the nobility, and I would see this man made noble... so at the very least he can freely cut off your obdurate and inflexible head without the remotest stain of dishonor or reproach." "So, there it is Duke Enos Fallorian." Ayleth stated, calmly, loudly and clearly so that everyone could hear. "You have three choices. First, you can drop your childish dreams of building a kingdom. No one else wants to play, so you can cease your pointless little war with Broadmore and agree to march or sail your army north with us and fight the Eorfleode instead. Two, you can die with your pointless dream. If it will make you feel better, we'll put a crown on your dead skull after Rowan chops it off, before we bury you. If you have not the honor to face our champion Rowan... note, I said 'ours', for he stands for all of the Southern Duchies... and you will too, or else you will be removed from our way. Or alternatively, if you have not the stomach to die in a formal duel, with but a nod of my head my personal arms-mistress Gwenda, she can arrange for a slight accident to befall you instead. The dozen of us gathered here will all swear that you fell on your sword, in disgrace. I'm sorry my Lord, there will be no battle here today! Your men, and ours, are all too valuable and necessary to our collective survival to spare. For even a single arms-man to die for your stupidity is more than we can tolerate at this time. So sorry. Thirdly, and lastly, you can stop crying like a spoiled child that didn't get a treat and negotiate a reasonable settlement to your differences. Mark me well, Your Grace - you're not going to become a king, so unless you can swallow your honor and pride, a lot of very happy púcel are going to be playing kick-ball with your rather thick skull across this muddy field in just a few minutes!" The Lady Ayleth had measured the mood well and now she had the prideful Duke in a corner. From his unhappy looks towards his own army, he knew that he could not prevail here today by arms, nor did he dare to force his claims for the kingship, to fight against Rowan, whose sword was still out and glowing with infernal flame. Even the hard looks of the arms-woman Gwenda, whose eyes just glared malice, unnerved him yet more and he did not like at all the way she was fingering her long dagger, now drawn in her hands. "There shall be negotiation." The saddened elderly Duke decided. "Despite my ambitions, I too love these lands, for I wanted them indeed for myself to rule and enjoy, but I shall adjure that dream. As Duke of Drakland, I shall greet my brother of spirit, the Duke of Broadmore, and make such terms and agreements as we might, upon my oath that as it is within my hands, no soldier shall fight or die this day." Offering his hand, with his steel gauntlet removed, the Dukes then grasped arms in truce and friendship. Ayleth and Gwenda smiled, it had been a very near thing. **************** "It's all in the eyebrows." She remarked to Boyle later. "You scrunch them all up tightly in a beady-eyed sort of look, and give the unfortunate man, or men in this case, your best 'I'm going to castrate you with a dull butter knife' glare. Then you speak to them like naughty children, quietly and slowly, with soft words that hint of even duller knifework if they don't play complete and utter attention to you. Then you let your upper lip quiver with emotion and let just a hint of a tear show in the eyes, misting rather than flowing. Then you look at them sadly, like your ill-trained puppy has just shit upon your favorite rug, and ever so politely suggest that they get their heads out of their asses. Men are so simple! They can't bear the thought of bringing a woman to tears, especially when you convince them that it's all 'their entire fault' in the first place." *********** First, before offers and terms were suggested, with the Foole Oddtus once again playing the role of mediator, the four Dukes, together with the Lady Ayleth, each drew their swords and formally conducted the ritual homage-oath to Rowan, knighting him as a nobleman of the Southern Duchies, not just Tellismere. Each Duke made the oath-promise of bestowing some lands to the lad, the exact grants to be more specifically determined after the Boar-Man invasion had been repulsed. Boyle, already a Viscount of the Aldarian Empire, via his duel in Corælyn, was knighted too on principle, just to give him some firm local authority as well. Gwenda, already nominally a noblewoman, albeit an extremely minor one of the lowest rung, declined any additional promotions, saying that she'd share her husband's reflected glory instead. To make the point further, she kissed Rowan hard on the mouth and took his hand in hers for the remainder of the negotiations. The settlement, aptly handled by the Lore-Master, was mostly in the form of a ducal arranged marriage. Perola, the youngest sixteen year-old daughter of the Duke of Drakland was unmarried, and accounted to be well-favored in looks, but also had a good mind as well. She tended to be rather bookish, but enjoyed the outdoor sport of riding, and was accounted to be a good hunter with her hawk as well. Duke Kelvin's younger brother, the Earl Roland U'Roth, who was taller and more handsome than his brother, and accounted by everyone to be of pleasant personality, stood forward to make the initial consort-pledge for Perola's hand. In turn, Duke Kelvin swore before the assembled Dukes and nobles that he would make the child of Roland's and Perola's marriage, his sole heir to the Duchy. Instead, should he later marry and have children of his own, to them the old family Earldom would be entailed. This agreement was put to charter, and the four Dukes and the Lady Ayleth were the formal primary witnesses, with another several dozen nobles of the various duchies brought in to add their wax witness seals as well. It was an agreement no one really liked, but no one absolutely hated it either. Accordingly, the Histrio considered it fair and suitable for all, and the Dukes agreed that if it would prevent a civil war, then they could deal with it. *********** Surprisingly, there was one thing that Rowan and the Foole now found out that at least one of the Dukes could not in fact deal with... the idea of men marching and fighting together with goblins! Duke Orland of Oswein had heard a great many odd things in the messages that he received from the messengers of the Duke of Everdun, including some mention of an accord, if not quite an alliance with the púcel. He had rather hoped this had been some sort of misunderstanding, or misquote from the Duke, but the moment Ayleth mentioned the goblins playing kickball with Duke Enos' head, he started to badly worry that the night-goers were indeed present. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 21 When he found their not insubstantial camp, his fretting became panic and his mood turned to one of fury, and with a face quite scarlet in rage, he dashed back to find Rowan, accounted by all to be the commander of these small vermin, determined to see them well and gone from the combined army, err a single one of his soldiers step one more foot towards battle." "Didn't I make myself completely and absolutely clear? It's them or me! Except for Everdun, I have enemies on every side of me, and in every direction the claws of the nihtgenga strike in the night against me! My lands are heavily overrun with them and there can be no peace or truce with them! Ever has there been war between goblins and men, and many are the foul unspeakable outrages that have been done by them in stealth, under the cover of darkness! No, this cannot stand! Either the goblins go, or I and my army shall!" "It would be most unfortunate indeed to lose the services of your skilled men, many of which I'm sure are eager for reasons of their own to avenge themselves against the Boar-Men, for they are much a peril for your most western towns and villages, even under kinder circumstances. I do not doubt that in the past you have had significant troubles with some tribes of the púcel, but it does not always have to be this way. Although we have not yet a permanent accord of peace or alliance with the tribes that now follow us, they have their own honorable reasons for their past distrust of men. We are the Fex'oegh, or the oath-breakers, to them... and for old but just reasons that still have merit to this day. I have sworn my own personal oath to them, to honor and accept them as valued allies, and I cannot and will not break that trust. In truth, while I would enjoy having your quite superior forces allied with me in battle, I could not forswear my oaths to them! That was done once before, for reasons that seemed valid, at a time of great danger much like now... but a wrong done once should not be repeated! Go my Lord, and my friend, and take your men back home with you, excepting those that would stay and fight with us against our ancient memory as but kindly volunteers, for I shall abjure the púcel not! Once we were oath-breakers to them, but not again... not on this day!" Rowan had not seen that both the Foole and the púca shaman Jim'ose had been standing behind him for much of his discussion with the Duke. Some say that goblins cannot shed tears, but Rowan saw the truth on that day. In fact it was hard to say who eyes were the most damp, the Lore-Master's or the wise old goblin leader. "The past can never be forgotten, nor should it... but sometimes what has been done in the past can and should be forgiven." Jim'ose said to Rowan, but with his eyes toward the prejudicial Duke. "The race of the púcel shall march with you wherever you will lead us, and although we can never replace a great army of men, our hearts shall be lighter for the honor that you have shown us, and we shall as comrades and sworn allies fight this last great fight together with you. You have brought many tribes of my race freedom, and our honor is yours to lead. No greater respect can we offer. When the land returns to peace, there shall be a new covenant between us, and the very first of my messengers shall bring our words of peace to the lands of Oswein, that the tribes there might embrace the new harmony and offer their hands to this Duke in cooperation and mutual respect, for now that the Fex'oegh have rediscovered their honor, it is not right or proper for our two races to ever fight against the other again! Even the past sins of the Cisalo can now be cleaned, for we would desire know more of our creator, and never again be separated from his divine love, should he accept us to his heart again." The Duke, now embarrassed beyond all words, quickly turned away and returned to his camp. Whether to stay or order his cavalry to ride home and his infantry to embark upon their ships, the lad didn't know... and frankly didn't much care. He was getting rather tired of pandering to so many noble egos and was already eager for the long march north to begin. "Lad," the Foole said, as he hugged his young friend in friendship and near overwhelming joy, "do not let yourself feel sorry with disappointment, for you have done a feat of honor that hasn't been seen in long over an age. Here and now you righted an ancient wrong, and made a choice that another weaker man could not, a very long time ago. The world is already a better place for what you have done, and with the help of The Seven and the Weavers, we will finish what we began! Let me go now make the grand tour of the army camps and see how fast we can get these unwieldy hosts of men organized and ready to march, or sail, if that bastard Enos will let us load Broadmore's army onto his ships!" The Foole must have been especially convincing, because not an hour latter he reported back to Rowan, Gwenda and Boyle that nearly all of the foot soldiers, and much of the cavalry would be loaded tomorrow morning onto the two naval fleets of Oswein and Drakland. Not an hour later the regretful Duke Orland had come asking for Rowan's forgiveness; he and his army would indeed remain and he even asked if his brigades could fight along side of the goblins, that the two races could better learn trust each other, fighting together. He even took the small hand of Jim'ose, the shaman leader, to make a more formal private apology for his rude and inconsiderate words. *********** Oddtus smiled as he amused the Dukes and noblemen later that evening at their farewell feast. Everything was now going quite perfectly according to his plan. Already Duke Enos was summoning his fleet, the second largest navy of the Duchies, to be ready to dock for their loads of men and materiel as soon as the already docked Oswein fleet had completed embarking as many soldiers and supplies as necessary. It was briefly agreed that the light cavalry of the combined army would need to travel swiftly overland, and would make their start for the Tellismere city of Applewood the next day, where they hoped to meet up with the fleet. The heavy cavalry would be the last to be loaded onboard, and it was hoped that most, if not all of the horses and men could be squeezed on and below decks. At least supplies were not likely to be a problem. In Penryn, the Duke of Broadmore had stored enough grain to last the city for a siege lasting years, and a goodly amount was already being now loaded onto his ships. The Drakland army had also come well supplied as well, and some of their ships were already heavily laden with supplies. The men from all corners of the Southern Duchies were well-armed and high spirited, relieved that they would be fighting the Eorfleode hordes, and not their fellow landsmen. Such cooperation would have been unthinkable just months ago, but then again no one had dreamed of a Daemon-Horn blade, or brave lad willing to wield it... or that the Lady Ayleth would have someday found and restored her own honor and soul, and gird them both for war for a cause much greater than herself! Better still, a very old mistake had now been corrected, better late than never, for the God of Mirth and Wisdom would indeed wish to reclaim his chosen people, upon his return... which if the final menace of the Eorfleode could be dealt with, perhaps once and for all... at least in this part of the world, the omens would be quite favorable for both Gods and men indeed! *********** Onboard the Drakland naval flagship 'Terror', the Lady Ayleth, contented at last the entire armada had now taken itself to sea and that she was but a week or so now from home, decided that in the interest of good and proper housekeeping on her newly polished conscience, that one last rather long overdue apology was now quite in order. With a good deal of trepidation, she knocked on Boyle's cabin at the start of the second afternoon watch, about three o'clock or so. The grin he gave her, happy as always to talk with her, didn't at all settle her wobbly stomach... and in fact, it just her even more nervous and reluctant. Still, with a weak smile she entered his cabin and bid him to shut the door, something he rarely did, to keep decorum and propriety with the noblewoman. Today, she didn't care in the slightest. "Alright, there's really no way to pussyfoot around the matter... I've been a roaring bitch for most of this trip, and it's a bleeding miracle that you kept on mostly friendly terms with me for the entire journey! You have always shown me courtesy, politeness and even honor... and often when I didn't deserve it! For what I did to you and Rowan at the ruins of Silana, sending you both back to Dead Tree Island, and to near disaster, I should be whipped to within an inch of my life... and by a much better man than the late Viscount Gart d'Bournyss. From you, I would gladly suffer even a great punishment indeed, for he could only make me feel pain, but you shall teach me true regret." With a fast unbuttoning of her dress, she allowed it to fall to the cabin floor, revealing herself to be nude before him. Then, she placed the long thick whipping cane that she had brought with her and placed it between her teeth, as she kneeled before Boyle, offering herself to him to punish however he wished. Startled by this demonstration, the lad just laughed and declined to accept the cane. "Lady Ayleth... while I much appreciate the offer of most properly chastising you, I shall have to decline it! Your skin is but just barely healed from the very hard abuse it received in Corælyn and I would not add another single scar to that most distressed back and ass of yours. In fact, every part of your body that I see still shows traces of ill-use, and I would not add a single bruise or mark to you. While I once promised your already well-beaten bottom a spanking quite some time ago, like Rowan and Gwenda, I shall instead offer you my unconditional forgiveness. Indeed, if the sounds of amusement I heard on-board ship heading to Penryn last week were any indication, you have been well forgiven by them indeed!" "Be not jealous of Rowan and Gwenda, for they have eyes and hearts only for each other. While I might have once wanted his attentions in that way, it was to Gwenda that I made my affections and I was not entered by him for his pleasure. Again, I would offer myself for your discipline, or to perhaps even serve you as I served her?" On her knees, she crawled to Boyle's feet in submission, but again he declined to take the cane from her mouth. "Well, if you desperately must feel the need to be punished, let me sit in that chair over there and you may present your ass for a gentle hand spanking, since you insist on feeling my absolution for your many sins upon your body. It still is a rather nice ass, even with the fading bruises and scars, not to mention the hot iron brand mark... and if the some spanks from my hand will give you happiness, then in this small matter I can oblige you!" Settling comfortably into the chair, Boyle seated himself and allowed Ayleth to settle herself face down and lying upon his lap, with her bare ass exposed on his lap. Idly, his fingers began to trace around the cruel marking made by the branding iron on her left cheek. "I suppose this really hurt when the hot iron was applied." He suggested. "Frankly, I barely remember it at all. I was already more than half delirious from the earlier whippings and I didn't really feel the pain of the branding until I woke up the next morning. I remember being shown the red-hot iron as he taunted me that I was going to be forever marked as his property, to be used, sold or disposed of however it best pleased him, but I may have blacked out right when the iron was applied. Already much of that terrible night seems as but a very bad dream to me, but I think I do remember the smell of my own burning flesh. What exactly does my mark look like? I haven't been brave enough to look into a mirror to see exactly how that monster has marked me for life." "Actually, as brands on soft pretty female flesh go, it's not a bad one and I would be content to keep it. The brand mark itself is about two or three inches long and muchly resembles a stylized "B" in rather fancy script. I believe it is the d'Bournyss family seal, rather identical to his signet ring, which I now wear. Since the late Viscount had also prepared a document of sale for you, which is also in my possession, I think I can very safely say that in full accordance with Aldarian law, I now own your ass... figuratively and literally! So, such as you call Gwenda 'mistress', now - at least here today in my cabin, you may now if you wish, call me 'master'." "Yes, master! Please now spank me! Spank your stupid slavegirl... hard!" Already Ayleth was nearly breathless with anticipation. Just calling her cheerful friend 'master' had given her a sensual thrill up and down her entire body. She had enjoyed her submissive sexual games with Gwenda, as a reversal of everything she had once ordered her own attendants to perform on her, but already their relationship was becoming more like love and affection between equals, and true friends... not just a mistress and obedient slave. Here and now with Boyle, she felt something different, perhaps the genuine urge to fully submit herself to him, to indeed belong to him in body and soul! Boyle gently leaned over to softly kiss her brand mark and then quite surprised her when his right hand smacked down quickly and hard upon the branded ass check. Another similar swift blow then struck her right one. Now Boyle fell into a rhythm as he firmly and remorselessly began to spank her, and increasingly hard. "Hold my arms behind my back with your left hand, or tie them fast behind me!" Ayleth whimpered, more with lust than with pain. "I want to feel helpless in your lap, to be made to submit and obey you, regardless of what you ask of me or order me to do!" Boyle was more than willing to oblige her, and he picked up the sash from her dress and gently, but firmly, bound her hands together behind her back. Now with the Lady Ayleth squirming helplessly in his lap, he began to spank her anew, and with even more determination. "It's confession time now, you nasty little bitch of a slut!" Boyle whispered into the squirming Lady's ear. "You're my branded little obedient slavegirl now! You wear my mark upon your delightful but scheming ass, and it... and you... belong to me now! Confess to me the truth, before I turn your butt a bright cheerful cherry red – why did you really come to my cabin today?" "I... I wanted your forgiveness Boyle... I mean, Master!" "The real truth, my scheming naughty slavegirl. You just wanted some naughtiness with a rude and crude stableboy!" "No, my master... My Lord Viscount, and sworn Knight of Tellismere, it is you I want to beat me... to scourge all of the remaining wickedness out of me. I also then want to feel you inside of me afterwards... to fuck me... so that I would know that I was still alive and had really survived my ordeal after being captured. I wanted to know that it was really all over, and that I was safe." "So by beating you, you would then feel safe? I don't understand." "They whipped me, a lot before the Viscount then fucked my virgin ass, and although his prick was tiny... much less than yours or Rowans, I thought I would go mad, driven insane by pain and the shame of his rape, but instead I began to think of you. As he sodomized me and came into my ass, I kept my eyes shut and tried hard to pretend that it was you who was doing me instead. That thought kept me sane, all of that very long and unspeakable night. As more and more cocks used me and came into my mouth, cunt and ass, I would pretend that it was you and your seed that was filling me, otherwise the truth would have been far too terrible to bear! Now, here in your cabin, I wanted to feel the pain once more, but this time I know that it really is you who is disciplining me, and giving me pleasure, instead of just pain. Now, spank my ass harder, for I can feel every stroke making my pierced clit tingle even more, then when I've cum from just feeling the heat of your hand on my ass, use me as you wish! Fuck my burning ass! Let me feel you and your seed inside of me, so that I can then be happy, satisfied that my ordeal was indeed a thing of the past... and giving me a much happier memory to replace it!" Boyle couldn't understand how it was possible, but the more he spanked her, the hotter and more aroused she seemed to become. In fact, it wasn't much longer before she did scream with orgasm, squirming on his knees. "Fuck my ass!" She begged, panting with desire. "I can feel your cock pressing against my stomach. It's big and hard and fully aroused, and I need to feel it inside of me, now, please master!" She begged. Boyle was not about to disappoint the Lady. His member was indeed quite as erect as it could get and with a little effort he pushed down his trousers, freeing his prick to press against Ayleth's stomach for the moment. Sliding his middle finger down the crack of her ass, he found her sopping wet cunt and used it to lubricate his fingers. One by one he inserted his dripping wet fingers into her ass, to lubricate it, and it willingly stretched open for him. When he though he had moistened her enough, he lifted her up with his strong hands so that he could get out of the chair and he placed her bent over a small writing table. With his cock now placed right against the entrance to her asshole, he stopped for a moment to make sure that she was ready and still willing. "Do it! Take me! I need to feel you inside my branded, blistered, spanked and whip scarred ass! Make it belong to you, and take it as roughly as you desire... turn my fantasy memories of terror into more pleasant reality!" Slowly Boyle entered into her until his groin was flush against her hot, stimulated ass, and slowly he began to thrust. He had thought that he would need to keep his pace slow, so that her tightly stretched ass sphincter could get used to his size, but it was the Lady who was eager to increase the pace. "Take me harder and faster, master! You are bigger than all of the swine's lackeys and retainers who enjoyed me there, and far more filling than the pig of a Viscount himself, may he rot! With each stroke, you rub away their faces and deeds from my memory, and when you cum, filling my ass with your love, master, the last of their taint shall be quite washed away. Fill me my beloved master! Rinse me clean of the past, and leave me with only happy memories of you!" When Boyle came, it was thunderous, it seemed, like explosions going off in his head as he exploded his cum into her ass. Never had he had such a strong ejaculation before and he found himself quite weary. The happy Lady Ayleth submitted to be untied, and together naked in bed they nuzzled together in each others arms long into the night. *********** Lady Ayleth never dreamed again of the terrors of the brutal rapes she had endured during her captivity, and soon would never even be able to remember most of the faces that had abused her or the deeds that they had done. Her friend Gwenda was quite indeed right, Ayleth decided. Bad things sometimes do happen for no reason, if for nothing else but to make the good times seem just a little bit more special and appreciated. Now, tenderly being held in the arms of the good man that she had so often before abused, she discovered that instead of scorn for his base birth, her feelings were instead now quite different. So different in fact that she didn't really understand what she was now feeling at all! Her old attendants, such as Cedany had often discussed their feelings of love for their men, but Ayleth had never before understood those emotional feelings. Now, perhaps she thought she did understand, perhaps just a little. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 21 The feelings of... love... were different, unique, and more than a little unsettling, but she liked feeling this way and never, ever now wanted for this feeling to ever end. Happily snuggled into Boyle's beefy chest and shoulders, she fell into the most peaceful night of sleep that she could remember having since the Daemon had attacked her last summer. Indeed, the following morning with a good night of sleep and Boyle's great large hand wrapped around her smaller one, the two lovers looked out from the prow of the great warship to the sea ahead of them, but seeing or feeling nothing around them, except for each other. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 22 ************* CHAPTER TWENTY TWO The ocean trip to the city of Tellismere was somewhat delayed by contrary winds, which at this winter season came near head on, from the northwest. The fleet was running close-hauled, tacking back and forth beating their way upwind. In better weather, the trip could have been made in less than a week, but instead they felt lucky that the trip had only taken two full weeks. From off-shore, the situation with tracking the progress of the Eorfleode horde remained simple. With their slow progress north they remained days at the very least behind their trail until they passed the ruins of the coastal city of Evesham, at the mouth of the Bekingham River. Here it seems the horde mostly left the coastal road and headed straight north, up the river towards Applewood, and Crystal Lake. Some smaller war-bands continued to follow the coast north but these groups didn't leave the complete wake of destruction behind them that the main horde had. Indeed, it quite appeared to even the casual glance that there was going to be precious little of Tellismere left to save. With every passing day, the mission turned more into one of revenge rather than rescue and salvation. With each day that passed, seeing naught but burning smoke coming from sacked towns, villages and farms onshore, the Lady Ayleth's hope began to fade, and only the firm presence of Boyle by her side kept the faintest sparks of hope alive in her heart. She was certain, once they approached the mouth of the Klure River, that she would soon see her home city aflame, but instead the skies were clear and the city walls seemed strong and firm, although nearly everything else around the city showed signs of siege and ruin. Dashing first off of the ship onto the docks, Ayleth ran to look for her father the Duke, but he had not come to greet their rescuers and had remained in his chambers at the castle. In fact, as everyone soon realized, if they had expected a sincere hearty welcome, they were in fact much mistaken! ********** "So, the Foole arrives back with yet more unwelcome guests and an ungrateful daughter who greets me with loud shrill demands for things that cannot be done! Fie upon you all, and may the Eorfleode take you first upon their return, for their numbers are endless, like the waves upon the Great Western Sea, and drowned already this land is, from their vast numbers!" "And greetings as well to you, my Duke!" The Foole replied. "And just what would your most unreasonable daughter have you do?" "She would have me gather up all of my remaining arms-men, and every man, lad or lass who is capable of bearing arms, and lead them to the defense of our land! Doesn't the daft girl realize that it is too late? There are too many of them, and their hordes cover all parts of this land, north and south, east or west. Most of my men I did indeed already send, scattered to the villages and the towns to protect the harvest as it was brought in, and gone they are... lost to a man!" "So, you sent what were in effect raiding parties of your own, to gather in all of the harvest to bring it here, to plan to stand here alone in siege, rather than to protect the people of the Duchy? Rather than using your men in numbers, to better defend each of the towns and cities assaulted in turn, you instead scattered your forces piecemeal, thrown to the wind in handfuls like ill-sown seed, or grain scattered to feed chickens. "Useless... worse than useless in fact!" The Lady Ayleth shouted, so that her voice filled the entire great assembly hall, where her father and his remaining nobles miserably sat. "Did you command the assembly and training of conscripts? Did you withdraw the scouts and the defenders from the wilderness forts in time before they were overwhelmed one by one? Did you order the evacuation of the threatened areas where the horde was marching, to bring the refugees to a strong place of safety?" "How could we?" Her father muttered! "We had no warning that the horde was coming, or that it was so huge! The barons wouldn't have agreed to release their workers so soon before harvest time, or pay the many golds that it would have taken to assemble, arm and train an army of conscripts. Instead, they begged only for more of my soldiers, so I sent them all that I had! As for the peasants, only a little food could be gathered up in time, little even enough for the men of this city. We couldn't admit those that fled to us for safety from the countryside... we couldn't! We didn't have the food to feed them, food that was now needed for my remaining guardsmen. So we ordered the gates and drawbridges closed... and closed they have remained." "So, my dear darling father has indeed lost the very last of his senses! You have had a great many months of warning, but you wasted your soldiers and abandoned them; you tried to steal what little food you could find for yourself and your lackeys from the mouths of your peasants, and then barred the hungry survivors of raid and ruin from the safety of your city walls, leaving them to die outside; and worse, like a frightened child, you and your so called advisors cringe like terrified children in this dark hall, wringing your hands together and whimpering that there was, or still is, nothing that you could do! I am ashamed that I lived to see this day, that no honor remains within Tellismere, nor is there the will to fight for what was ours!" "Ever the whining malcontent, my willful daughter! As always a girl of passion but no sense... unable to see the world for the way it is. Indeed, for my eyes do see that your hand is now held firm by another. What low base creature have you now found to dally with? Have not your quest guardians kept your frequent amoral urges restrained? Indeed, I see the accused lad, now apparently a grown wicked man, who daemonic weapon certainly has added to the great and near completely destruction of my land! The man by your side seems familiar but unknown to me, undoubted a scoundrel of low birth and lower morals! Send him from this hall, or I shall summon my guards to have him whipped like the dog he is out of my castle and taken out from our walls, for he has a lean hungry look and I like him not at all!" Boyle had indeed lost nearly all of his previous portliness and was indeed much changed since his last meeting with the Duke. "Her companion is of quite noble standing." Rowan stated, with an angry white knuckled grasp of his sword hilt. "He is the Viscount d'Bournyss, and acknowledged champion and benefactor of the great temple of Árfæsliss, Goddess of Mercy, the Hearth & Healing in Corælyn. His deeds are most resplendent, and of much honor, acknowledged as such by the four other Dukes of the Southern Duchies, whom even now wait for your recognition outside the doors of this hall. He is my oath-companion and my friend, and I will no further words of ill-respect spoken of him. He is worthy of your daughter, and should it ever become their will to consort, as her acknowledged champion, I shall witness their consorting-oaths with pride and satisfaction." "Well I shall not!" The Duke shouted, as angry and as red in the face as a beet. He leaped up onto his feet and dashed up to his daughter and shook his daughter hard with both hands. "Send him from this hall! And send away the other Dukes as well, for they are only here to pick over my yet living carcass. I command it! Whip this miserable refugee from a dungheap away from my presence, for I would sooner have my slut of a daughter marry a stable-boy than this swarmy smug Aldarian!" "That my Lord, can be quite arranged!" Boyle laughed. "Indeed, my father!" Ayleth giggled. "For yon nobleman, the famous Viscount d'Bournyss, is quite none other than my companion, Boyle... formerly the farrier of the stables of Swanford. His birth might have been common, but he has been accorded with honor and great honors at every point in our travel. His blood is indeed quite noble, perhaps now far more noble than yours! He and Rowan have fought had shed their blood for the defense of our lands... which is much more than can be said for you, my craven father!" Duke Emdyn de Mosena, then slapped his daughter hard, and tried to strike her again before Boyle seized his hand and restrained the nearly berserk Duke. "My Lord," Boyle calmly stated, "gather yourself and find your noble spirit! The Duchy is in flames but the hour is not too late! Gird yourself and find the will to act, for all is not yet all lost!" Instead, shaking in a fit while restrained in Boyles strong arms, the Duke's eyes lost focus and rolled up to their whites, and he collapsed into a fit as Boyle gently laid his shaking body down to the stone floor. The guards and nobles standing around the hall were paralyzed as well, uncertain of what to do. The Lady Ayleth had no remaining uncertainties in her heart and knew at once exactly what must be done. With a brief glance at her sickly father, who was being now tended by Oddtus, she strode across the hall floor to the high chair where her father had sat, and she stood in front of it and turned to face her nobles and the guardsmen. "It appears that my father is unwell, too indisposed to continue with his duties for this day, or perhaps even for the rest of his life. Accordingly, I, Lady Ayleth, daughter of Duke Emdyn de Mosena, do so assume the duties and responsibilities of this Duchy as its Duchess, vowing to defend this land and her people, both noble and low born in honor and uphold its laws with justice and mercy. I do so swear and affirm!" Rowan then drew his sword and the dim light of the hall was bathed in the glow of its flames. As he glared at the assembled nobles, the threat was unmistakable; kneel and bow and offer their homage to their new ruler, or face immediate summary execution. It was the guardsmen who acknowledged her first, stamping their boots to attention and then as one drawing their weapons in salute. Slowly, the assembled nobles bent their knees in submission, one by one. Each in turn was escorted to the Duchess to make their individual supplications and give their homage-oath. When the last of the nobles had been so sworn, she ordered them to remain on their knees while the four waiting Dukes were finally admitted to the hall. If they were surprised to see the limp form of Duke Emdyn being carried away to his private chambers, no one commented upon it. Each Duke in turn made a small bow of greeting to the Duchess, and she curtsied in turn to accept their acknowledgement of her power. Now truly the entire Southern Duchies were united with one single thought, the location and destruction of the Eorfleode hordes, of which there seemed to be several somewhere in the area. With her first official act, Boyle was commanded to be her Chamberlain, her final word in all government matters, and Rowan was publically acknowledged to be her official Champion of the Duchy and commander of her army... what little of it still remained. Gwenda, not at all forgotten, was assigned to be her Lady of the Bedchamber, a position of considerable castle authority, commanding all the attending servants, stewards and other ducal household staff. The minor formalities done, the assembled Dukes and Duchess gathered out on the ceremonial balcony, where after a short speech, each of the great lords briefly cajoled the vast growing crowd to prepare for war, true war, as everyone capable of fighting was soon about do so. The days of indecision and hiding were over – the Duchy was going to fight, and win! ************ The cries and shouts of praise to Ayleth's ears seemed both satisfying and yet hollow. She had taken over her stricken father's duties and was now determined to do them well, but she was growing increasingly scared about making a mistake, any mistake that would doom her people. "Now my lass, you quite know how Rowan feels every single waking moment of every day." Boyle whispered, and kissed her ear. "Duty is heavy, sometimes soul crushing so, but know that we all have our trust in you! Let the Dukes and Rowan handle the weighty battle matters, and instead kept your head and your spirits high to lift the morale of our people. When we win, not if, it will be your poise and confidence that everyone will remember. That you did your duty and did it well, with honor!" "But so many of them, perhaps many or most of us as well, are going to die! And I will be the one giving the real order to send them to their deaths!" "Yes, but no one will really hold that against you. Duty and honor compels it. That too gnaws away at Rowan, but if many thousands die it is so that many other thousands, and their children can live. You've managed to leave your past behind you, and now you should only struggle with living in the present; the future is only known by the Weaver's and we are all helpless in their hands. Give me a kiss now and a smile if you can manage it, and dry your eyes, for we have a great council meeting to attend to and the fate of five duchies, not just ours hangs in the balance!" ************* It was indeed the biggest council meeting of war that anyone could ever remember attending, with each of the Dukes and the Duchess assembling their wisest advisors, top military commanders, and an endless collection of scouts, admirals, quartermasters, and senior sergeants reporting to them, each updating the war leaders with the latest available information. Already the fleet was unloading their armies at the city docks and marching up to the great field outside of the city, making it now quite secure from the random raids of the local war-bands. Boyle had immediately sent riders to locate Loren and the light cavalry, and as the heavy cavalry was unloaded it was given orders to go out and clear as much of the area around the city as was possible. If they were lucky, few if any accurate reports of the great army that was landing would reach the infamous boarman leader. Already every able-bodied lad, lass, man or woman of Tellismere city was being gathered, ordered into conscription, armed and sent to the arms-masters of the four ducal armies for training and instruction. There had been some survivors from the local towns and villages that had been refused entry inside of the city walls, and after some initial anger, they too largely volunteered for military service, as long as their dependents could now receive shelter inside the walls. They couldn't hope to become veterans before the great battle, but they would at least make adequate reserves. Stores and provisions also seemed to be more than adequate, according to every report. It was hoped that this final campaign would be short and quick, but if necessary the Great Southern Army could march straight to the Brittle Mountains, chasing the Eorfleode every single step of the way, for many seasons if necessary. From the first, the Duchy had been nearly overrun right from the very start, with little or nothing having been done to at least delay the invasion. One horde of Boar-Men had arrived at Crystal Lake in the early fall, about at harvest time, and had quickly overrun all of the lake lands to the northeast. The island towns in the lake remained safe so far, except for a few raiding parties conducted from rudely cut canoes. This horde crossed Crystal Falls in the mountain wilderness to the north, and ravaged the relatively few settlements to the north of the Klure River, sacking rather completely the fortress town of Northoak on the northwestern coast. Crossing the great northern bridge, the Eorfleode made a brief half-hearted siege of Tellismere City before turning east and south to ravage the mostly unprotected towns and villages along the coast toward the Bekingham River. The walled town of Ghasby fell after a brief siege, as did the fortress town of Glideuch. Some women and children had been evacuated by boat to Osweleg Island, but otherwise there had been very few survivors. Loren's large combined light cavalry force, riding swiftly from Penryn, had quite caught up with these Boar-men now, and they were skillfully harrying them, preventing them from crossing at Roper's Ford, to join forces with the larger horde now at Applewood. Now in contact with the fleet and the Great Southern Army once more, the council had agreed to continue this harassment, to prevent the horde from receiving its reinforcements and to keep the attention of their leader towards the south, and not their fleet to the west. Rowan told Boyle to give the order to keep the cavalry moving and flexible and to avoid pitched battle. Keeping the squadrons spread out and near the thick forests for cover in case the leader took too personal an interest in them. In flight, if necessary, they should keep to the cover of the woods and only emerge in the open near Lacestone, where the army hoped to meet them. At the same time, another smaller group of war-bands had been working their way west, after they had crossed the Emerald River, but these groups were less disciplined and not in as great of a hurry to advance. To their dismay, Rowan and Boyle learned that Swanford had indeed been first raided and then later burned to the ground, as was the Duke's island keep, but fortunately the villagers had been forewarned, and most of them were currently secure inside the walls of Haldyne and Lacestone. Haldyne was currently under siege now, but the effort to take the walled town had been under-supported and lackluster so far. Of the Everdun heavy infantry supposedly now travelling down the Emerald River, there had not yet been any word. They detailed a couple of small, fast but shallow boats to try to work their way up the winter rain swollen Emerald River at least as far as Swanford, or even better yet to the old river-watch post a league further up the river, to look for signs of their approaching boats, but they were to also avoid trouble where possible. The great horde with its magic-wielding commander, after his sack of the walled city of Klith, at the coastal border with Broadmore, had led his vast army largely intact north up the Bekingham River and it had just recently arrived outside of the great walls of Applewood, according to the best reports of the scouts. In an additional report from a ship's captain that was one of many that had been trying to bring out refugee women and children from that doomed town, it was said that the great boarman leader, riding his flying enormous creature, put flame to many of the evacuation ships and that there was much loss of life, as few of the other ships escaped destruction. Questioned further by the council, the captain added that the creature appeared to breath fire as well! The sound of the Lore-Master Oddtus falling quite out of his chair in astonishment startled everyone in the room, and the hall became quite loud with nervous discussion. "A dragon! One of the first-born... a Draca! How is this possible?" The gléaman ranted later in the privacy of Rowan and Gwenda's chambers. "It was thought that a few might have survived the last final campaign of destruction that Gældra's seven great wizards undertook in the final years of the war. Indeed, not a few of those seven fell while completing this necessary deed. But of the Draca, none of their kind have been seen again since. Perhaps brooding, hiding and waiting, they still lurk in the deepest mountains where even the Boar-Men fear to go! This portents much, and much of it is ill indeed!" "A dragon. The most ancient enemy of men... how can I hope to fight and defeat such a foe?" Rowan muttered. "Indeed, we dare not even sail down to relieve Applewood, as our fleet would become tinder for its flame. Our army would sink into the lake and be forever lost! But I fear by our caution we only doom that great city to its destruction!" A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 22 "The council ruled wisely, I'm afraid. So far, their leader knows not of us, and if we can move our fleet in secret to the east, perhaps to Lacestone or Haldyne, from there we might march safely and quickly to their relief. Caught in the open water, much if not all of our fleet and our army would indeed be destroyed, to the loss of hope by all! Fear not about the Draca, for I feel that your flame might prove much a match for its, or so I pray!" "Still, I am now very much afraid! How can I lead men into battle against such a foe? They will flee, and none shall blame them!" "Warriors shall find their heart and hold to their duty; they did so over an age ago on these very lands and held, against worse odds. Although powerful and terrible in their wrath, the Draca are still mortal, like you and me, and brave men and women have held in the past against their fury... often with terrible loss, but still they held. There is no time to gather the second-born once more, if indeed they could even come to our calling. This world belongs now mostly to men, and it is by your blood, will and valor that you will keep it! *********** Having just unloaded the vast army into Tellismere, Rowan found it agonizing to watch the slowness of the process of reloading it once more onto the ships of the fleet. With the additional Tellismere merchant ships still in harbor, there was enough stowage to handle the additional conscripts from the city, and as each ship completed loading, it was given immediate orders to sail out into Crystal Lake, to be rejoined with the fleet at Beran Harbor, off of Bear Island. At worst, the ships sailing one or two at a time would attract little attention or notice, even if the boarman leader and his dragon flew off into the lake to scout. Rowan, and the rest of the council, rather hoped that this rather unusual Eorfleode wizard would be kept too busy keeping all of the hundreds of different war-bands organized and focused upon their objective to go out patrolling much. As for the regular scouting reports of the western tribes that were still trapped on the western side of the Bekingham River, the last report that Rowan had received, a mere two days old since it was dispatched, reported that these rather disorganized war-bands had been pushed off rather considerably towards the coast, further from the ford, so that their chances of being able to even slightly reinforce the great horde were close to nil. Loren was going to try and extract the greater part of the light cavalry force, leaving a weak screen behind to gently harass the isolated enemy and keep it relatively in-place and impotent. With the greater force of the cavalry, Loren was going to push them hard, but secretly, to ride around and bypass the great horde at Applewood, rumored to be in the tens of thousands to meet with the main army at Lacestone, hopefully in less than a week. Rowan and Boyle prayed that it would be so, for the former bandit was indeed a quite skilled cavalry commander and he could wield his squadrons in battle like a medicus with a sharp scalpel excising diseased skin. As their flagship left the docks of Tellismere a few days later, with the vast bulk of the army loaded and already enroute to Beran Harbour, Rowan and Gwenda and Ayleth and Boyle, each took advantage of the relative quiet to find some private time for each of the couples. In the solitude of their cabins, each couple rejoiced at their moment for intimacy, and many hours later that evening, as Boyle emptied his seed inside of Ayleth's cunt, he first spoke of his willing to consort her, and he made his troth-oath to her. Each couple spoke private words of love all that long dark night until, as they were about to drift to sleep, a messenger knocked to announce to each that they were nearly at the harbor, and that a swift message ship was approaching them. The news was fairly grim. The Eorfleode wizard and his dragon had spotted several of their troopships near the harbor of Lacestone and had flamed most of them. For once, Rowan was glad that a few overly eager ships' captains had disobeyed orders, for if the entire fleet had sailed, perhaps they would have lost a great many more ships instead. Also, if this news wasn't unpleasant enough, other fast scout ships were reporting that the city of Applewood was ablaze with flames that could be seen many leagues away. The city had fallen, and now the horde would turn its eyes to Lacestone. Now, after a brief consultation with the other Dukes, it was decided instead to take the fleet further east along the coast to Haldyne to unload. Further out of the way, and if the final approach was timed to arrive in darkness, it was felt that their fleet could arrive there unspotted. Haldyne's docks were large and better equipped than Lacestone's anyway, the Foole mentioned, so that the extra two days lost due to marching back down to Lacestone, might even be recovered by the increased ability to unload the ships, and perhaps much faster than could be done at Lacestone. Rowan gave orders for the fleet to sail south for Haldyne late the next afternoon, to travel in darkness and without lights, the cavalry ships were to dock first and when the docks became full, the other remaining ships were to ground themselves onto the nearby sandy shore to get as many men off of the ships as fast as possible. It was thought to be a relatively small force of Eorfleode that currently threatened the walled trade-town, but Rowan wanted this nuisance disposed of quickly, and before the boarman wizard could be warned. That extra speed unloading did indeed pay quick dividends, as the fleet of the Great Southern Army beached itself for several leagues up and down the shore, quickly discharging fighting men and women eager to meet the Boar-Men in battle, even in the wee hours before morning. For leagues in every direction, a confused and chaotic battle took place until the middle of the next day, with few meaningful reports coming into the commanders about what was happening, and where. It was a bewildering battle, fought not by an army, brigades, or even regiments, but individual squads and occasionally later full companies fighting isolated parts of war-bands of Boar-Men, who seemed to be just as confused about where the real heart of the battle was actually occurring. Rowan would have loved to have taken credit for the battle-plan, how his army scattered all around drove all of the war-bands tight against the walls of the city, to be surrounded and slowly destroyed in the way that an orange is slowly pealed and then consumed, but in fact no one was capable of giving any overall command to the wildly chaotic battle at all. Even a full day after the last boarman was slain, loose groups of lost, isolated soldiers were still reporting into the town to find their commanders and join their battalions and brigades. It was a nasty messy sort of battle, but it was a complete victory. Most of the heavy cavalry was still unloading from the boats, at the docks, but as soon as they could be assembled, Boyle sent squadrons down the road to Lacestone and into the nearby woods to chase down survivors before they could report to their war-leader. None escaped, the cheerful lad reported the next morning, with an even bigger grin than usual. Now with the army unloaded and arrayed for a combat march, Rowan even smiled himself in turn. They now had tactical, if not complete strategic surprise, and when that great Eorfleode horde arrived at the gates of Lacestone, it would get the surprise of its life. With no further Boar-Men reinforcements coming from either the east or the west, the great horde was itself now surrounded, and with proper preparation, the odds were going to be as good in their favor as they were likely to ever get. ********* In two days, the entire Great Southern Army of the Five Duchies was saluting the gates of Lacestone, and the army began at once to dig itself a great protective fort upon a large hill just outside of the town, to the west. Ditches and trenches were dug to block the entire road approach from the west, with green tree boughs soaked with water, freshly cut to shelter the soldiers, even from just a little of the dragon's flame that was soon to come. Every bucket, barrel and pail that could be found was filled with water, and spiked tree poles were set to cover the entire level ground surrounding the hill and the western approach to the city. Between the archers of the town, now well supplied and prepared, and the ever-growing fort of piled sandbags upon the hill and the front line of the trenches, the great army wasted little if no time, working even late into night with as few torches for light as was possible. *********** Early that evening, as Rowan was leaving a meeting inside the town to coordinate the defense efforts of the townsmen, he was startled to hear an old familiar voice, Ypreth, the former innkeeper of The Goblin's Head Tavern, who was now pouring some pints of ale for the town defenders with the last of his stock, from on top of a wagon. "Rowan, my lad! It is good to see you hear! The stories all say that you are a great hero and have done many valorous things since you left our village! I'm afraid they're mostly true, aren't they?" "Probably so." Rowan agreed. "I don't suppose you've found me that real goblins head, have you? Just as well. I hear now that they are our allies and fight with us. Perhaps, should I be able to rebuild the tavern, a different sort of name might be in order. Named after you perhaps? Or not, as you will. Most of the villagers made it here to safety, but alas not your old master, Gorge. He and his nephew fell together, holding off the Boar-Men as they burned the village, so that the rest of men and lads bearing arms could escape. We had evacuated the women and children a few days earlier, leaving only those behind that could bear arms. At the forefront was Vainard Miller, the old headsman. He fought like a lion, he did... the first to fight and the last to withdraw. He saw Gorge fall, but said it was a good death. The strong old man beat down several Boar-Men with his largest hammer before they sent him to the Shadowlands. His widow is here, in the town somewhere, but she has not spoken a word since the death of her stout husband. Your friend Bryce, the guardsman is here as well, somewhere up on the walls. He took some bad wounds earlier, in the beginning days of the campaign while defending the river watch tower when the first bands of Boar-Men came. He lost an eye, and much of the use of his left arm to a deep wound that will never heal, but still he fights. A brave lad, like you... and Boyle. It will be good for the three of you to return home safely, to help rebuild Swanford, so take your care!" Rowan promised that he would try, and left to climb the hill so that he could inspect the earthworks. It was starting to rain now, a cold wet miserable sort of winter rain that froze the soldier's hands and feet. Rest or not, the horde would be arriving soon, and they would have to be ready before dawn! *********** Their efforts were completed none too soon, for in the hour before dawn, a great beating of wings overhead could be heard and random bursts of flame filled the siegeworks with light and fire. With the entire army well dispersed, the flames scorched few, but the effect to the moral of the men was still rather disturbing. Rowan in turn, unsheathed his sword and sent a burst of flame towards the dragon and its rider that only barely missed. With a great flapping of wings, the boarman leader beat a hasty but dignified retreat and the men of his army all stood and cheered. Morale was restored and even uplifted, and as the first light of dawn rose but soon disappeared behind angry rainclouds, sounds of the approaching foe to the west told of the arrival of the horde. He considered shouting out some speech of courage and duty to his men but with their spirits soaring at the sight of their leader with his divine blade, the soldiers were all instead bursting into song, and rather than interrupt them, Rowan and Gwenda joined in. The miserably cold rain just fell harder, filling the muddy trenches with a foot of icy-cold water or more, but even the most disgruntled arms-man had to admit that this made the dragon's flame a considerably less potent weapon today. ************ The Duchess Ayleth brooded and repeated bit her lips in frustration. Boyle had already left to join his two great wings of heavy cavalry, each of at least a large regiment in size. The Dukes were off with their respective armies, and the she was stuck here, back at the rear with the reserves, at the rear of the large hill, along with most of the surviving Tellismere arms-men and their new inadequately trained recruits. Her old brigade, which had rescued Ruromel, Kenniford and Orshold, took the honor of holding the central trenches, directly in the path of the old dirt roadway that passed by the hill to the town, with the other Duchy armies aligned on their right and left. Only the greatest of needs, she decided, would drive her to give her reserves the order to advance. They were too green and their morale was far too uncertain to be placed into the battle-line, but if any of the other armies should crack or bend too greatly, it was these innocents who must shed their blood to prevent a breakthrough. To save a Duchy, or even five, blood would be spilled, perhaps even a sea of blood... and she just prayed that their sacrifice, if ordered, would be enough. Still, all things considered, she would rather have been with her old brigade again, in the very center of the battle-line, and she was worried that the battle would be won or lost entirely without her. ************* To the end of his days, Rowan declined to take any significant responsibility, for good or ill, for the great battle of Lacestone. Certainly, he had helped plan the defensive array, to best protect his army against the boarman wizard and his flame spewing dragon, but once the battle started, his own participation had been rather minor. For starters, as he would sheepishly explain, from the moment the melee started he had his hands full dealing with the boarman wizard and his dragon... or was this the other way around, and it was the dragon who was their leader and the boarman but his pawn? Far from commanding the armies arrayed below him that were nearly at once locked into a desperate struggle for life and death in the defensive lines in front of the town, the brave lad really had almost no recollection of the overall twists and turns of the battle itself. Right from the very start, every nervous twitch of his eyes was dedicated to keeping himself alive for yet another moment further. Alone, he stood at the top of the hill, challenging the draca and its rider to combat. In previous battles that the Lady Ayleth's Regiment, or later her Brigade had fought, it had been Rowan's flaming sword that carved through entire charging war-bands seeming at once, but this time his battle was with just one single boarman alone, and it took all of the lad's concentration and quickness to avoid the dragon flames that burst all around him, and to block with his infernal sword the spells of certain death and destruction that unceasingly were cast his way. Without his flaming sword, which blocked and parried these, he would have certainly died in but a matter of moments and it was awhile before he began to have time to act, rather than react, before he could cast infernal flame of his own towards his attackers. The dragon, a rust-red colored creature that was larger than most any building Rowan had ever seen in Swanford, was nimble in the air and could avoid most of his flame blasts from his sword, but not quite all. His infernal flame could and did hurt the creature, one large burst even searing away a good portion of its left wing, leaving a large gapping hole in the wing membrane. While it breathed flame upon Rowan nearly unceasingly, with his sword forming a great shield of fire, it passed around him leaving him smoky but unburned. The top of the hill was consumed now in flames, but still Rowan held firm. Now he knew that his infernal sword was indeed a match for the ancient creature and that his sword-flame indeed was mortal to it. With increasing confidence, the lad ignored the sea of flames that surrounded him and called forth his own burning anger toward the creature, with several bolts of infernal flame against striking its already weakened left wing, nearly making the creature unable to fly, let alone properly maneuver. Rowan was surrounded by now by a hell-like world of searing flame and had to discard his helmet in haste as the metal began to turn red hot, searing his head and causing his hair to quite burst into flames, but still he held his ground against the legendary creature. Concerned that its primary weapon was of little or no effect now, the draca took to the air to circle back for a more physical diving attack with its teeth and claws that were longer than most spears. Rowan ducked the savage bite and as the rear claws passed by him he swung with his sword and it bit deeply into the left leg of the creature, carving through the rock-hard scales of the monster and deeply into its flesh to the very leg bone. Howling now with pain, the dragon attempted to sharply bank and circle back for another pass at this defiant mortal, but it was then that its badly torn and burned left wing failed it, and in an odd circling spiral it crashed into the very center of the battlefield, spilling its outraged and bewildered rider hard into the ground. The now riderless draca was greatly wounded and was lashing out in enraged fury at every living creature around it, either boarman or human, and great loud hissing cries in a speech unheard by men for over a thousand years filled the air, as the creature burned flame all around itself, consuming entire companies of men and entire war-bands of Boar-Men alike in moments, in its pain and anger. Soon it was alone upon the battlefield, and that suited everyone fine, as no one had the courage to face this terrible Eotenas, a legendary malevolent creature from the dim past. Alone, it was content for the moment to sit and inspect its wounds, and now study the melee between its master... or its thrall, and the pesky human bearing the infernal blade as they fought about forty yards away. A human might have broken bones with that spill, but the boarman wizard was largely unhurt and soon gathered himself to his feet, and was more than ready to face the charging attack of Rowan. To keep his surviving men alive in the center of the battle-line, the lad knew that he had to divert the wizard's attention fast, and he raced down the hill and leaped over the trenches and embankments to meet his mortal foe, and together with great flames and the fury of a thunderstorm, the two mighty foes crossed swords for the fight that would probably determine the final overall outcome of the battle. Rowan had faced a master swordsman in Corælyn, the wicked Viscount Gart d'Bournyss, but this was a much different sort of battle. The boarman wizard had a glowing sword of his own, etched also with glowing dark runes that made Rowan cringe just to look upon them. The sword was also at least double the size of his, but the huge wizard-warrior swung it as if it was as slight as silk. Also being well over two feet taller than Rowan, even the lad's considerable strength was of little benefit to him at all. The boarman was far stronger still, and its eyes glowed with an unearthly violent light, that matched the glowing purple stone that was mounted in a ring through the creature's nose. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 22 Magic was involved here, Rowan recognized, and weaving a defensive shield about him with his sword, he fought for time that the enormously powerful and strong creature would tire first or give him enough of a breather even to consider launching a fast lunge of attack of his own. The lad backpedaled; to buy himself time and space, for with the creatures huge glowing sword Rowan could not fight his way at all close enough to even scratch the boarman leader. Dodging deadly blow after blow, Rowan retreated, trading space for time, waiting for just one distraction so that he could put his final desperate plan into action. ************** It was about this time that Loren's light cavalry arrived to the rear of the Boar-Man army, to fire its harassing arrows, and to begin to slowly peel the flanks and rear of the horde. Distracted by the newcomers, and a flight of arrows that just bounced harmlessly off of its scales, the dragon tried to lift itself into the air again, but just crashed once more after flying in a circle. It howled some ancient insult towards the riders, and attempted to limp off towards them on foot, where it's flame and claws would be still more than a match for their spears. Judging this to be the right moment, Boyle ordered off a squadron of his central reserve of heavy cavalry to make a mounted lance charge against the distracted and wounded dragon, with himself at the lead. This was quite bravely done, but none of the heavy steel pointed lances so much as scratched the draca's heavy armored scales, save for Boyle's old Ylfen spearhead, forged ages ago for the Dragon Wars. Once again, after a hundred generations of benign forgetfulness, it was once again serving the very purpose for which it had been so long ago forged. Boyle, seeing the dragons blood flowing from the wound his glancing blow had carved on the dragon's right flank, ordered the survivors of the charge to wheel about and strike again. Claw and flame and taken over a score of their number on the first attack, and now charging into the very teeth of the evil ancient creature, the odds were certain to be worse, but to a man they courageously wheeled about and charged, shouting their battle cries. From the hilltop behind them, the Duchess Ayleth watched her lover disappear into a cloud of flame, smoke and steam as he led the final cavalry charge against the dragon, and when the smoldering ruins were revealed she saw that few of the squadron of horseman who had followed her lover were still in their saddles, and Boyle large black horse could be seen with its rider, both motionless on the ground, surrounded by death and flame. It was then also, that the Duchess had to make the single hardest decision of her life. The rain was falling harder, making it difficult to clearly see the flanks of the army, but it seemed that two different elements of the battle-line were breaking due to the sheer numbers of the horde that faced them. Their left flank, mostly soldiers from Broadmore, was falling into disorder and was already retreated to some reserve trenches to the rear, but this less than orderly withdrawal had left a dangerous flank open to the hillside, threatening the rear of the entire army. Also now in peril in the center was her old beloved brigade, filled with men and women who had already shed blood for her in the past, to whom she owed personal loyalty. They had taken heavy casualties from the dragon flame and fresh bands of Boar-Men were rushing into their weakened lines. They too were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers and they were trying to retreat in order to the base of the hill. The numbers of Boar-Men seemed endless, certainly in the tens of thousands and they still filled the fields to the west as far as her eyes could see in the driving rain and near freezing mist. With her reserve forces she could only plug up one of these two breakthroughs, and with a horrible sadness in her heart she ordered her reserve into action, to move around the left side of the hill to shore up the left flank and steady its retreat. The center would have to hold upon its own, and her warriors and friends, both old and new, would have to make their final bloody stand upon that hill, for there was no help left to send them, and alone they would have to fight to hold to the end, or else die. Her heart now twice broken, by watching the falling of her lover and the slow certain destruction of her brigade in front of her, she sharply dug her spurs to her horse to charge straight down the hill, leaping over trenches and defensive emplacements, to ride straight into the very center of her shattering lines, to rally her brigade to hold and to stand... to fight to the end in place, without another step taken backwards in retreat. "Hold the line!" She cried, again and again, waving her sword in a great circle above her head as she rallied her weary decimated troops to make their stand, as human, boarman and tiny púca bodies filled the defensive trenches at the base of the hill. Her warriors stopped their retreat, and stood firm. They fought and mostly fell... but somehow they held. Once she was certain that the center could hold, she risked a glance to see that her reserves now held the left flank securely and that the retreating survivors from Broadmore were now rallying and about to counter-attack. With a final glance towards the unmistakable long red ponytail of Gwenda, as she fought to reach and aid her lover Rowan, not far now in front of her to the right-center of the battle-line, and with a pray for the safety of her other lover, Ayleth pointed her mount towards the dragon and kicked in her spurs hard once again. Crying her death-song from the top of her lungs, she burst through the ranks of the startled Boar-Men, ignoring the sword swings and spear thrusts that cut into her as she charged past them. She had felt worse pain before, and nothing was going to stop her, not hordes of Boar-Men, nor any other creature until she had reached the side of her beloved. There by his still body, impaled point first into the ground where he had fallen, was his old cavalry spear, and without slowing her charge toward the dragon, she somehow found herself bending over in the saddle, with his spear handle now firmly clinched in her white knuckled fingers, she charged into the side of the creature, spear point, horse and rider all colliding nearly as one. It was with great satisfaction, she noted as she arose unsteadily to her feet, that Boyle's spear had been driven deeply into the chest of the dragon, and it was hearts-blood that flowed like a river from that mortal wound. Turning with satisfaction to look upon her fallen lover, Ayleth never even saw the final last terrible blow of the dragon's claw that with the last of its strength, slashed flesh and shattered bone as it bit deeply into her. Falling now to lie beside her lover, Ayleth still never felt the pain that ought to have consumed her, and as her eyes shut into darkness, the smile of satisfaction never left her face. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 23 *********** CHAPTER TWENTY THREE "I don't care what you say, courage or not, that was still a damned stupid thing to do! What were you thinking? You weren't!" Boyle sadly muttered from Ayleth's deathbed, later that evening inside the small keep of Lacestone. "I sent the reserves to hold the left flank and they did!" She whispered, her face sheet white and pale with pain from her crippling and mortal injuries and extreme loss of blood. "The counter-attack swept their right flank and we merged with both the light and heavy cavalry to box up their rear. I needed the center to hold... and they did. They fought and died until the boats with the heavy infantry from Everdun finally arrived, and they crushed through the center like a hammer beating soft metal on an anvil, as Rowan would say. I did my job and then some! Then I felt myself entitled to avenge you. How was I to know that you had been only knocked silly by the dragons' tail? There was smoke, steam and fire all over that battlefield, and with that pouring rain if that damned Draca hadn't been bigger than a house I'd never have found it, let alone killed it... and with your own spear, so you should be happy!" "I fail to find any happiness in my consort-to-be lying in her death bed, with her spine shattered and her internal organs in worse shape than a gléaman's drink ravaged liver! I would still kiss you my love, if your face wasn't fixed into that shit-eating smile." "The battle was won, my love, and my Duchy, with or without me, will survive. There are a great many losses that will be mourned. A full third or more of the men who sailed and marched here will never return home to their families. Over half of our old Brigade died holding those trenches in front of that hill, and around many campfires tonight many other deaths will be mourned other than mine. Don't make me do like Cedany, and make you swear oaths to live onwards, after I am gone! For I see that you are being quite unreasonable about this, and you are going to be quite impossible to deal with after I'm gone, which I can hear the healers whispering much too loudly, shall not be long from now!" "Indeed the great Eorfleode horde, over thirty thousand of them, if the counting of their dead was accurate, has been completely destroyed, save for the remaining war-bands still trapped by our cavalry to the west." Boyle replied. "Those we shall slay next and narry a one shall return to their hidden mountain homes, and hopefully with little cost to us. Already this war has cost us much too dearly! It will be many generations again before that foul race ever again bother any of our people!" "I'm not at all discontent." She muttered a little while later, as Boyle kissed and held her hand in silence, except for the sniffs as he tried to keep the tears from flowing down his face in great rivers. "I killed the only known dragon in the Southern Duchies, and that ought to be a lesson to the rest of their survivors not to mess with us ever again! But how did Rowan handle that Eorfleode wizard? Their battle was lost in a great cloud flame and smoke, and I heard he was most sorely tested." "It was the death cry of the Draca, that fatally distracted their commander, for he became suddenly quite unnerved and in his hesitation, Rowan ran him through, consigning the dreadful creature to flames, except for the magic purple stone that he wore." Boyle said. "Which I have now and shall keep, for it is a precious item of the Goddess Gældra, sister to my divine master, that once greatly served the causes of good, and it shall indeed again someday." Oddtus, the Lore-Master said. Its coming into my hands speaks of other omens for the future, but none that concern you young heroes, for now your tasks are done!" "Not so!" Boyle exclaimed! "You sent us on a quest to restore the Lady Ayleth, and to Corælyn we went at great cost and suffering, to obtain the Tear of Árfæsliss, which you have now have had for some time! With Ayleth mortally struck down and on her deathbed, what then was the point? You swore that there was a quest to save her! Were these just soothing words to guide us on the path you wished to guide us, to fulfill other prophecies of which we know nothing? That we might dance as marionettes, from your subtle gléaman strings? How, in this circus that you have forced upon us, was this to her benefit?" "Why, in a great many ways!" The wise Foole cheerfully replied, as he began to dig into his seemingly endless beltpouch. "We have, and in accordance with the prophecy of the galdorfǽmne, turned a spoiled and rather selfish young Lady into a dutiful Duchess, willing and able to command an army and rally it to do the near impossible, staving off near certain disaster! She has found her soul, her honor and her heart... all very necessary things indeed if the Moon-Woman's prophecy was to be fulfilled! With no thought of herself, she made herself the sacrifice to help save her land; a bolder and braver thing than a great many Dukes or Duchesses would have done!" "But now it was all for nothing!" Boyle wept. "On the contrary, her sacrifice was indeed for everything! She has saved her land, her people and lastly now even herself. It is love alone now that sustains her will to hold to life, and it is this love, that she had never before known or felt, that is but the final ingredient for her cure, for indeed the end of your quest is now finally at hand!" "How is this so Foole?" Ayleth asked, as her eyes began to slowly shut in weakness, as Gwenda bathed her forehead with cool water to soothe her. "Simple, for here indeed is the Tear of Árfæsliss, mixed already with a drop of dragons-blood... a very rare item now indeed, you must admit, that I did not have until this very day! Boyle, do you truly love this woman, and would consort with her?" "Aye, Foole... more the fool me, for indeed I do love her. I have loved her for all of my life, from afar, since we were once young children playing together in her father's keep on the island. She was my favorite playmate, even though her games were sometimes cruel and she often did not play nicely with the other boys and girls. After that first summer together we but rarely ever saw each other, but I knew then in my heart even as a young boy that I would always love her!" "Give me then," the Histrio said, "a tear from your eyes; a tear shed in love for a woman that has never before loved or cared for anyone else, for that is the final needed ingredient, and with those three drops together poured onto her tongue, her wounds, all of them fresh and old scarred alike, shall be restored! She shall be, exactly as she would wish to be, healthy, hearty and hale... and suitable for a long and quite happy consortship!" Boyle offered his tears and a full drop landed into the clear glass vial, and the liquid within turned to silver and then to gold. These three golden drops were dripped onto Ayleth's tongue and for the longest time no one believed that anything at all had occurred until her toes began to wiggle under the sheet, and with a burst of joy she flung herself nude out of the bed and into Boyle's waiting arms. The cure had been complete, with even the old terrible daemon fang and more recent brutal whipping scars all now gone, without a trace... except for the hot iron brand bearing the mark of her lover, the Viscount Boyle d'Bournyss, Chamberlin of Tellismere, and in private submission, her beloved lord and master unto the very end of her days. It would be less than a year before the old crippled former Duke, severely struck down by a series of strokes, was able to hold his first grandchild and even indeed saw the sight of Ayleth's belly swell for the coming of his second, before a final stroke took him away to the Shadowlands. Except by family, he was little missed. Already from the start of her reign as Duchess, she ruled with a firm but wise and benevolent hand, and she and Boyle strove every day to see their subjects safely resettled and their lands restored to prosperity, but everyone knew this was going to be the task of lifetime, or longer to fulfill. The work of hundreds of years had been undone in but a few seasons, but never again would the Eorfleode unite to ravish the Southern Duchies, or even again pose much of threat to the northern lands above the Emerald River. Dead Tree Island would be resettled yet once again, but this time to remain in the hands of men. As for Rowan and Gwenda, they now had honors and lands beyond counting, but most importantly, they had each other... and that was really all that either of them really wanted. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 24 ************** AFTERWARDS, TEN YEARS LATER Rowan and Boyle smiled as they sunned themselves after a brief swim and watched their wives and their children splash and play in the cool but refreshing waters of Lily Lake in Swanford. It was still early summer, and the shallow river waters had not yet warmed up very much, but they had been eager to leave Tellismere, and the requirements of duty, for a long summer of rest and relaxation. Swanford, still essential as a trade transit town between Crystal Lake and the still rebuilding eastern settlements of the Duchy, was one of the first villages to be rebuilt and already it was growing to become nearly the size of a small town. Rowan was already itching to get back to his rebuilt smithy and beat some metal into submission, while Boyle was quite equally content to take long rides, groom their horses, and dote upon his adoring wife and children. Already the Duchess had delivered three heirs to the Duchy, and a fourth was already now growing inside of her. Gwenda had already since bested her by bearing her fourth, and she also had another well on the way, soon to be born in Swanford, where the happy couples both spent their summers away from the court. Rowan and Gwenda were becoming increasingly uncomfortable with their roles as living legends and fixtures of the court, and had laid down the law to their Duchess that immediately, if not sooner, they planned to spend more time raising their growing brood of children in the green grasses of Swanford, rather than at the cobblestones and whispering walls of Tellismere castle. If Rowan had his way, he would indeed now completely live here once again at his own village home, and never again leave it. The duties of being the champion to the Duchess, indeed also quite the champion of the entire five duchies as well, made for a life of constant ceremony, and very, very little action. His sword had not been drawn in anger in over eight years now, that last time when dealing permanently with a rebellious baron incapable of seeing reason, and now Rowan doubted it would ever need to be drawn again, at least by him. And he couldn't be happier. He was still reluctant to talk of his deeds, to passing traveling gléamen or foreign skalds who yearned to hear the stories directly from the source, or harder still to the veterans that had fought under his command, that traveled to pay their respects to their reluctant commander, and to revisit the old battlefields. Just last fall and winter, a great series of memorials was held for each of the great battles of the war, the victories that Rowan had commanded, and the disastrous sieges where the towns and great cities had fallen one by one to the now already legendary boarman wizard, his dragon, and his mighty horde. The now fully grown man was often without words at what he should say, what heroic speech of remembrance he should give to the waiting veterans and citizens, eager to see and hear their hero once again. When suitable words failed him, he had Gwenda write him out a short speech that said all the right proper things and let the Duchess and her consort, the near equally famous Boyle, make the long political 'rah-rah' speeches. He hardly recognized the old battlefields anymore, even after just ten years. He had willed himself to forget so much of those hard terrible days, that when he did see the old sights again and shake the hands of old friends and companions, the old fears and depression fell back hard upon him once more, and for a full month after their return to Tellismere he felt lost again in gloominess until the cheerfulness and love of his wife and his adoring young children restored him again to the present, and away from the horrors of the past. ************* "You could have had it all you know." Boyle gently whispered to Rowan, who was lost once again in old thoughts as they lay resting upon the soft grass of the island. The same grass where a gay red and white striped pavilion had once stood, and nearly exactly where an old lover had met an untimely and terrible fate, changing everything in the lads' lives. "I know." Rowan sadly replied. "After the battle, after I had slain the boarman wizard and led the advance of the Everdun heavy infantry into the center of the battlefield to crush the horde, all four Dukes were kneeling before me on that bloody miserably cold and wet field of slaughter, offering me their homage... to become their chosen king. I had done what generations of feuding lords had not; bring the entire Southern Duchies together for a single great cause, and under the sword of a single man. The crown was there, offered to me for my taking... and I said 'No'. Three times. The Foole couldn't believe it and he spent the next week trying to talk me into accepting it, and he nearly succeeded, but Gwenda told me that I'd be miserable within a year, and I'd start to lop off annoying noble heads right and left. She was right... and I was indeed right to decline in the first place. I don't have the patience that you have, and you're really the Duke now of the Duchy in all actuality, ruling in your wife's name! I'm happier remaining the silent menace behind the ducal throne, to ward off any thoughts of treason. The duchies are still all free and independent, and we are all still slowly rebuilding from this dreadful war." "Aye, our children will still be rebuilding from this war too. Our cities and towns have too few remaining survivors and the rebuilding goes slowly. You remember how fast those chests of gold we took from the old Viscount's treasury were spent! More gold than Ayleth's miserly old father had ever dreamed about, and we spent it those first years like water. Even today, if it wasn't for the half of the rentals on those Corælyn estates that I share the revenues with the temple, we'd be broke and bankrupt long ago. Taxes won't pay for anything but a pitiful few guardsmen and repair work for decades still yet to come. I know our own barons are poor now as well and any further increase in taxes will only hurt the common people more. We're broke, and likely to stay that way for a very long time!" "I know." Rowan agreed. "The Dukes each gave me vast estates on their lands that I hardly ever get the chance to visit, and each year my stewards collect big chests of silver... which are all immediately spent upon rebuilding and paying for guardsmen and women to protect and hold these lands. While I have every penny I could need for our own wants, the coins flow out of our hands like sand through our fingers. Gone far too fast and soon... and never quite enough for the needs our people have!" "By the way," Boyle added, "I've noticed that you've reappointed Vainard Miller to be headsman again for the village. It seems that the war healed at least one old wound!" "It did really. The village kept reappointing me to be their headsman, but since I'm so seldom here nowadays, I really needed a good local man to watch over things. We had our differences in the past, before the war, but now he's a wiser man and watches over our friends here with a calm, reasoned manner. The old grievances between us were buried by the war. He's even a godfather to our youngest girl, and dotes upon Gwenda and our children as if they had been Cedany's. Often, I think the old man believes that Gwenda is really his daughter by birth, and not just by adoption-oath. Besides, Ayleth made me the Earl for this entire region, all the way from Haldyne east to Silana and Elmcrygh. That leaves us little enough time spent here, even when you or Ayleth aren't sending either of us off to one of the other duchies on a diplomatic mission. You know that I'm not good at that sort of thing!" "True, but the Lady Marchess Gwenda is. Besides, every single one of the Dukes still respects you, and you need to be regularly seen so that the younger generation of nobles knows of you and your deeds... and understands the importance of keeping the peace between us all. The sight of you with your sword is worth more than that dragon skull mounted in my great hall, or even a dozen of them! I know that I cannot hold you at the castle forever, but yet for some time still Ayleth needs you, and I need you. You are our strongest right arm, and maybe the only thing keeping our land, and perhaps even the other four duchies, in relative peace. Aldaria and Caestor both see the vulnerability in our weakness, and if not for your sword, either of them would have led their armies into the Duchies long ago. Still they spy on us for signs of further weakness! Our old friend Bryce commands the army well, but it is to you that every single soldier looks up to with honor and pride, and that our enemies fear!" "I love this village, my oldest friend, and it pains me more every time I have to leave it to return to the city or go on one of your damned useless trips. Already the Eorfleode war is turning into ancient history, at least in the lands where their boots never trod, and whose cities and towns they never sacked! We're by far now the weakest of the duchies, and I can feel the contempt of the younger nobles in every land that I visit. The other duchies lost a lot of their armed men defending us, and now the widows and orphans and young women without consorts still much resent us. This feeling of resentfulness will only grow, I fear! As new Dukes come in the near future, I'm afraid we shall receive even less respect and help than we get now. Already they begrudge giving us even the few coins that they send for our reconstruction and recovery, and instead of sending us new settlers for our many empty land holdings that still lie barren, instead we now receive their malcontents and even the criminals from their jails. Desperate men already to take to the iron-road in numbers that our few guardsmen cannot suppress. I'd grab old Loren back from his happy homestead and give him woodsmen and riders to hunt these growing bands of bandits down, but like me, I know he just wants to till his lands in peace and raise his children. Every day I think about asking Gwenda to let us to return to Swanford to stay, but I know that she can't quite bear to leave Ayleth alone to the mercies of all the schemers back at the castle. In peace their love-bond has become even greater than it ever was, and they are much pained whenever they are even briefly parted!" "That, but fortunately when the ladies share their bed together, us men can catch up on our rest and sleep, for the Duchess is still quite insatiable in her desires, and I'm not quite as young as I used to be! Gwenda has certainly not cooled a bit in her passions either!" "True. Even heavy with child the two lovers are yet playing in the water with their fingers fast into the others bare pierced cunts, and I believe once they have taken their pleasure with us tonight in bed, it will be in their own arms that they will find final relief and comfort. No, indeed I could not yet bear to separate the two, and I will abide with you in court yet awhile further, my friend, although every moment spent with any of those pandering noblemen galls me and makes my sword hand itch!" "Be of cheer my old friend, for it seems that our children are now being delivered to the care of their nannies, and from the way that our wives naked asses are swinging, I believe that they have amorous plans for us this fine afternoon, perhaps right here on this fine green grass on this good sunny day." Indeed, soon side by side, the two sets of lovers made passionate love upon the soft grass, and together in each other arms, the couples found happiness and satisfaction. Rowan quite shed the last of his gloomy thoughts as his dear lover Gwenda impaled her heavily pregnant ass upon his rampant cock as she slid deeply and smoothly inside of him. When pregnant, as she often was, she preferred anal sex, as often did her lover and friend Ayleth, and together in rhythm as they rode their husbands' hard and thick cocks, they leaned together to kiss and fondle each other's engorged breasts, while their lovers smiled and laughed at each other, content with the world. A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 25 & Epilogue ************ AFTERWARDS, ANOTHER FORTY YEARS LATER Rowan held his beloved wife Gwenda extra tightly in bed, for she had been quite ill of late with a winter flux in her lungs that just would not depart, despite the treatments of the local medicus and the village wise-woman together. Even old Ashburn's best trained pupil, Doran, now the master medicus of Tellismere castle had taken ship to tend to her, but none of his remedies seem to offer her any improvement. In addition, her old skull wound suffered at Orshold bothered her increasingly over the years with constant recurring headaches that only a day or sometimes two spent in bed, in darkness would soothe. Her twice wounded shoulder could now accurately predict the weather and tightened painfully in the cold. His own health, truth be told was not so good either, but he had tried to hide the worst of his aliments from his loving wife, so as not to trouble her. His heart was not so stout and strong, it seemed these cold and short winter days and he now tired easily and often, and he had been quite unable to bear the weight of the hammer in his smithy for very long lately. His own old war wounds were very painful and stiff these days also, particularly his old leg wound, that lamed up his leg so that a crutch or a cane was nearly always necessary now, even for a short walk. Their eldest son Coryn had been the master of the Swanford town forge for some years now, but Rowan, even at the ripe of age of seventy-four still tried to get up every morning and be useful in some small way. Their eldest son and daughter, true to Gwenda's oath to the dying ship's captain of The Lady Ellyn, had been named for that brave old man and his late wife, who had saved her life on that nearly totally forgotten battlefield of Ruromel. Coryn was a fine mature man with a good wife and a growing family of his own. He was much like Rowan in many ways, quiet and gentle, but with a stout heart when it was needed. He was quite as skilled a smith as his famous father, and his own eldest son had just donned his first apprentice apron to learn the family trade. He was also the headsman of the village, and did those duties well. Their eldest daughter Ellyn had married well to a good young nobleman of Broadmore, and together the young couple was trying their to match their mother's final brood of fourteen children. Each of the other twelve was now grown and had good lives of their own, mostly in other cities, and towns both in Tellismere and in other duchies, on many of Rowan and Gwenda's gifted lands. Two of Rowan's younger sons, and their second youngest daughter were each officers commanding companies in the small, pitifully maintained Duchy regiments that attempted to keep order in the many wilderness backwater regions of the land where still, even fifty years after the great war, many villages and towns had not been resettled, and most of the existing ones were still too weak to fend off the ever growing bands of bandits. Rowan and Gwenda had retired from court, for good, some years ago, but the couple still paid regular return visits there to see their dearest friends until Ayleth's sudden illness and death three years ago. Ayleth and Boyle's eldest son, Godfried, was now Duke, and to all signs was trying to be a good one, but the problems he now faced would have overwhelmed even his resolute parents. He already had a consort and a young heir, and once he was sure his son was settled onto the dragon throne, Boyle had retired to Swanford, and there he remained, rarely ever returning to the castle at Tellismere City. Shrouded in a perpetual fog of grief, he remained near his beloved's grave, where he spent much of his days, rain, snow or shine, until his own death less than a year later. His lungs had been slightly seared by the dragon-flame during his last famous cavalry charge, and they never entirely healed, leaving him with a constant rasping cough that only got worse over the years. When he passed, he was perhaps one of the very last and final victims of the great war, dying from those slow internal wounds at long last, but Rowan and Gwenda knew better. Their friend, acutely missing his heart-song, had quite lost his will to live without her. Rowan saw that his tomb was laid right next to hers, and he commissioned a carved white marble statue of the two lovers, depicted holding hands together, set above their grave. On every free-day since, they and their many grandchildren would picnic there on the grass of the island, under the carved smiling faces of their old and very dearest friends, and while the children played on the soft and thick green grass nearby, Rowan and Gwenda would somberly relate to their departed friends the latest news. It was usually bad these days. Despite his best valiant attempts, Duke Godfried was fighting a slowly losing battle against his truculent barons, a weakening economy, and ever growing bands of lawless men in the ever increasing number of wilderness places of the Duchy. Already Lloan Valley had declared itself to be an independent Duchy, and Godfried had far less than sufficient arms-men to force his will in even a fraction of the places that they needed to be sent to. Even the pay of the soldiers was often in arrears, as the Duke had empty tax chests, and little means to forcibly collect even the minimal taxes that were due to him. The lines on the maps that indicated where his authority ruled shrunk every year, and Rowan feared that by the time Godried's own son took the throne, the actual remaining Duchy of Tellismere would be little more than the area immediately surrounding Crystal Lake. If Tellismere was poor and fragmenting back into ill-populated wilderness, the other four Duchies, which had suffered little or no actual physical damage during the great war, also had problems of their own. Each had lost great numbers of soldiers, about a third each of their respective armies, and while the defeat of the Eorfleode had been popular with their people at the time, the expenses of the war, and the loss of so many soldiers, had put a tarnish to the immediate afterglow of victory. Resentment began to grow as local taxes increased, collected and provided for the rebuilding of Tellismere for many years, until the bitterness over providing even token such sums was too great even for the more charitable Dukes, like Kelvin of Broadmore. Upon his death, no further pence, let alone any gold marks, went to help Tellismere. Overall, in each of the duchies, growing malaise seemed to turn into stagnation, and trade never seemed to recover to the profitable pre-war levels anywhere. Broadmore and Drakland were at war, once again. This time probably for keeps. The treaty marriage, where Duke Kelvin's brother Roland had married Perola, the daughter of Duke Enos of Drakland had started auspiciously. The bride had been a fríþwebba, a peace-weaver to bind the two ever warring lands together in friendship, and no one could ever claim that she had not done her part, and with joy. Their marriage proved to be love-match, with the couple ever doting upon the other, but it was tragically doomed. Despite bearing three children, acknowledged heirs by all to the Duchy of Broadmore, each sickened and died in turn... in rather peculiar and often suspicious circumstances. When the couple themselves were drowned, when their ship sailing back from Drakland after a visit sunk, and in peculiar circumstances, the scramble for the throne of the Duchy began. Drakland naturally made their claim, based upon the old, pre-war genealogies, and the young Duke of Everdun, and even the Duke of Oswein had new semi-valid claims by blood of their own. In the heady, optimistic days after the great war, the nobles of the five Duchies had intermarried much, and suddenly the idea of turning the Southern Duchies into a kingdom was much less unthinkable than it had been. Each of the four Dukes now plotted how their own head could best fit this crown, and the forges everywhere now rang with steel being beaten into arms and armor. While the elderly hero Rowan was still hailed for his deeds during the war, the tarnish was growing to his reputation as well. More than a few gléamen and skalds were hinting in their songs and stories, that had Rowan accepted the crown, when it had been first offered, today the kingdom would be a happy and prosperous place. Rowan and Gwenda laughed at those tales, knowing them to be quite untrue... but still the legend of the 'golden age' that was lost, continued to spread, and more common folk, increasingly living lives of poverty and danger, began to believe that fairy tale story. Old veterans from the war at last no longer came to Swanford to pay their respects. Like Rowan and Gwenda, they were now old and often infirm, if they even still lived. Not a day hardly passed that some note arrived in the mail mentioning the death of an old friend, comrade or companion in arms. Gwenda would read to him the short messages, as his eyes were too weak for most writing these days, and she'd craft a short note of condolence back in return. In past years, especially in good traveling weather, or at the anniversary of the great final battle of Lacestone, throngs of old veterans would come and visit him with their families, as if on holiday, to pay their respects and to introduce their old commander to their children and grandchildren. To be honest, for many years Rowan found this visits an almost unwelcome distraction, as it made him recall those terrible months of the war that he had spent much of the rest of his life trying to forget. Still, as the years passed, he became more gracious about these visits, appreciating more the love that these old warriors still felt for their once young and inexperienced commander. *********** The ten year reunions, of which the fiftieth one had just recently passed but two weeks ago, were the hardest upon him still, he felt. Held at the old battlefield of Lacestone, the short journey for him wasn't hard or taxing... but the still overwhelming memories were. His job was to be seen, and to shake the once thousands, and now but a mere few score hands of the survivors. They would gather in formation and salute him, after which he would make a short speech of thanks and welcome. Everyone then would assume their old position in the battle-line, as if recreating the battle once more. The great dragon's head, borrowed from its display in the Duke's castle, would be displayed and everyone would cheer. Then everyone would drink, feast and tell their stories of the war to their families, friends, the townsmen and the thousands of visitors, and to the ever eager groups of gléamen, skalds and story-tellers, eager to hear these tales one last time from the lips of the survivors, trying to not notice when tears came to the old soldiers eyes when they spoke of the death of an old friend or companion. As the ale and wine flowed, the more the tears would flow. The war had been dreadful for everyone, and sometimes tales of honor and courage weren't an adequate replacement for their feelings of pain and loss, even long decades later. ********* War, or the rumors of war, seemed to be everywhere. Caestor, emboldened by the weakening of its old rival the Aldarian Blessed Sapphire Empire, constantly threatened Oswein, and all of its other neighbors, and its legions grew. Further to the east from Caestor, Helden and Acquila were locked into a deadlocked war of their own to the bitter end. The stories Rowan had heard were savage and barbaric, as each side, desperate for allies and any sort of tactical advantage, summoned Infernals to the land to fight for them... and with predictable results. The evil daemonic creatures, as always, worked for their own advantage, and now it was they, more so than the two human armies, that ruled that battlefield now. If he had been bit a bit younger, Rowan mused, he would have gone to that sad land to help repel the Infernals. What madness it was for any mortal to believe that those evil creatures would for even a moment serve them! *********** "My sword!" He croaked suddenly with a hoarse voice, not remembering that his weary and ill beloved was sleeping by his side. "It was hanging up in the smithy, but I didn't see it there today. "Gone, some years ago, my love." Gwenda whispered, and then coughed for a long while, as if she were unable to take a clear breath of air. "You gave it our daughter Cwengyth, our youngest. She had a dream in which she was told that she would need to be the next guardian of the sword. She took it with her on her consort-day, when she left home for his lands in the east. Don't you remember?" "I do now... I had forgotten. I hated that sword... hated what I had to do with it and the lives I had to take with it, both of men and boarmen. Sometimes I look at my hands and I still see only blood. I know! I did what I had to do! I submitted myself to the will of the Weavers and I became their instrument. In return, we have been gifted with a long and happy life, a multitude of children who all honor us, great wealth and even greater power and responsibility over the people of this troubled land... and I am not unthankful. Still, I would pray that I had never forged that Daemon-Horn blade, save that it brought me together with you, my heart-song, and together we saved something of our people, although I fear that when we are gone, the land may yet prove to be finally beyond all saving. Tell me, my love, was it really all worth it?" "Yes." She whispered, in a low voice that held the entire conviction of her heart. "We saved five lands from certain destruction, and our peoples. The Duchies survive and perhaps someday again they will prosper, but at least the lands are not ruins and the hosts of Boar-Men did not invade the other empires as well. The world will never be a perfect place, but by our examples others might yet fight someday when the odds become equally dismal, and all hope is nearly lost. I hear little of the news these days, but what I do hear saddens me. Bless the Foole and his schemes, for the date of the return of The Seven shall not come too soon!" "My love, already my heart is near broken by the meager news that I still hear, and I shall continue to spare your ears the most recent tiding, for your illness wearies you much, and I would keep your heart glad, if I could manage it!" "I was wrong to talk you into taking us to that last reunion." She whispered, and coughed again, awhile later. "I already had a cold and the rain and cold wind did my chest little good! I know you didn't want to go, but I made you... it was just one last final duty to those we owe respect and thanks to for their service. Still, I'm glad you put me right to bed, before the banquet feast was even over, for my chills were already paining me. Even now, with three good quilts upon the bed, I still do shiver!" "Speaking of the Foole and his schemes, did I tell you, that after I had put you to bed that night, while everyone else was still at the feasting, I limped over to the small goblin village, in the woods outside of Lacestone. Although their lives are shorter than ours, and none there still live that saw our deeds, their stories are passed to their young, faithfully, and even their youngest knows of us and our struggles during the war. Even still, I am as a savior to them and their people, those that follow the banner of the orange flame anyway. I am ever saddened that the peace between men and the púcel travelled little beyond our lands! They told me that the great tree of flame outside of Orshold still burns with my orange flame. Weaker perhaps, but still aglow." "I think it shall, my love, until after the end of our days." She whispered, holding her man tightly as she fought to take even slight breath. "There, amidst their own feasting, for their elders fought well and bravely that day as well, in the a corner of the taproom, I saw old Oddtus the Foole playing with a couple of púca children, telling them a story in their own language. I ducked into a dark corner to watch him, but I think he saw and recognized me when I left. He wore a different style and color of motley, and his name has changed, but nevertheless I know it was him. He hadn't aged a day, but from the sound of his voice to the small movements of his hand while he entertained, I knew it could only be him. I hadn't believed it when you talked of the seven Cisalo to me, before Ayleth passed, but I see now you were quite right in your guesses. I would have spoken with him, but I knew not what I should say to a God, or at least a godling, one of his separated seven parts, now trapped living on this world with mortals." "It really all did make perfect sense, and I should have figured it out years earlier." Gwenda murmured, in-between coughing fits. "Oddtus always did know far too much about the past, even for a Histrio, an acknowledged Lore-Master. The way he talked often of Gældra, the Goddess of Spirit and Magic, sister to his own acknowledged god, was with more love and tenderness than any normal gléaman would show. You could always see it in his eyes when he spoke of her. When he told us about her creation of the seven stones that would divide her power, for the first great wizards to bear in her name, it already made me wonder if Gléagerád, her brother and the wisest of the Gods, had helped her much in their creation? Later, I figured that he too, in turn, did craft his own set of stones to divide his power, so that he too could walk the earth. As the Cisalo, "the hands" of his god, he has walked the earth since the days of the dragon war, now freed from the restrictions of the Weavers to intervene in mortal events. Every old story he told us was true, as he himself had indeed been there." "So it was his own personal mistake that lead to the great oath-breaking, when men first became the Fex'oegh?" Rowan asked. "It was... which was why he was so delighted to see you repair that old schism. I do not think that any of the other gods walk among us, as Gléagerád and his sister undoubtedly kept the secret to themselves. This makes me believe more firmly that the return of the other Banished Gods might indeed come soon, and it is towards this secret task that our secretive semi-divine gléaman devotes himself. I would have enjoyed seeing or speaking with him after his healing of Ayleth, for he then promptly disappeared nearly immediately after her restoration, and never returned again." "He spoke that our role in events was over, and for that alone I am heartily glad." Rowan said. "The will of the Weavers is now upon others, and soon we will take our final rest." "Earlier, when I was dozing, I had an odd dream. I was in a dark cave, shivering with cold and fever, much as I do now. You were beside me, tending and caring for me... but you were different, as was I! We were enemies it seemed, but also we were lovers, tied together once more by the Weavers for something strange and terrible, and much more important than our own lives or happiness. I could not tell if our next life together will be short or long, or happy or sad... but together, my heart-song, we shall be, once again. We are fated, or perhaps even doomed, to find and eventually lose each other, again and again, so not only in the Shadowlands but again in life shall we meet again, my beloved, and perhaps again later still, until the days of the Weaving are over." "That is comforting to know, my love, for I feel that I shall not endure a moment beyond your passing. I do not think it is to be my lot to endure, to speak comforting words upon your grassy grave, and abide alone, like Boyle, for a short time lost in a half-life of shadow, beyond the comfort of friendly words or warm sunny skies. Let me hold you tightly, to warm you but a little with my own body, for I too sense that the shears draw near to us, and together with a single cut, they shall take us both. It shall be good in fact to embrace Boyle and Ayleth once more, and I think their touch in the Shadowlands will not be cold or ghostly, but warm and comforting, as they greet us at the gate." A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 25 & Epilogue "Already I think I can hear their laughing, my love." She wheezed, her breath barely more than a faint puff. "Hold my hand tighter, for I think I can feel myself slipping away to join them and I would have my beloved partner by my side. Our life was good, but the trials that remain must now fall to others, now comes the time that we rejoin all of our lost friends and join their play at the great feasting halls, that we might laugh and make merry without care until the Weavers set us upon us our next great task!" "Never shall we be parted my lover, not even for a moment! Rowan gently replied as he kissed his wife's lips and then her forehead and hair as she gently drifted off in to a gentle and increasingly deep sleep, with her weak efforts at breath slowing, as Rowan slumbered as well, holding her tightly in his arms, together, their hearts beating together in unison, but slowing and eventually failing. *********** Their eldest son found them that way still, early the next morning when his father did not arise as usual just before dawn to light the forge fires. Their bodies, like the forge, were cold, but the smiles on their faces warmed the sadness of their passing. Their joint tomb, already prepared in readiness next to their friends Boyle and Ayleth would remain a favorite picnic area for the villagers, as the deeds of the four heroes were faithfully told from generation to generation. Their stories of duty and honor lived on, told by countless gléamen in dozens of lands, and particularly by an especially sad Foole of indeterminate years wearing an old battered motley that he had once worn fifty years ago in the past, while also wearing another name. Here, on this sad winter's day, a man who once might have been called Gléager Oddtus stood over the dirt of their graves, by their headstone, and his tears flowed like the ale that he would later try to drown his sorrow in. "Rest, play and feast well, my old friends, for Weavers and my brothers shall have much need of you in the long years to come, but we shall never forget you and what you have done for us, to bring an end to the old age and to perhaps light the spark of better, happier days yet to come, may the Weaver make it so and thrice honor your sacrifices! Good lad, you could have indeed brought this land to a golden age, but in truth the burden would have indeed taken much of the joy from your heart, and driven you both to early graves, long before now. You are both my beloved gemæcca, your paired threads joined now and forever at their heart, bound to the Weaving forever. It is not farewell forever for us, for again our paths shall cross, but alas ye shall not know me again. Still, one day yet, if the gangewifre, the weaving of the web of the future, remains on path, your descendant shall indeed wear the crown of this land, and then shall much be made put right, to the glory of your memory!" The Godling, but a seventh of his formerly divine self, trapped upon this world to do the bidding of the Weavers, spread some more handfuls of grass seed upon the bare cold and wet soil, with a prayer to his absent banished brother, Yweorfan, the God of Cultivation and creator of the race of men, to bless the ground and to keep it forever lush and green. A place of joy and happiness forever, and not where an ill-summoned Daemon once slew scores and led a pair of young heroes to all-too briefly unite five duchies in its greatest time of need. With a final tear or two from his eyes to moisten the fallen seed, the Foole bowed his head in a final brief prayer of thanks. He would sing all of his wondrous tales of Rowan and Gwenda's goodness, and of the pains and trials that they suffered, until there would not be a single dry eye in the village tavern tonight, and for this once, would not accept a single coin in payment. On the morrow, he would have to travel west, to take a boat across Crystal Lake to take another ship and from there travel to Oswein. Cwengyth, Rowan and Gwenda's youngest daughter, might need his help to see that the Daemon-Horn blade made it in turn to its next wielder, her own daughter, and to bring several completely unexpected new heroes to their proper places, ready to perform their needed roles for the next part of the Foole's great plan. The young girl just might need some heroes to help save her, but fortunately the wise Foole knew just where such a young man, and a most unexpected young lass could be found! EPILOGUE The Matron Urðra frowned as she completed weaving her first panel of the new tapestry for this age. 'Still too fucking dark!' She muttered, mostly to herself, as she looked towards the new Crone for advice. "Certain it is!" The Crone Veránda muttered, in rather annoyed concurrence. "The last panel of the old age that I weaved, before I took the shears, was bright and held forth some cheer. Now, with your first weavings the world is again dark and sinister. Where is that nice bright double-thread that I just cut?" "Here now in my hand!" The Maiden Skúlda giggled with impatience. Now that that it as been returned to the tree of life, this thread will serve you well again indeed!" "I hope that it shall!" Urðra replied, to the Maiden. For if the weaving continues ill, it may be your turn once again at the loom before the Æðelings are returned to their divine duties. If it were not for the doings of the seven Cisalo, I fear that the weaving would be even blacker indeed!" "They have done their duties well." The Crone agreed. Already several of Gældra's seven lost necklace stones, with her divided powers, have been recovered, although they are not all are yet into the proper hands. While her restoration is not necessary for the return of the Æðelings, she will be needed before any final permanent barrier can be created between our world and the Infernals. What they have done to that once beautiful river valley is a mortal crime! The Dweorg, upon their return, are going to be pissed!" "And well they should be!" The Maiden simpered with annoyance and impatience. "Can't you resolve that particular mess? It is most offensive to me as well!" "Soon, I think, and I shall need that special thread for that task as well, but for now there another duty that must be done first, and I shall start to weave that now. All shall be well, in time... I hope!" "Hrrumph!" The Crone muttered between clinched teeth. She knew the Ymbwyrcan was in an especially delicate state, and she was less than convinced that a suitable outcome could be woven. In fact, the destruction of this particular tapestry, to being anew afresh with a new world, was ever more appearing to be the only suitable answer. So many mistakes had been made by Æðelings, she had to admit, but if the Infernals could be forever barred from this world, then there would be a chance. A slim one, but still nevertheless a chance! She had been cutting too many threads short these days with her shears, but that long delightful double-stranded thread, the gemæcca' the two lovers that were one with a single shared heart, indeed had possibilities for a fairer, brighter future! THE END