4 comments/  23363 views/  38 favorites

DarkFyre

By: FamiliarStranger86





DarkFyre Ch. 01



Her eyes slowly opened, brilliant green wide eyes the color of emeralds or the green, green grass that grew in the gardens during the all too brief months of spring and summer. They were slitted. Like a cats, people would always say. Even after all this time, she couldn't help roll her eyes when someone said that. It was so...cliché. Obvious.

Obvious or not, it was still pretty accurate. Like a cats, Silmaria's eyes were slitted, sure. They also saw incredibly well in the dark. The room was near pitch black; the candles had already burned down to nothing, and the fire in the tiny, pathetic excuse for a hearth in the corner of the room was out as well, leaving nothing but the barest remaining glow from the embers, and the very first rays of sun peeking meekly through the cracks of the room's stone slab walls.

Silmaria threw the threadbare cover off and sat up. She stretched, yes, catlike, arching her back and wriggling briefly, then glancing around the darkened room with clear seeing eyes. None of the other girls were awake yet. Good, she thought; most of them she couldn't stand to begin with, and the few she could would hog all the water. The young woman rose gracefully to her feet, silent and careful. She quickly threw on one of her plain scratchy woolen dresses, more for the sake of warmth than modesty, before gingerly stepping around and between and even over the other women sprawled in their pallets in the small servant's quarter. 

Quietly, Silmaria padded down the sleeping halls, the cold stone under her bare feet, causing the short, sleek hair of her pelt to raise all over her body. The halls at the back of the Manor were a maze, twisting and winding and leading to a multitude of servant's quarters, washrooms, storage cubbies, broom closets, larders, pantries, and other dusty and neglected nooks. But Silmaria knew the Manor well and could have found her way even without her night-eyes. She pushed a door open, wrinkled her nose at the screech of the old hinges, and stepped out into the only-just-barely dawning air outside. The cold rushed over her even more frigidly than in the empty halls inside. 

Wanting to spend as little time out in the cold as possible, Silmaria sprang to the small stone well to the left of the door and set to pumping water into a much used wooden bucket. It was hard work; this early in the morning and this close to winter the pump took an agonizingly long time to get the frigid water moving. The Gnari girl was persistent though, and working the pump kept the chill at bay. At last, her beat up old bucket was full. She hefted it carefully; in need of a washing or not, she had no desire to get drenched out here in the cold. A careful nudge pushed the door open, then closed once more.

Silmaria was almost feeling awake and in a halfway good mood as she rounded the corner to the corridor leading back to the washroom adjacent to her quarters.

"Sil, drop the pail and get your narrow ass in here," A familiar voice called just moments after she passed the main kitchen.

Silmaria blanched and for fleeting moment she considered walking on as if she'd heard nothing. But it would be pointless; Cook would only raise her voice and scream after her until the whole Manor was springing wide eyed from bed. Turning, she kept her bucket of water still clutched hopefully in her hand. 

She really didn't want to see Cook this morning. Sure, she would rather see Cook than just about anyone else in the Manor, but she didn't want to see anyone this early in the morning.

Cook stood in the door of the kitchen, her large, round form blocking most of the light from the kitchen fires crackling behind her. Cook had been working the kitchen at the Manor longer than Silmaria had been living. So long that most people half believed Cook really was her name. She had short, wiry brown hair gone gray, a plain face that scowled frequently but smiled well when someone made the old lass laugh, and an abundance of hip and bosom that made Silmaria's own, which were amply generous to anyone's appreciative eye, look like a girl barely in bloom. 

Cook's old apron was already heavily caked in flour from the first batch of bread she'd already sent into the oven, and a similar film of the white powder was splotched all the way up to the elbows of her heavy arms. Her hands were strong and worn from many a year of kitchen work, and presently planted on her hips as she absently tapped a big wooden ladle on the thigh of her dress, missing the apron completely.

"My ass isn't really all that narrow," Silmaria replied wryly. She silently hoped Cook would relent and leave her be even as she knew there was no chance. Her bath was slipping further away by the moment.

"I've enough backside for three of you!" Cook quipped. "In the kitchen! Now!"

Silmaria sighed. She knew it was useless to argue; Cook was as relentless a woman as ever lived and if she had her mind set on Silmaria helping in the kitchens, she wasn't likely to give the a girl a moment of peace until she complied. Which normally wouldn't have been a problem. Silmaria didn't mind helping Cook with kitchen duties; on the contrary, of all her duties and tasks and work at the Manor, kitchen duty was one of the most enjoyable to her.

Most any day she would have gone readily. Only...Silmaria had a well-known stubborn streak of her own. And it was too early for people to be ordering her about already. Even Cook. Especially Cook. 

And...her bath...

"But...my bath..." Even to Silmaria it sounded little more than a halfhearted, grumpy complaint. It was all she really had the energy for this early in the morning. 

"Bath nothing! Taleesha is abed with fever and Tomar was sent to the fields to help with the last of the harvest. There's no one else and I'm not about to feed this whole bloody house on my own. And you haven't had kitchen duty in longer than I can spit! Get your mangy hide in here!"

"My hide isn't mangy! Now move if you want my help. My ass may be narrow, but it's not going to get itself into your kitchen if yours keeps taking up all the doorway!" Silmaria snapped. She let her bucket drop to the floor ungently, sending water sloshing over the side to the stone floor. She stomped her way to the kitchen, taking some small satisfaction in her little protest. She would help, and she wouldn't complain about it. But if she were going to be separated from her bath to go sweat and labor in the kitchen all day, she damn sure wasn't going to act glad about it!

Cook just let out a cackle of laughter and walked back into the kitchen; the old woman was well used to Silmaria and her dispositions. The Gnari girl's moods were as bright and warm as summer's sun, and likewise as dark and frigid as a moonless winter night. Silmaria could be prickly at times true enough, and frequently guarded. But she never meant much harm by her grumblings and no matter what black mood might take her, she would work hard through them.

And work hard through her sulk she did. She pulled the first batch of bread from the oven and as Cook prepared a vast amount of porridge, Silmaria set to making a second batch of bread. She beat at the dough on her board with her fists, kneading it with energy and purpose, heedless of how much flour dusted her worn out dress. After the dough was set aside to rise she took a large joint of venison from the larder and skewered the meat upon a spit, then pushed it over the central fire to roast. This done, she helped Cook prepare small griddle cakes.

As it often did, Silmaria's bad mood lifted quickly. She and Cook worked together and she laughed at the older woman's crass jokes, her own wicked humor coming out as they worked over the cooking fires. The two made jests at each other's expense and laughed easily together. Cook was too old and had done too much living to have much in the way of shame or decency left. Silmaria, on the other hand, simply had too sharp and loose a tongue for her own good. With just the two of them there they could speak and laugh plainly without worrying about the judgment of the other servants, most of whom snatched at gossip the way the dogs snatched at kitchen scraps. Not that either of them cared overmuch what their fellows thought of them.

Still. The surly, sharp humored old cook was the closest thing that Silmaria had to a real friend.

Breakfast was a busy affair. The other servants and workers came to the kitchens in a rush of bustle and activity. Most of them simply grabbed up food and provisions and left, the field workers especially taking their meals and breaking their fast on the way. For a few moments the kitchen was crowded and full of the noise of stomping feet and yelled jests, friends and fellows exchanging goodmornings and how-do-you-dos. 

Cook was a bear of a woman during it all, roaring at this person and that. No, your venison is over there. The bread is not burnt, take it, there won't be more later. No you can't have seconds, I don't care if you missed supper last night, it's almost bleeding winter and I haven't got a bottomless pantry or an endless larder, thank-you-very-much. Hey, you, get out the sodding doorway!

Silmaria stood to the side, helping Cook as best she could and making as much of a point to not talk to the others as they made a point to not talk to her. Few people in the Manor spoke with her, and those few seemed to be elsewhere this morn. Those who acknowledged her at all did so with baleful stares and narrowed eyes. The women were especially bold with their stares, contempt and sometimes outright hostility naked in their gazes. 

Silmaria didn't flinch from the looks and in fact made it a point to meet them glare for glare. She was used to it by now; even in DarkFyre, the biggest city in the North, jewel of the Dale and the land's namesake, home to nearly every race and folk you could dream, Gnari were passing rare and mistrusted. 

The feline Demi-Humans were unnerving to many Humans. Gnari seemed a hybrid of Humans and some great hunting cat; though Human in shape in nearly every way, Gnari had the pronounced ears of a feline, twitchy and attuned to carefully listen for prey or threat. Where a Human's tailbone ended a long prehensile tail extended, giving them superior balance. Their graceful, slender fingers ended in small wickedly pointed hooked claws which could be extended and retracted much in the way any feline could. Their eyes, slitted and feline, gave them exceptional night vision, but simply struck most Humans as eerie and unnatural. Gnari's bodies were covered in a pelt of fur which ranged from short, sleek, and smooth to long and thick shags of hair. The coloring and patterning of a Gnari's fur was as unique and individual as a fingerprint.

Most Humans insisted that it was Gnari culture, so unlike their own, that made them so distrustful and uncomfortable of the catfolk. Silmaria found that hard to believe; she knew even less about her people's culture than most Humans did, and that had never stopped them from finding fault with her.

She got more sympathy from other Demi-Humans at least, but they numbered few. Though Dwarves and Elven folk, Halflings and even SkyRacers were more common than her people, Humans by far were the most predominant species in the Northlands. And in her experience, the most prejudice. 

Many races cohabitated the Dale, but Humans held the power. Most of the wealthiest merchants and most successful tradesmen were Human. Demi-Human land owners were almost unheard of. And, of course, Humans made up the Noble and Royal caste ruling the land. Demi-Human blood in a Noble was...well. Half breeds happened, certainly. But a Noble half breed wasn't even given the luxury of being an unacknowledged Bastard. Demi-Human blood was tainted blood in a Noble's case and any half breed child born of a Noble was promptly put down.

It was a bitter draught, one Silmaria still struggled at times to swallow. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. She was what she was, and there was no help for it nor changing it. She'd never been given a choice in the matter. In a house comprised mostly of Human servants and workmen, Silmaria was a pariah through no fault of her own. Many of the servants distrusted her and kept their distance. They tolerated her because they had no choice. The unfriendly looks had become worse though, more blatant and open now that Master Edwin was gone. His watchful eye and stern hand was gone, leaving tongues to wag more freely than in the past.

"Sil?" Cook clapped her hands in front of the girl's face and a small puff of flour rose. Silmaria started guiltily and blinked her vivid green eyes at the robust woman. She swallowed down the complex whirl of emotions. Humans. If nothing else, they were never simple.

"Sorry, I was miles away," Silmaria apologized. Breakfast finished, their work was still not done; kitchen work was an all-day affair, and they were already working on the midday meal. Cook was preparing meat pies, stuffed with lambs meat, potatoes, carrots and shallots. Silmaria was rolling out sheets of dough to form the crusts of the pies, and had lost herself in thought while working.

"All the attention getting you down?" Cook asked as she diced the carrots on an ancient and much notched cutting board.

"Hardly," Silmaria returned, rolling her eyes. "I really don't give two shits what they think of me. Most of them are too spineless to say anything to my face anyway, and it's not as if looks can kill."

Cook chuckled and tossed a smirk her way. "Good thing, too, or you'd be buried out in the east gardens."

"Hah! Not likely. They'd probably say my corpse would poison the roses," Silmaria returned with a half-hearted scowl.

"Don't let that sour lot bother you, Sil. Not worth your troubles," Cook said as she started in on the parsnips.

"No, they're not. And they don't. So drop it," Silmaria replied firmly.

"Hmph. Maybe they're right about you, anyhow. Huffy little wench."

"I haven't even started huffing yet," Silmaria shot back in something very much like a huff.

"Bitch."

"Whore."

"Now there's the pot calling the kettle black!" Cook laughed, and gave that smile that made her not-quite-so-plain. "If you'd keep those legs of yours shut once in awhile the lasses around here wouldn't give you such a time, you know!"

Silmaria finished rolling out the pie crusts and turned to face Cook, grinning despite herself and resting the flour dusted roller on one curving hip. "Aw, what's wrong, Cookie? Is that a bit of jealousy I hear?"

"Please," Cook snorted. "When I was your age I had the lads lined up so thick the guards told them to move along for ruining city commerce."

"No doubt. Yet somehow, I don't think you got nearly as much grief for it," Silmaria replied, her voice gone melancholy as her playfulness fled. She picked up the sliced carrots and put them in the pies. 

"That's because I didn't go breaking the species barrier," Cook said gently. She held up her hands, one still clutching her knife, before Silmaria could speak. "I'm not sayin' there's anything wrong with it, Sil. You know I don't give a spit whether you bed a Human or a Dwarf or a donkey. It's your business, not mine, and no one else's besides. But you know most the sods around here have small minds and big mouths."

"So I'm supposed to keep myself to myself, say yes sir and no ma'am and mind my manners. I guess I should be seen and not heard and never touch anyone that isn't 'my kind' and all the other nonsense then, hmm? Sounds like a wonderful life to me," Silmaria tried to keep a tone of sarcastic flippancy in her voice to disguise the bitterness, and failed spectacularly.

"No, lass. I'd never want you to be anything but what you are. Just remember, the bolder you are, the harder they'll make it on you."

Silmaria shrugged one graceful shoulder and wiped the sweat from her brow. "Life's hard. You get used to it."

"Hard and harder every day," Cook nodded, and for a time the pair lapsed into silence as they worked.

The midday meal came and went. Cook was used to working with two hands to assist her, so the women had to work without break or pause throughout the day to keep up with the demands of the kitchen. Silmaria didn't mind; the work served to keep her mind off the unpleasantness permeating the Manor of late, and she preferred Cook's company and conversation over most.

Dinner arrived. Cook divvied out a thin stew of potatoes and chicken fat over the trenchers of crumbled or burnt bread Silmaria handed her, letting the stew soak into the bread. The field hands came trudging in. The lot of them were dirty and tired and caked to the elbow in mud, but even the most listless of them stomped his boots heavily before coming into the kitchen. Cook was fearsome with her threats when it came to keeping mud out of her kitchen, brandishing the sharpness of her tongue as readily as the sharpness of her knives.

As the Gnari girl handed out the last of the rations Cook wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head slowly. "Harvest's bad this year. Worse than it oughta be."

"How'd you figure that?" Silmaria asked. She leaned against one of the counters and wiggled her feet to relief the ache in them. She'd never even gotten a chance to retrieve her shoes or slippers. Cook would've never let her regular help get away with being barefoot in the kitchens. The hard stones underfoot made her feet and calves ache after so many hours on her feet, but at least they were pleasantly warmed by the big cooking fires.

"You can see it in the men's faces," Cook explained, her face pinched. "Gloom over every one of them. Not the faces of men who've brought home food for a well fed winter."

"Mm," Silmaria muttered, and her tail flicked restlessly. "It's already getting miserably cold, and winter's not even really here yet. Our stores are lower than they should be. A bad harvest on top...it'll be a long, lean winter. Too lean. And all of us leaner already. Even you."

"Brat," Cook muttered with a smirk.

"Master Edwin wouldn't stand for it."

"No, he wouldn't," Cook said, her voice as solemn as it ever got.

"Steward Jonor is making a right mess of all of it," Silmaria scowled angrily and her ears flattened to the top of her head.

"Be quiet, fool of a girl!" Cook hissed, quickly glancing about the kitchen and the halls just outside, but already the workers and servants had either finished their supper or taken it away with them, and only the two of them remained.

"Why ought I?" Silmaria protested, crossing her arms stubbornly under her breasts. She had that wild look in her slitted eyes that Cook knew meant she was stewing for a fight. "What will he do? Cut my rations? Double my work assignments? Make me work the fields? Stop providing clothes, or blankets, or anything else I have need of to be warm and comfortable and content? Too late for any of that."

Cook shook her head and let out the sigh of the long-suffering. "Don't be stupid, Sil. Things can get worse. Much worse. We're not in chains yet. We're not being beaten or confined to quarters. We're not working until our backs break, though I'll be damned if mine doesn't feel like it's about to sometimes...the point is, our lot can always get worse. Jonor is the worst kind of man we could hope for right now; he's a nobody like the rest of us, and he's been given the authority of a Noble. He's got no real power, but he's got all the power. Until the young Sir comes back, Steward Jonor's got the run o' this place, and all of us with it."

"If he comes back, you mean," Silmaria interjected bitterly.

"He will. And in the meantime, you'd be smart not to tempt the Steward to flex his new authority," Cook went on, "He's already making life harder on us than he has to. Give him a reason, any reason at all, and he'll make it straight up hell, mark my words."




DarkFyre Ch. 01



Silmaria knew Cook was right; even with spending most of her time tucked away in the kitchen, the old woman was shrewd and full of experience. But Silmaria was too willful and proud, and angry to admit it. Instead she simply said, "Lord Edwin would have Jonor's guts for garters. If his son were any sort of man, he would, too."

"That's enough lip for one day, missy," Cook said firmly. She made a clouting motion with one solid fist, which Silmaria slipped away from with hardly a thought. "The ovens gave you heat exhaustion for your tongue to be so bold. That, or your head is fuller of rocks than I thought! Go to bed and don't talk no more nonsense on the way. You'll have us all in gibbets, I swear!"

"Love you too, Cookie," Silmaria laughed at her friend's scolding. She lunged in and gave the large woman a hug, then ducked and spun away as Cook half-heartedly swatted at her again. The Gnari girl grabbed up a leftover heel of bread, shoved it into her mouth, and wished the cook a mumbled good evening before slipping away from the kitchens.

It bordered on ridiculous that Cook of all people should lecture her on being too outspoken; the woman was as blunt and subtle as a hammer between the eyes. Silmaria often imagined that Cook saw too much of her own brash, outspoken ways in her, thus prompting the outbursts of reasonable advise. Silmaria smiled at the thought as she chewed her pilfered bit of bread. Cook's advice was sound and reasonable, she knew. She also knew that she would no more follow it than Cook herself. 

Cook was doing a better job of biting her tongue, but Silmaria knew the woman felt the same way. Everyone did, she was certain, even if no one had the courage to admit to it. Jonor was a fool, a craven, a leech, and a bully beside. The Manor's deterioration since Jonor came into control of the estate was appalling. Silmaria did not even understand how the little man had undone so much good and prosperity in a matter of months. He'd neglected the upkeep of the noble house, ground the servants under heel, and jealously coveted every bit of wealth and power he could get his hands on.

Even as he began to take ill, Master Edwin had seen that his home and his servants were in proper order. He had been a wise man, and kind in a curt, no-nonsense sort of way. He had a nobility and proudness of bearing that made his servants and serfs proud to serve him, and Silmaria had been no exception. The Lord had always been fair, and seemed to have genuine care for the lot of his servants, a passing rare trait in a Nobleman. He would never have stood for the neglect to his house, the sullying of his family's name, the squandering of his hard earned wealth and the mistreatment of the servants that worked so hard in his name.

And then there was the son. Silmaria had nothing but contempt for her Lord's successor and heir. Five months gone since Lord Edwin's death and his son had yet to make any sort of appearance at his holdings. Oh, many argued, the young Lord was busy away at battle. He was occupied with the war effort. Silmaria didn't care. Yes, the war was important, fine and sure. But she didn't see how the man could possibly leave his father's house unattended for so long. It smacked of the behavior of an irresponsible and uncaring boy to her, that he could leave his inheritance to crumble to nothing and the people who had served his line faithfully to suffer under a would-be tyrant. The son was little more than a shadow of the father, as far as Silmaria was concerned.

The Gnari woman stopped midstride, standing in the hall, clenching her jaw tight. Her tail lashed the air behind her in agitation as she struggled to swallow her feelings. Sadness, anger, and despair welled up from deep inside, bubbling and seething and ugly. For a moment they rushed up, overwhelming, trying so desperately to get out. Silmaria fought them down, swallowed them, beat them back and buried them deep once more. With a shaky breath she began walking once more, willing her claws back into their sheaths as she clenched her small hands into fists. 

Deciding she wasn't going to be getting any rest while in such a black mood, Silmaria turned down a turn in the corridor and padded off with purpose in her stride. Though it had only been full dark an hour the Manor halls were empty, for which she was grateful. Light radiated gently from the candles glowing behind wall sconces of glass as she made her way to the servant's entrance to the gardens at the back of the Manor. She went to the same well she visited this morning and once more vigorously worked the pump until her bucket was full, breath puffing in steamy clouds in the silvery light of a half moon.

Silmaria had been willing to clean up in freezing well water this morning, but after a full day spent sweating in the kitchen she was having none of it. She slipped into the kitchen on her way back down the halls to find it empty and Cook already retired for the night. Silmaria was in luck; the cooking fires had burned down to little more than heated embers, just hot enough to warm the water without catching her wooden bucket afire. She hung the bucket by its handle on the hook arm they used to hold the heavy kettles up over the cook fires, and swung it over one of the slowly dying kitchen fires. 

While she waited for the water to heat, the Gnari woman sat on the still warm stones before the fire. She let out a long sigh as she willed herself to relax, then had a long, luxurious stretch before curling up with her legs tucked under her dress while she laid on her side. Her dancing slitted eyes gazed into the orange glow of the embers in the firepit, letting her thoughts fall away as the fire held her half mesmerized. She could almost feel herself sway to the subtle, undulating dance of the flame. Fire fascinated her, and frightened her. And she had ever been pulled to its warmth. Her lips twitched into a smile as she considered what she must look like, curled into a neat little ball before the fire, her tail lazily flicking behind her with a sleepy will of its own. She'd always hated when Humans compared her to some common housecat...but for all her protests, her folk clearly did hold some common thread with felines of all kinds, and some habits were simply too firmly compelling a part of who and what she was.

Damned if she'd ever admit it, though.

Satisfied that the water was warm enough, she grabbed up a thick woolen cloth and pulled the hook off the flames. She kept the cloth in her hands to grab the bucket and hauled it out the kitchen. After the kitchen's warmth, the smooth stones underfoot in the halls were cruelly cold. She stopped suddenly, her keen ears twitching atop her head as she made out the muffled sound of conversation. A few more steps carried her to a bisecting hallway, and she saw two shadows dancing in the candle light cast from the wall sconce down the hall to her left. In no mood to be spotted, Silmaria slinked forward on sure, light feet past the intersecting halls. Carefully silent and avoiding spilling the water in her bucket, the girl made her way to the washroom and closed the door behind her, praying all the while the hinges wouldn't squeak and draw some passerby. The door was mercifully silent.

The wash room was small and cramped, little more than a cell with a rack with much used rags hanging to dry and be reused and a shelf with a basin for washing. There was a dinged, smudged, dirty brass mirror hanging on the wall above the basin, a rare courtesy extended to the house's women. It was past its prime and in bad need of replacement, but Silmaria could still see her reflection in it, sort of, and so it was one of the few luxuries the servant had left. The water was just hot enough to put off a bit of steam when she poured it from the bucket to the basin. She slipped back out into the hall just long enough to swipe a candle from a nearby wall sconce, and set it in the candle holder inside the washroom. The lone candle was plenty enough light for her sensitive night eyes to see by. She slipped out of her dress and hung it on a peg set in the wall.

"Sweet mercy," Silmaria groaned aloud as she dipped her hands and forearms into the warm basin water. "If I'd just gotten to do this in the first place, it would have been a much finer day all around. Damn you, Cook."

The Gnari woman snatched the cleanest looking rag from the rack and wet it thoroughly, then grabbed a grubby sliver of hard soap from beside the basin and began to wash. She took her time, thoroughly working over each part of her body, scrubbing suds into her short pelt. She washed until she had the smell of sweat and cooking fire scoured away, then rinsed, and then because the water hadn't gone to ice yet, she even washed her hair. It was a peasant's bath, a standing scrub down at a basin with water that was just over lukewarm at best. Silmaria didn't care; after a day's labor, it felt divine.

After washing, Silmaria took one of the woolen clothes hanging from a peg. She stared at it dubiously for a moment, feeling certain that it would leave her dirtier than she was after the bath, if not before. But she would have to dry her hair, not to mention her fur, or she'd freeze solid during the night. 

As she toweled herself dry slowly and thoroughly, Silmaria stared at herself in the mirror. She was not in the habit of reflecting on her appearance. Maybe it was tonight's melancholy, but she found herself in an odd enough frame of mind to really linger and watch herself.

She was a fair woman, she knew. She could admit that without vanity. She was short of stature, with most Human men standing at least a head taller than her. Her wide eyes were a striking, rich emerald, made all the more eye-catching by her exotic feline pupils. Her nose small and cutely rounded at the end. Her face was delicate and heart shaped, with softly defined cheeks and full, pouting lips with her upper lip forming a neat, graceful cupids bow. 

Silmaria's hair was thick and heavy, a mass of dark tumbling curls that tended to fall in dense coils of black silk across one side of her face if she left it unbound. It hung in waves and curls, spilling down to the just above the small of her back. Where it should have appeared unkempt and messy and tangled, Silmaria's hair looked untamed, wild, and sensually alluring, even more notable with the two delicate furred ears emerging from the lush swirl of curls.

The Gnari girl's pelt was striking to say the least. Her fur was short, sleek and smooth, the texture like velvet to the touch. Its pattern was much like that of a wild tiger, mostly bright shades of orange with a patterning of white in places along her belly and the underside of her arms and the insides of her thighs. Deep shades of black striped her body along her flanks and back and breasts, and cut diagonal along her cheeks, giving her face a severity and ferocity that was disarming.

As her eyes slid along the mirror's reflection, Silmaria let her hand follow her eye's path. Her people were fit, svelte, graceful creatures, built for physical activity and sensuality, and she was no exception. Though short in stature, her limbs were long and lean, supplely made and strong. Her belly was flat and taut, and her legs were powerful, made for leaping and springing and running, smooth and soft to the touch and firmly muscled.

Her hips had the shapely rounding of a woman who would breed well. Her breasts were generously heavy and alluring, perfect twin teardrops still firm with youth and well made, with dusky pink nipples stiff and thick from the cool air. Despite Cook's insistence of narrowness, her ass was deliciously generous and rounded, firm and inviting to the touch and softly, smoothly muscled much as her thighs were. Her tail began just above the crack of her ass, extending down in orange and black stripes all the way to just above her ankles, and though it seemed to unnerve Humans to no end, most times Silmaria hardly noticed it more than she would the nose on her face.

Hands following eyes, Silmaria cupped one generously rounded breast, feeling the warmth and weight in her palm. She shivered softly, thumb and forefinger knowingly finding the thick, aching nub of her nipple and giving it a firm pinch. She bit back a gasp as pleasure exploded through her body, a direct line racing from her pink nipple, down her flat, taut belly, directly into her pussy. Her eyes staring at her reflection, smudged and warped in the brass mirror, flickering in the weak candle light, as mesmerizing as the flames in the kitchen fire had been. She pinched her nipple again, harder this time, and fire burned in her veins as the slight edge of stinging pain only served to stoke her arousal higher. Her fingers slinked slowly down, brushing over her smooth pelt where it paled on her white stomach.

With an abruptness that left her literally shaking, the Stirring came over her. It was beyond a want, beyond an ache. Her cunt burned. She throbbed intensely in time with the beating of her pulse. The desperate, maddening hunger was like a hole in her heart, a need to be filled and fucked until she felt some semblance of normalcy again. Every time the Stirring overtook her it was like a slap in the face, sudden and sharp and impossible to ignore. And it only grew worse as the years went by. She dreaded to think how it would be when she came into her prime.

Silmaria's fingers unerringly found her cunt. Her palm cupped her mound, soft and pillowy and supplely thick. Her fingers toyed with her outer lips, the same short, velvety smooth pelt of fur there. Her inner folds were pink and thick and slick already with her arousal. The Gnari girl bit her full lower lip as she stroked her slit, her fingers gliding along her swollen, slippery folds. Her sex ached from last night still. Only a night ago...the memories were vivid and heady. Hands gripping her graceful hips. The fullness inside her, her sex split and stretched. The thrusts from behind becoming more and more urgent as he grunted into her ear and she eagerly pushed back into him, gyrating her ass desperately, taking him deeper and deeper still...

Silmaria was practically panting now. She was so very hot. Her sticky pussy juice was flowing, dripping from her and coating her fingers as she ran them up and down her slit. She wetted her lips with her tongue and gasped as she ran her fingers over the hard swell of her clit, rubbing the aching bundle of nerves in slow, tight circles. She leaned against the wall, the stone cool against her bare back. The young servant was trembling and her core throbbed, milking at nothing in her desperate hunger. Her free hand toyed with the aching tips of her breasts and she once again pinched and pulled at her nipples, the intensity of her firm, aggressive touch so good, so very good, but oh, if only it were someone else's, a man with rough and capable and cruel hands who would grip her flesh tight as he took her...

The Gnari bit her full lower lip, groaning out her pleasure. She then tensed suddenly her body going still and her soft ears perked attentively as she heard the murmur of conversation and the scuff of soft footfalls coming down the hall.

Driven more by surprise than shame Silmaria almost panicked, yanking her fingers from the warmth of her loins and reaching for her dress. Then she calmed and a curious sort of anticipating crept over her. She thought about the possibilities. The two men making their way down the hall would likely be more than glad to provide some relief from the overwhelming ache Silmaria was feeling tonight...though she normally tried her best to practice some measure of selectiveness and discretion in her night encounters, sometimes the Stirring was simply too intense, too difficult to bear, and she became all too willing and desperate...

But as quickly as her hopes blossomed, they crumbled. It was, in fact, not two men, but a man and a woman. Not that that was a deterrent, per-se...but this particular woman happened to be Margle, a vehemently devout follower of the Highest Holy, the pure and chaste god followed by virgins and frightened maids and old spinsters who had no taste of wine or adventure or sex and certainly not any combination of the three. 

Margle was one of the most outspoken champions of bigotry and hypocritical judgment Silmaria knew, in addition to being a liar and having an unreasonable conviction that Silmaria was trying desperately to sleep with her husband. Even though she was half tempted to do so just to spite the old bitch, Silmaria wouldn't fuck the man based on one simple point. At some point, likely long ago when he was a much less miserable, down beaten sod than he was today, Margle's husband had probably actually fucked Margle.

That was enough to keep her away, even in her most extreme of needs.

By the time the voices faded and the pair was cleared away from the hall Silmaria's arousal fled, gone as suddenly as it had come. It wouldn't be long before it began again, she knew, but for now her mood was so soured that the burning need was gone. She quickly shimmied back into her dress, dumped the now dirty basin water into her bucket, and put it at the door to be taken out in the morning. After blowing out the candle, she quietly slipped across the hall and into the quarters she shared with some of the other servant women.

The girls were already abed by the time she slipped in and the candles snubbed out. Bodies were rolled under thin, tattered blankets in their bed rolls and flat, uncomfortable pallets. None of them had wondered at her absence, though tonight it wasn't for the reasons they likely assumed. 

Stepping lightly over her room mates, Silmaria found her pallet and sank down onto it. Upon discovering her blanket had been stolen again, she heaved a quiet sigh, drew her legs up under her dress, and huddled into herself for warmth. Cold was already seeping through the cracks in the great stone walls and the floor was so frigid the chill was radiating up straight through her pallet.

It hit her all of a sudden like a fist in her gut; this was her life. Living in service to a man she hated for his thoughtless neglect and greed, who was himself nothing but a stand in for another man she lived in service to, whom she hated for not being there in the first place. Every day her rations grew slimmer and her work grew longer, and for naught. The only home she'd ever really known wasn't even her home at all, but someone else's. The most decent, honorable, good hearted man she'd ever known was gone, dead before his time. She lived surrounded by people who hated her, or at best treated her like a stranger to be avoided like a contagion. Her only comfort in life was to share a bed or a stolen moment of pleasure with men she had no interest in beyond the attention her wretchedly out of control libido demanded. And that attention was the very reason her roommates would rather spit on her than say a word to her.

And now, someone had stolen her blanket, again, just because she had stupidly taken a few moments to wash up.

On another night she would have jumped on every one of them, spitting fire and curses until someone gave her blanket back, consequences be damned. But tonight, right now...

Silmaria was tired.

So tired.

***

Alright, so this is just scraping the tip of the sexual iceberg to come. As you read forward some of you will be all like 'Hey, there's too much sex in this otherwise very plot driven story, my boner is distracting me from the quality of the plot! Less sex, more story!" And others will be all like, "Hey, there's too much story in this otherwise super hot smutfest, it's killing my boner! Less story, more smutfest!" Yeah, I know. 'Know your audience' and all that...but in this case, my audience is me. 

I like creative and well written plots. I also like gratuitous and overdone sex. If you can get your peanut butter in your chocolate and your chocolate in your peanut butter and it's awesome, then I can get my plot driven story liberally laced with my gratuitous sex and it's awesome too. My hope is, if you lean one way or the other, you'll be so enthralled with the bits you like, you'll return for more. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find the bits you like less of high enough quality to appreciate it a bit more by the time this is all through.




DarkFyre Ch. 01



/Endrant.

As always, send feedback/hatemail/precious words of encouragement.

More to come soon!



DarkFyre Ch. 02



"If ye can spare a moment, Milord, I'm ready to report."

Rael looked up from a map covering the huge pinewood table in his tent. A variety of similar maps and charts were arrayed on the table and rolled into tubes propped against the desk. There were writing supplies and a sheaf of fresh paper at the Knight Captain's elbow. 

StoneFingers was standing at the flap of Rael's tent. The Dwarf looked like many of his brothers; short and stout, built like an anvil and twice as hard, with a short, wispy beard that was more chestnut than gray, for now. He had thick, stubby fingers that fit his name quite well, perfectly suited to swinging a hammer in a forge or gripping the heft of a battle axe.

Which left most people surprised when they discovered the physician's hands were far more familiar with blades designed for surgical medicine than ones made for killing. 

"Have a seat," Rael motioned to a wicker chair on the other side of his table.

StoneFingers settled awkwardly into the chair, too short and too broad to sit the chair comfortably. He reached up with one heavy hand to adjust the thick lensed bifocals perched on the great knob of his nose.

Rael's silvery gaze took the Dwarven physician in critically for a long moment. "Have you eaten today?" 

StoneFingers gave a noncommittal grunt. 

Rael shook his head and smiled wryly to himself as he rose and walked across the tent to a small stand beside his cot. A decanter of poorly spiced wine, a pair of dented tin cups, and a platter of food sat atop it. Pears and aged grapes, small roasted potatoes and white onions, and some thick slices of salted pork sat on the platter. None of the food was particularly fresh or well flavored, but it was better than most camp provisions these days. Rael poured a cup full of wine and grabbed some of the pork, and set them on the table in front of StoneFingers. The Dwarf gave the Captain a look but offered no argument.

Rael returned to his chair, folded his hands together, and waited patiently as StoneFingers ate his meal.

The Dwarf wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Rael had known the Doctor long enough to know it pained him to do so, but napkins and kerchiefs weren't a high priority at the war front. 

"Seven dead, thirteen wounded," StoneFingers said at last. "One Knight, Sir Boras passed. Three Knights, Sir Wilhelm, Sir Jorin, and Sir Kor are wounded. Sir Wilhelm took an axe to the chest. Already got a fever that'd lay a hale man low. I don't think he'll be makin' it. Jorin's ribs been shattered by a war hammer. Lucky one, that lad. His lungs be fine. Sir Kor lost his left arm. Cleaned and cauterized the wound best I can, but there be no way of tellin' if rot'll set in or not. Might be he recovers, and he's still got his sword arm, but he'll never be the same Knight again. Rest of our dead and wounded were foot soldiers. I'll have their names on yer desk on the morn."

"Well done, StoneFingers. I'll arrange for word to be sent to the families of the deceased, and burial arrangements made according to the men's stations and beliefs. Tell the wounded I will make rounds to see them shortly," Rael nodded. He took the news stoically, which was not to say that he took it without pain or grief. On the contrary, the deaths made his chest tight with emotion, and he had to force calm words past the lump in his throat. But war was a long suffering thing, and this one more than most. Men died every day. Good, true men. And more would die tomorrow, and more still if he didn't keep his wits and a head clear for command. A leader didn't have the luxury of dwelling on loss. 

"There's more, Milord," StoneFingers said in a heavy tone. The Dwarf's face, which had always been dour and rough, was especially care-lined and weary tonight. "Arthas fell, Milord." 

"I know," Rael said, and even to his ears, his voice was hollow and hard. The surge of emotion was harder to quell, now. Arthas had been a good lad, loyal and hardworking and earnest. He'd held his position as squire to the Knight Captain with utmost seriousness. He had been a fast learner and knew his Lord and his habits well. The boy had also been enthusiastically and single-mindedly working on his swordsmanship and other martial disciplines, and though he would never be more than the son of a minor noble with hardly a spit of land to his name, Rael had no doubt that one day his squire would make a fine warrior in his own right.

And now he was dead.

The Dwarven Physician reached down beside his chair. Rael hadn't noticed when he entered, but the Physician had carried something in with him. He placed a single arrow quietly on Rael's desk and sat back in the uncomfortable wicker chair, waiting.

Rael took up the arrow, held it before him, studied it. The arrow was uniquely made, a slender black shaft and a fine head of steel. The arrow head was so wickedly barbed that if the initial shot itself didn't kill its target, attempting to remove the head would rip so much flesh away that death would be a mercy. Feathers of a vivid azure blue fletched the arrow and strange runes were scrawled along the obsidian shaft. It was like nothing the Captain had ever seen before.

"What do you make of it?" Rael mused as he turned the arrow slowly in his hand, feeling the weight of it.

"Ain't no Haruke arrow or I'm a Hill Giant's youngling," StoneFingers replied.

Rael had known that immediately. Haruke preferred engaging their enemy in melee, face to face with their foes, but what bowmen they had were skilled archers. Their arrows tended to be on the thick side, driven by powerful bows crafted from the trees of the GhostWood to the west of the Johake grasslands. The arrows were a rich red; common rumor held each of their arrows were painted with the blood of their enemies. Most Haruke arrows either had a sharpened wood point or at most a simple iron head. As far different from the arrow in his hand as could be.

"It was meant for me," Rael said at last, shaking his head slowly with a grim set to his jaw. "Arthas...fool boy. He shouldn't have been there. He'd begged me, time and again, to join the battle. And like always, I said no. But there he was, flinging himself in front of me and taking the arrow. He shouldn't have been there."

"Didn't see the archer, eh?" StoneFingers asked, and adjusted his bifocals.

"No."

"Well. Yer lucky the boy was there. Arrow would have killed ye, even if ye'd bothered to wear plate. Near tore through the boy. Only stopped because it lodged in his spine. More besides...somethin's fowl 'bout that arrow. The wound was near putrid with decay. Yet the body was...I can't explain it. But the boy's body seemed almost to be growin' 'round the arrow, even as it decayed inside. Like the lad's body was tryin' to trap the arrow and its rot inside so there was no way it could be stopped or healed. Wasn't no poison. Some kind o'..."

"Magic," Rael finished for him, one thick finger tracing over the strangely scrawling runes along the arrows shaft.

"And a kind I've never seen a'fore."

"Nor I," Rael leaned back in his chair and passed a hand over his face. "What are your thoughts?"

"My thoughts is, I'm no mage," StoneFingers grumbled. "But fer certain whatever this magic is, it's somethin' dark and unnatural."

Rael placed the arrow down on his desk quietly and met the Dwarf healer's eyes with his intense, gleaming gaze. "StoneFingers...did Morell see this?"

"No, MiLord," the physician replied.

"And no one else has been told?"

"No, MiLord," StoneFingers repeated.

"Good. It would best for it to stay that way. Understand?" Rael said softly.

"Aye, MiLord. I follow." 

"Very good," Rael nodded. The Knight Captain leaned back in his seat. "Thank you for your report, and your discretion. That will be all."

Later Rael sat on the edge of his cot, absently spinning the strange arrow between his fingers, deep in thought. A dark arrow, and dark magic. Shot in the heat of battle with him as the intended target. Who could the shooter have been? This attack spoke of deception and subtle, sinister warfare from the shadows. Though the Haruke were capable of guerilla tactics and cunning, Rael simply didn't feel their hand in this. 

Which left him with...what? Rael didn't know. The Haruke weren't the only possibility, of course. As a Nobleman and ranking Knight Officer, there was a pretty lengthy list of people who might profit from his death. The Haruke were not the only foreign power the Dalemen had known conflict with. As far as he knew DarkFyre Dale was on good terms with its other neighbors currently, but it wouldn't be the first time an assassination was planned during peacetime.

Then there was the Court. He had never been active in Court, and in the past five years he had hardly been away from the warfront for more than a moment. Of course, that didn't mean some Noble with more ambition and money than honor or sense wouldn't make a reach for power without provocation. When it came down to it, the attack could have come from anywhere. Under different circumstances, Rael would have simply let it go at the unfortunate risk that comes with rank and title. 

Only the attack was so passing strange. And serious, too. Someone had gone to great and unusual lengths to try to put him in the ground. If not for the bravery of an incredibly foolish and loyal boy, it would have worked. The arrow was strange, and the magic tied to it stranger still. Whatever dark spell had been enchanted on the arrow, it was nothing he'd ever heard of before but he was certain it did not come cheaply.

Rael carefully tucked the arrow under his cot and removed his boots and his wool jerkin before stretching his long frame out on his cot. He left a single candle burning on the short stand beside his cot. He watched the candle light flicker against the roof of his tent. He had to force himself not to see threats in the interplaying shadows swaying across the canvas. His hand found the hilt of the dagger under his pillow and took small comfort from it.

This would not be an isolated incident. The attack had been blatant, with no real effort made at disguising it. Rael might have called it an incompetent attempt, only the measures used were not the tools and means of an amateur. 

No, Rael did not believe his assassin was incompetent, but instead was arrogant. Whoever he was, the man probably had not imagined his attack would fail. That it had would not stop him. And Rael was in a precarious position; he was surrounded by guards and soldiers and security, true, but he was also stuck to a fixed location, followed a predictable routine, and regularly found himself vulnerable and exposed during battles. The assassin would strike again, and this time he would be careful and sure of the kill.

And he could do it at any time, at his leisure; where was Rael going to go?

Rael clenched his jaw and fought for control as a wave of anger washed over him. He warred with the desire to race out of his tent in a rage, to turn the camp and surrounding countryside upside down until he found his would be killer and spit the man on his sword. It was difficult to cool the righteous fire surging in his veins. But he counseled himself to calm. Anger wouldn't solve this problem. A level head and sharp mind would.

It took some moments, but finally his emotions settled, and clarity filled him. 

He would go where there was information, Rael decided. He would find this assassin, and through him, whoever had put a contract on his head. As he lacked any other clue or link to the assassin, the Captain's mind went to the arrow. And the spell attached to it.

He briefly considered asking the camp's mage, Ewin, about the spell. But he quickly rejected the notion. He didn't trust the battle mage; Rael didn't trust mages in general actually, but Ewin even less than most. The man was craven and reminded him of a weasel, his eyes flittering and his mannerisms nervous and twitchy. The mage was too eager for scraps of information and coveted secrets as if he were hoarding them. His eyes saw much, his lips spoke little, and though he obeyed orders and served his duties enough to keep up the pretense of loyalty, Rael felt sure it was not his Captain nor the Crown the mage served.

No, Rael would have to begin his search elsewhere. He had no doubt the information he needed would require some digging, which meant he needed to start somewhere with a wealth of knowledge collected, or people who specialized in finding specific, unusual bits of lore...

Dark fell in the tent as the candle at last guttered, spent. Rael let out a long sigh and did his best to still his darting mind. He had to snatch a few hours of rest, at least; he would be on the move all too soon, and he would need his wits about him to find a way to extract himself from his position with as little attention drawn his way as possible.

Doubtless there were eyes on him, eyes that would follow when he withdrew from the front. But with some luck and a bit of finesse, no one would know he realized his life was being targeted. If he could move quickly he might manage to stay one step ahead of those marking him, at least until he was discovered who and what he was dealing with.

As he began to drift, he almost imagined he could feel the arrow tucked under his cot thrumming with dark magic. 

He would find his answers. And he knew where he would begin his search.

Home.

***

Another Chapter in the books. I will endeavor to keep updates as regular as possible. Hope everyone enjoyed this bit of plot-thickening, and as always, please feel free to send comments and/or questions via the CONTACT tab on my profile. More to come as the voices in my head allow (people call them their 'muses' but we all know 'the voices' when we hear them, come on). 



DarkFyre Ch. 03



Master Edwin IronWing's study smelled of oak and wood polish, and leather and old vellum. It was a spacious, open room. A huge window took up the north facing wall, staring out over the planting fields to the north. In the distance the DrakeSpine Mountains set a breathtaking backdrop, with the crags stretching higher and higher, huge and ancient and enduring.

Sitting at the foot of the window was a large lacquered desk of solid oak. The surface was cleaned and lovingly polished until it gleamed. The desk was neat and organized, the stoppered ink wells and quill pens laid out carefully beside a sheaf of thick papers waiting for use. 

At least, that's how Silmaria remembered it. The servant girl ran her fingertips slowly along the smooth grain of the desk, leaving trails in the layer of dust covering the desk. Her bright green eyes scanned the familiar room with a sad look. The walls of the room were lined with tall shelves holding a wealth of books, volumes, and scrolls. Thick, weighty leather bound tomes with yellowing aged pages leaned against small slender books held together by leather thongs. Scrolls were rolled and piled in reed baskets. The shelves which were usually meticulously organized, the books dusted and cleaned, were now in disarray. Volumes were put into the wrong places, and a layer of dust covered everything.

Silmaria sank into the chair before the desk with a frustrated groan. The Gnari girl missed Master Edwin. He had loved this chair. The chair was a sturdily crafted cherry wood with intricately carved figures of animals both mystical and mundane roaming all over the smooth surface. The seat was a rich blue satin stuffed with feather down. 

During her youth, Silmaria was often assigned to the care of the study, tending to the dusting and cleaning and organizing of the book cases and tomes. Master Edwin would sit at his desk, penning his letters and reading over his maps. She would fetch him books and fresh writing paper when he translated an old text into the common tongue. He would smile at her youthful chatter and jokes, and tell her stories of his soldiering days and the foolish Nobles at Court.

He had been a kind, warm hearted man under his gruff and matter-of-fact exterior. A soldier for most the years of his life, Lord IronWing was not the type to live out his early retirement quietly. The Nobleman was healthy and strong even as he entered the latter part of his forties, and seemed to have the youth and vigor of a man several years his junior. As such, he enjoyed frequent outings to hunt and ride, as well as an interest in falconry and animal husbandry. It was quietly wondered by all in his house why, being vibrant and capable as he was, Master Edwin had not only retired from active military action, but had given up any position of command or advisement from behind the scenes of the war effort. Master Edwin seemed content, in any case, to enjoy pursuing his interests away from the grimness of the war or the power games of the court.

In addition to hunting and riding, Master Edwin had a peculiar interest in scholarly pursuits. Ancient history, weapons, military texts, writings on foreign lands and cultures, and foreign languages were some of the many subjects he pursued. He was also especially fond of tales of rare, mythical, strange, or dangerous beasts and far away unsettled lands.

Sitting here in this room now, alone, Silmaria was filled with mixed feelings. She was angry and sad all at once as she glanced around the room; the dust and disarray, the way the tomes and books were disorganized and out of place on the shelves, even the smudges on the great window looking over the fields and mountains. All of it upset her. Yet, at the same time, this room never failed to comfort her, even if it was a tainted comfort. There were too many memories here, too many good times. Memories of Master Edwin were strong here. He loved this place so much, and she couldn't look around the room without seeing him here. Even the smells in the room were his smells. 

It was a bitter sweet thing, and gave her a bittersweet smile.

Truly, the Nobleman had been a cornerstone in the young Gnari's life during her adolescent years. That had been a hard time for her; on top of the usual struggles and hardships any girl goes through as she grows into womanhood, Silmaria had to contend with being a Gnari serving girl surrounded by Humans who didn't like her, with none of her own kind to help explain what she was going through. 

Master Edwin had been a kind, patient, strong presence who gave her guidance and direction when she was lost and confused. He'd even gone so far as gathering writings and scripts about her people, their customs, and their ways to help her understand herself better. Like most girls, Silmaria had craved kindness and attention, and the approval of someone who cared about her. More and more, Master Edwin had become that someone, and she grew to love the older Human for his quiet steadiness.

Then Silmaria entered adolescence, and her body blossomed, and strange, uncomfortable changes began to overtake her.

Even in the writings detailing Gnari lore and culture, information on the strange changes Silmaria experienced were scant. There was no word or proper term for it in the writings; the texts simply referred to it as 'the Stirring'. Much like her bleeding, it was a span of days, sometimes weeks, tied to the Moon's cycle. During this time, Gnari women experienced an acute, overwhelming increase in sexual arousal, sensitivity, and drive. It was tied to her race's difficulty breeding and was a biological trait that encouraged females to mate frequently and successfully. 

A simple concept when read from a book. To Silmaria, living it, the writings didn't even scrape the surface. The need for sex was a torment, a curse. The Stirring was maddening, a fire in her blood and her mind and her loins that was impossible to ignore and never remained sated long. The arousal was at times so intense that it was painful. Having a healthy sexual appetite to begin with, she lost near all ability to reason and restrain herself when the Stirring came on.

Coping with the trials of aging and puberty, the confusing and volatile shift of her emotions, and the feelings of being an outcast were bad enough. Adding to the mix the endless yearnings of her flesh, worse and worse every time the Stirring came on, made adolescence a long and miserable period for Silmaria. Her resolve to control herself, to quell her desires and keep herself restrained was a battle she waged for as long as she could. 

Yet eventually, her nature won out.

Which found Silmaria one night in her Eighteenth year, sitting in Master Edwin's study, a dusting rag clutched in her hands as she cried and shook while her Lord watched with a note of confusion and concern on his face. She had served the man for years by then and trusted him deeply. She looked to the kind old warrior for guidance. He had always done well by her, giving her kindness and attention and patient direction when she felt most lost and alone. And so, filled with shame and self-loathing, she sobbingly confessed to him that she simply hadn't been able to withstand the tormenting hungers of the flesh wracking her young body any longer. 

She told him, with an odd mix of embarrassment, shame, and a flutter of remembered arousal how she'd caught the eye of a workman who had accompanied a visiting merchant on a delivery to IronWing Manor. The man looked to be in his early thirties, an average sort who fit the role of a hired hand well, with shaggy brown hair, work worn clothes and a plain face. He had big hands that were as worn as his clothes. 

Silmaria hadn't been particularly attracted to him, but it was obvious he'd felt otherwise. She'd been outside, taking a rare break from her duties at the study, to help with some gardening in the front of the house, pulling weeds and replacing a few shrubs that had died the winter before. His eyes were on her almost the entire time, running over her fit, voluptuous body. She could practically feel his eyes memorizing every generous curve and lush swell, the way her hip rounded sensually from a slender, tight waist. Though she didn't overtly flaunt her body, the exquisite way it was formed was hard to ignore, the firm, round swell of her breasts and the perfect shape of her well muscled ass obvious even through her plain servants dress. 

The Gnari girl noticed him, noticing her, and where she should have been frightened and uncertain, she instead saw opportunity. The young man was a wanderer, a workman who followed whatever odd job happened to be about. He knew nothing of her, just that she was young, exotic, and beautiful and he wanted her. It was a dangerous, risky situation, but she would probably never see him again and he wouldn't be around to speak with anyone she knew afterward. It would be simple. 

That was all it took.

She made herself bold, whispered some promising words and directions to the workman, and Silmaria slipped out that very night to meet the man in a small grove of elm trees on a hill overlooking a meadow almost a mile east of her home. The moon was out, not quite full but fast approaching, glowing huge and heavy in the star streaked sky overhead. To Silmaria's sensitive feline eyes, the night was almost as bright as the day, bathed in a glossy film of moonlight. The air was brisk but not too cold as it was spring, and the long grass in the meadow below filled the air with a rhythmic sort of rustling as the wind blew through.

It was a beautiful night. It should have been very romantic, the perfect night for a midnight tryst. It should have been a night to remember wistfully, all fuzzy edged and poignant like girls said when they boldly whispered tales of their first time.

The truth was far from it. The truth was uncomfortable and hard, her body face down in the grass and the dirt. A thick root from the tree they huddled under dug into her flat belly and her supple, heavy young breasts mashed into the ground painfully. Her ass, generous and firm and round was raised up high and her tail was lashing about in a panic where the man had yanked it aside, and he was on top of her and his fingernails scratched her through her pelt where his fingers dug into her hips. He was plunging into her deeply, rough and violent and uncaring, using her freshly split cunt for his own selfish pleasure. 

And Silmaria was beyond caring. It hurt, it was humiliating and shameful and he was a bastard, and somehow none of that could stop her arousal from swelling. Even as she cried softly into the soft earth, she thrust her budding hips back into him, making that deliciously hard, thick cock filling her so well drive all the deeper into her hungry cunt. The sticky flow of her pussy was beyond control now, glistening on her engorged young labia and dripping down thighs that shook violently with the efforts of their rutting.

For rutting it was. Desperate, carnal, loveless rutting, fucking that ground dirt into her knees and made her graceful young flanks heave and her pelt itch with sweat. 

And she fucking loved it.

That was the part that shamed Silmaria most of all. It was painful and embarrassing, the man had been crass and uncaring almost to the point of brutality, and her body hadn't cared one bit. She had relished every moment of the simple, carnal thrill of the fuck. 

Yet afterward, she struggled with an overwhelming mix of shame, guilt, and aroused satisfaction. She felt dirty and used, and wicked beyond measure for how much she had reveled in the base fulfillment of her desires.

She told it all to Master Edwin, every torrid bit, because she could never seem to lie to him no matter how she tried, and the one time she'd tried to be secretive and deceitful and clever, it had come to this.

Master Edwin was not a man to raise his voice or shout or say cruel words. It was not his way. His reaction was, instead, a closing of his face, a hard set to his jaw and a narrowing, focused look to his eyes. Silmaria rarely saw his expression change so, but she'd served the Nobleman long enough to recognize it. 

That just made Silmaria weep all the harder, for she could never stand to see disapproval in the eyes of the Master she'd loved so. It had been Master Edwin's words that held her desires in check for so long. He had warned her time and again how dangerous, in more ways than one, giving herself carelessly to men could be. How many ways she could end up getting hurt. He had always tried his best to be sensitive to her unusual condition, but his protectiveness never yielded in that regard.

For her part, Silmaria wasn't stupid. She recognized the dangers. She was inexperienced, but not entirely naïve, and knew the ways a man would try to take advantage of a young, beautiful girl.

Exactly the ways one just had.

The Gnari had tried her very best to endure and not give in to the demands of her needy body, but in the end, it was simply too much. Disappointing Master Edwin had been nearly as unbearable as her body's needs itself. It was a high price to pay, especially for a temporary relief to an apparently chronic problem.

And so there she was, crumpled at his feet in a sobbing mess. Her ears drooped atop her head as fat tears ran down her cheeks. Long moments passed, with Master Edwin watching her. The silence was as punishing as any rebuke. At last, her Master asked if she were going to repeat her explorations. Even then, miserable and ashamed, she knew. The Stirring would come over her again, and again, and again. She could resist it, for a time...but not forever. Likely, not even for long. She wilted under his stern gaze and, hiccupping, nodded meekly. 

Master Edwin took her to his bed that very night. Once his mind was made, the older Nobleman's resolve was strong and his hand steady. 

Oh, it had been perfect. Even now it was vivid enough in Silmaria's mind to bring a shiver at the memory. His smell, his touch, the weight of him, the knowing in his eyes. Even at the end of his forties, Master Edwin had been strong and fit, with a young man's vigor and virility. 

As with everything else, he was gentle and patient. He showed her the tenderness and care that had been lacking in her first experience. His touch was slow and gradual, finding places in her that made her body ache so sweetly, that made her tremble as her core heated and grew slick and slippery for both their pleasure. She writhed for him, her body welcoming his with ease and responding with an urgency that nearly alarmed her. 

He made love to her, and then he fucked her. Master Edwin took her, not unkindly, but took her he did. His hands were firm and knowing as he drove his cock deep into her welcoming wet slit. He was insistent, confident, and while he was not cruel, he was aggressive and took her as he pleased. Silmaria greedily accepted all he had to give. She relished every bit of it, drank in his attention and affection and lust and the way his thick length filled her clutching pussy over and over. She returned every bit in kind, her ripe curving hips bucking desperately up to meet his every thrust. 

When he took her to bed a second time, and then another, she went more than gladly.

They had been quiet about it; it was not unusual for Lords to carry on trysts with servants, but it was not spoken of openly. Silmaria had no doubt that others noticed, but no one said anything on the matter and at the time she was too happy and fulfilled to care. 

Through it all Master Edwin changed little about the way he treated her; she had always been one of his favorites and this was well known throughout the house, if not overmuch appreciated. He continued to be kind, continued to patiently guide her, and continued to hold her accountable for her duties and responsibilities as a servant in his house. 

She didn't mind; Silmaria had always enjoyed serving Master Edwin, and though she grew to love him more and more strongly, that never changed. The Gnari girl had adored the Nobleman as a Master and Lord, and now she adored him as a Man. She found herself wanting his direction, his guidance and his strength more than ever. And spending the nights no longer alone, no longer suffering when the Stirrings came on, serving her Master's flesh with her own...there was nothing better in all the world to her.

So it continued, until Master Edwin grew sick.

Silmaria sniffled, and angrily dashed the budding tears from her eyes. "Stop it," she muttered to herself softly, "He's gone. He's gone and been gone almost a year, and you're stronger than this. He made you stronger than this."

Yet strong as she was, grief still found her at times. Though her heart tried hard to hold the man's memory in fondness and happiness, the wound of his loss was simply too deep and personal for her to ignore. She was healing, true; healing in the fashion of a wound slowly scarring over, hard and twisted and ugly. 

She hated it. Hated this world that left her without him.

Even worse, she hated herself. For despite the keenness of the loss, her body would not cease tormenting her. The Stirring continued on, as undeniable and impossible to ignore as ever. She'd resisted for awhile, but it wasn't to last. She gave up fighting her nature some months ago. Her proclivity for seeking out different men to sate her needs was less than secret now and though she had come to terms with it and accepted it, neither was she entirely proud of it.

With a deep breath, Silmaria rose to her feet. She swallowed her grief and instead steeled herself with outrage as she looked once more around the room. The dust, the clutter, the disorganization. She'd never seen the study in such a state, not once in her young life serving in this house. It was disgraceful, and it left her seething.

Weeks, almost a month perhaps had gone by since she had been assigned to the study; where once she had spent almost every day tending her Master's favorite room, now she found herself instead given duties all over the house. She helped Cook in the kitchens, scrubbed dirty linens and clothes with the laundry women, stored away supplies in the larder, restocked the candles in the wall sconces, scrubbed and brushed the soot from the many hearths in the Manor, carried out and emptied the chamber pots for the entire House, and washed, scrubbed, and brushed the grime and dirt from every floor and wall and surface in the place. All the chores were half done and lacking when she came to them. Mostly because she was one of so few servants attending them. Near half the House servants had been cast out by Steward Jonor. The man judged them all useless and unneeded, and decided they used more food and supplies than they were worth. 

As a result, everything around the Manor seemed to need more doing and attention, and though the remaining servants labored hard to attend their duties, they couldn't keep up with the tasks. The staff was simply spread too thin. 

She spied a cobweb forming in one upper corner of the room, dust trapped on the spindly strands as a sunbeam flickered over it. Her wickedly sharp claws bit into the flesh of her palms as Silmaria balled her fists in anger, and she didn't even notice. The sad state the once well cared for study had fallen into made her burn inside. Master Edwin would never have stood for this. And given her way, neither would she. She would preserve everything the man held dear. But it was nothing to Jonor to let it all fall to ruin.

After taking several moments to calm herself, Silmaria gathered the long tumble of her dark curls with her hands and bound it up in a knot atop her head, securing it with a leather thong. She set to work. 

Her graceful hands brushed over the many books, dusting the leather bound spines and wiping down the covers. Shelf by shelf she went, moving the volumes into place and arranging and organizing as she had so often done. It was tedious, repetitive work, and she gladly lost herself in the familiar, repetitive process.




DarkFyre Ch. 03



Several hours had slipped past by the time she stopped. Through the large window, the sky was dotted with oranging clouds as the sun began to set. The short, fine hairs of Silmaria's pelt itched where her sweat was trapped beneath. She looked around the study with critical green eyes. The shelves in the back right corner of the room still needed to be organized and dusted, but the rest of the study was in proper order at last. 

And this time, Silmaria swore, it was going to stay that way. She had to attend to whatever duties were assigned her, of course. But she resolved she would find out who else was tending the study these days, and if she had anything to say about it, they would be doing it right from now on. Angry as she was, her approach probably wouldn't earn her any new friends...but the way she figured it, she couldn't really get much more disdained than she already was.

She didn't care; that's what she told herself as she gathered her rags and bucket and the small container of polishing wax. All that mattered was that this study, this space that had been so important to Master Edwin and such a significant cornerstone of her adolescence, was given the respect and careful tending it deserved. This was his place, and her place, and she'd be damned if she let it be kept up lackadaisically any longer.

Silmaria turned to glance out the window again, noting the lengthening dusk. She was hungry. Cook would be serving up dinner in a few moments. As slim and unappetizing as the meal would likely be, her stomach growled at the prospect of any meal right now. 

A moment later, her reverie was broken as a loud, echoing thud boomed through IronWing Manor's halls.

***

As always, comments/critiques/feedback of whatever nature is welcomed and encouraged at familiarstranger86@gmail.com. If you have suggestions for making this work better, I need them. If you can't wait to see this story go on, I want to know. If you absolutely hated it, I'd like to know that too. More is on its way soon, so stay tuned, and please share with others if it tickled your fancy and you know someone who would feel the same!



DarkFyre Ch. 04



Rael still wasn't sure he was making the right choice. 

He was torn between feeling he was abandoning his duty and honor, and the certainty that remaining here at the war camp meant it was only a matter of time before another assassination attempt came. He was no coward, to run from death. Yet at the same time, neither was he a fool. The unusual methods taken against him left him certain that he was dealing with no ordinary assassins, and that his chances of surviving another attempt were grim at best. It also left him with a strange blend of anger and curiosity, and he intended to satisfy both.

After his meeting with StoneFingers the young Knight Captain spent all night and the better part of the following day puzzling over what he would do. There was no question he must leave, but how could he leave the war camp without rousing too much suspicion? He felt sure his killers would end up pursuing him, but if he could arrange to leave without his absence raising an alarm in camp, it would probably delay pursuit. Better yet, if he could offer some reason, some story for why he was leaving, his assassins might not suspect he'd discovered their presence. That could be a vital edge, the difference between surviving their next attempt and being cut down. So, how was he to do it?

After wracking his brain to fabricate a plan, he at last saw a chance, a ruse that might hold up to scrutiny, at least long enough for him to be long gone before anyone, friend or foe, became suspicious. It was a risky plan with several key players who were outside his control. The first of which were the unpredictable and unreliable Haruke themselves.

Who, as luck or fate would have it, came through for him just two short days later. Four days after their last incursion, the Barbarians raided the camp again, giving him just the chance he needed. Though it was a small raiding party, even smaller than the last, Rael was right in the midst of the fighting. Though the skirmish was brief, the Haruke fought with as much ferocity as ever. Rael cut down several warriors, and received a wound to his leg in the process.

Word spread through the camp lightning quick. It was on every tongue, from the ranking Knights to the common foot soldiers to the serving folk that kept the camp running. Their Lord Captain had been injured, and what had seemed like a minor wound had become infected alarmingly fast, festering and worsening until it was feared he would lose the leg, if not die outright of blood poisoning. StoneFingers tended the Nobleman, spending days treating him and putting every shred of his medical talents to work keeping Rael alive. He would let none disturb the Captain while he struggled, and the Knight's supporting officers made do contending with running the war camp in the meantime.

Finally, StoneFingers reported that the Nobleman would live. The camp breathed a collective sigh of relief. Spirits lifted and tensions eased, for Rael was much loved by his men and they'd feared the worst. 

He was not wholly safe yet, it turned out. Though StoneFingers saved the leg, the damage had left it weak and feeble. The infection that had taken it was a rare and strange one, and though Rael was alive, he was not in truth rid of it. The nature of the infection was such that the healing could relapse and the infection overtake him at any time. There was nothing further that StoneFingers could do for the Knight Captain. He did not have the medicines he needed to treat the infection, and he could not properly strengthen and rehabilitate the wasted leg here. 

Rael was up from his bed, the once proud warrior hobbling here and there about the camp on a heavy oak walking stick. He bore himself as well as he could, his jaw set stubbornly, grimacing through the pain and humiliation. His men were at once proud of their Lord and afraid; afraid for him and for themselves. What were they to do without their powerful Captain to lead them? 

In his report to the Lord Knight Commander, StoneFingers had asserted that Rael was stable enough for some light and cautious travel, done slowly, but unless he were able to find time to rest and recover and, more importantly, receive the medicine he needed to clear the lingering infection, the Nobleman's leg would never recover soundly enough for him to see battle again. It was the Doctors recommendation that the Captain be sent away from the stress and danger of the field to recover someplace where he could rest undisturbed, have plentiful nourishing food, and access to the medical supplies and doctors who could make his leg hale again.

"And this...this...thrice damned mess of gods blessed elk droppings is what you're calling a sodding plan?" Galin shouted at him, his whiskered jaw gawping open like a fool, showing the gap in his teeth.

"Will you be quiet you ass?" Rael hissed at the older knight, glaring at him darkly. "You sound like a fisher's wife sharing the newest gossip. Gods, it'll be a wonder the whole camp doesn't think something's going on now." 

Galin was too busy swearing to be quiet. Rael reached up and grabbed a handful of the old Knight's scraggly beard and yanked his head down. Which, of course, made Galin curse again.

"I need you to be quiet now," Rael told him, his earlier emotion gone, replaced by a steady, serious calm that caught Galin's attention and actually shut him up.

"You can't be serious with all this," Galin grumbled, but quietly this time.

"What else was I to do? I saw no other way. And I can't stay here," Rael said, and released his hold on his friend's beard.

"Don't see as why not," Galin snorted. He crossed his arms over his sinewy, still strong chest, and glowered at his commanding officer. "So some half-assed assassin tries to put you in the dirt again. So what? You could put any man alive down your own self, not to mention the bloody army around you!"

"And we both know it won't play out like that," Rael said, keeping himself calm and steady. Galin was ever the sort who fed off someone arguing with him, even his leaders. Playing the level headed and cool Captain would annoy him, but he would come around to the calmness of his tone, too. 

"If these assassins make for me again, and I know they will, it'll be from the shadows where none of us can get at them, and it'll be in a way none of us expects. Blind luck and a good lad in the wrong place at the right time was all that kept me alive last time. I won't have the same luck twice. And who's to tell who may end up getting caught in the way next time? No. I'll not risk it. I have to be away from here. And, I have to find out who is responsible for this. Arthas won't have died for nothing. His murderer, and whoever hired him, will pay."

Galin gave a wordless 'harrumph'. The old Knight didn't want to relent, but Rael knew the warrior understood vengeance and the need for honor well enough to stop arguing.

"Well, then, let's have a look at it," Galin said at last. He made to spit on the ground, realized he was in his Captain's tent, and stopped himself just in time.

It took a moment for Rael to realize Galin meant his leg. He climbed to his feet and pulled the loose fitting leg of his trouser up on the left leg to show Galin the scar just above his knee, small and pink and healing well. In a few months it would probably be hardly a mark at all.

"Pah! It's a good thing none of the men are brazen enough to ask to see, or your story would fall apart on the spot!" Galin chortled. "I took worse scars than that from my Dah's boot strap, and that was with my Ma swingin' it!"

"Your Ma's swinging arm is the stuff of legends," Rael said dryly as he let his pant leg fall. "I told you it wasn't as bad as StoneFingers said. The good Doctor has been very cooperative and made certain...exaggerations in his reports to the Lord Commander. Word got around camp about it even faster than I thought it would."

"Exaggerations? You call tellin' everybody you're gonna die or be hoppin' around on a peg the rest of your life a bloody exaggeration?" Galin scoffed.

"Yes," Rael replied.

"You're daft, the both of you," Galin asserted.

"I'm not daft, Galin. I've explained why this is necessary."

"Did you even think about what kind of trouble you were putting StoneFingers in?" Galin needled him, and though he kept his voice hushed, it was no less reproachful "For the love of every god old and new, he lied to the Lord Knight Commander in an official report! About the health of a Knight Captain, one commanding a front line garrison no-less! He could be court marshalled! Hell, you could be..."

"Galin." He was fighting for patience now, his words sharp and clipped; he knew the Knight meant well, but he didn't have time to convince the stubborn old fighter right now. "StoneFingers knew the risk. He took it because he trusts me. Do you? Or did I make a mistake bringing you in on this?"

That gave the warrior pause. Galin's much creased brow furrowed deep in thought. He leaned back on his heels as he ran his hand in a repetitive nervous habit through his beard and snagging it even further. "No. I mean yes. I mean...Yes, I trust you. And no, you didn't make a mistake. But...Rael, why? Why did you bring me in on this? You're not even telling the Lord Commander about all this. So why me? And, hell, why not him?"

Rael turned away. He took his pack from where it sat beside his cot and placed it on the table that was usually spread with reports and maps and strategies. Now instead, supplies for his journey were arrayed upon it. Rations and dried goods, mostly salted and cured beef and pork, dried oats, and other food supplies that would keep for the days ahead. He had a change of clothes, his heavy winter cloak, and several blankets. His hunting bow and a quiver of arrows, his skinning knife, two daggers, his flint and tinder box, and a number of flasks filled with water. He had two lengths of wood wrapped in oiled cloth should he need them for torches, and a map of the passes and major roads in the Dale, though he knew the way about in his lands well enough that he probably wouldn't need it. He still had more he needed to pack, but this was the bulk of it.

As he took stock of his supplies, he at last replied. "I'm telling you because I need someone I can trust looking after things here. The Lord Commander will send someone to take over command in my absence, since you're too stubborn and old and crotchety to accept rank and do it yourself."

"I'm not old," Galin protested. 

Rael held up a hand to forestall further comment. "You know I don't leave this place lightly. I love these men, and I am proud of the service we've done. Were I able, I would make this war camp withstand the Haruke till the end, and in time, I would take the fight to them from here. I need someone I trust here, being my eyes and ears, so that if something changes...if the assassins should somehow reveal themselves here, or if the camp falls into jeopardy, I can be informed so I may act accordingly. I know that knowing what is at stake for me, you would never call me back lightly. And I also know that, knowing what is at stake for us all, you wouldn't hesitate to call me back if you must. True?"

"True," Galin nodded reluctantly.

Rael turned then, facing his old friend and menor. He clasped the older Knight on the shoulder and gripped tight, meeting his dark eyes. "I need you in this, my friend. I trust StoneFingers, true enough, but he's no Knight and no warrior. I need someone who understands what to keep eyes open and ears up for."

"You never answered my other question," Galin said, evading. "Why don't you tell the Lord Commander all this?"

"Because I don't know who the Lord Commander will tell in turn," Rael explained, his gaze serious and never wavering. "It's not the Lord Commander I worry for, but the ears around him. I don't think him a fool, but neither can I promise he will be as cautious as I am. Nor those he tells as cautious as those I tell."

"Pah!" Galin growled, tossing his hands up. "Fine! Fine. Have your way, I'll be part of your blasted conspiracy. But by Elard's balls, I swear if we all hang for this, I'll haunt you sure!"

"I don't know if the dead can be haunted," Rael said, smirking despite the gravity of the situation, just because he could never help but find amusement in one of Galin's huffs.

"Shut your trap," Galin grumbled, thoroughly stewing at this point. "I can hear your Father cursing me all the way from his grave. There's a shiver gone up my spine..."

"Galin," Rael said, his tone gone serious again though a small, sincere smile played at his lips as he held a hand out in offering. "Thank you. You're a true friend."

"Aye, a true friend. A true bloody idiot, too. Ah, well, I suppose that means I fit this plan perfect," Galin returned. He spat into his palm, and shook Rael's hand.

***

The straw was scratchy where it was stuck in the thick, tussled locks of her black hair, tickling along the back of one of her sensitive pointed ears. It was cold, her breath a steaming cloud coming out in shaky, rushing puffs as she panted and let out ragged breaths The stables smelled exactly how a stable ought to smell, which was not at all pleasant, and she couldn't care less.

Silmaria was on her back, her firm, shapely thighs spread wide and quivering as Jerol the stable hand roughly pounded his big cock into her sticky, dripping pussy. She writhed beneath him, grunting and gasping and moaning and doing her best not to scream lest someone hear them. It was a distant worry at best; She'd come down to the stables for a romp with Jerol enough times without being caught that she was pretty sure Nort the old StableMaster was either looking the other way, uninterested what his lads got up to, or deaf.

Either way, Silmaria didn't care. She was entirely focused and preoccupied with the sensations of the fuck. Fully in the grasp of the Stirring, it felt as if every nerve in her body were hotwired to her cunt, every sensory receptor finely focused on the sensation of the less-than-gentle stable hand driving the thick length of his bulging cock in and out of her clinging, pulsing pussy. Her back arched and she bit her full lip hard to choke back another orgasm. 

A burst of searing fire shot through her body, wracking her form with waves of hot licking flames of pleasure, throbbing and flaring in sweet release, each pulse building on the next. Her heavy, ripe breasts quivered and bounced, and Jerol used one work roughened hand to squeeze and grip her lush tits, pinching and pulling at her nipples. The twinges of pain from his rough fingers only served to spike her release even higher.

Silmaria collapsed back down to the straw strewn ground, and her hips continued to undulate and thrust with the man above her, desperately seeking more. Her pelt was slick with sweat, hers and his, and her cunt was dribbling out her nectar steady and thick and sticky, running down her thighs and the crack of her firm, bunching ass and covering the man's plunging, thrusting cock, soaking the heavy length of it.

The small enclosed space smelled of stables and sex, the smell of her arousal strong and demanding. Silmaria looked up at Jerol, and he was focused solely on his own pleasure, pounding her welcoming slit frantically and roughly, his cock filling her and stretching her deliciously open around him as his hips crushed down into hers. 

She watched his face and saw no affection or tenderness there, only desire and lust and crude, base satisfaction. It made her shiver with self-loathing and shame and arousal, and then she was cumming again, gods, again already, and she didn't care, she just wanted more, more to fill this emptiness constantly gaping inside her...

His hand tangled in her hair, gripping and yanking at her scalp as he rutted into her hard and deep, his cock pounding its generous length into her clutching, flat belly. Silmaria let out a quiet hiss, the pain as always edging and complementing the pleasure so perfectly, accentuating it just so to give it an explosive quality that bled distinctly through the fog of her desperate hunger, lending clarity and delicious focus to how wickedly he used her.

He gave no word of warning or comment as he suddenly picked up speed, hammering into her for a few moments before his body went tense and rigid. A few quiet grunts, and he was cumming, spending himself inside her. Silmaria squirmed and moaned, grinding her cunt down onto the throbbing, jerking length of the stable lad as his thick Human seed spurted and splashed wet and warm in her feline belly. Silmaria clamped down tight on him, milking his cock for every drop, cooing as the warmth spread liquid and pleasant in her puffy, gripping tunnel.

All too soon, he pulled free, his fat cock popping wetly from her pink slit. Silmaria groaned in disappointed, left aching and open with the man's cum running in a sticky, thick river from her gaping fuckhole. 

"More," she whimpered softly as she sat up. She felt pathetic and wretched, but the Stirring was still surging through her blood, and she was desperate, and she didn't want to go find another man to sate herself with. She'd had those nights before, and she hated them.

"I have work in the morning," Jerol complained. "Nort says we got's to muck out all the stable and check the horses for worms. Says the stable's fallen behind while we been helpin' with the harvest. Don't rightly see what stable folk like us got to do with harvests anyway. Don't they got you lot in the house for all that mess?"

Silmaria didn't bother explaining to him. Jerol was stupid. Not a simpleton, just stupid and dumb as dumb could be. Silmaria didn't care; she figured all the blood that most people got to go to their brains must have been occupied pumping to his generously endowed cock, and she was quite okay with that.

Instead of arguing with him, Silmaria simply slunk forward along the stable floor, ignoring the way the straw and dirt pressed into her palms and knees, until she was at Jerol's feet. She then, without a single word, took the stupid stable hand's half wilted cock and popped the sticky head into her mouth, slurping softly and slowly. She knew he would be sensitive, or she would have gorged herself on his prick right then and there. Instead she slowly, firmly ran her wet pink tongue along his flesh, licking him clean of their mingled fluids, the taste of his cum and her cunt strong and wicked and delicious. 

By the time Jorel's cock was back to full throbbing hardness, not so very long really, Silmaria's head was bobbing up and down his bulging length, taking his flesh into her warm, tight throat. Jorel wasn't thinking about his early morning anymore. The Gnari woman slurped and suckled for all she was worth, her tongue working enthusiastically along the heavy bottom of the man's shaft. Her throat constricted, squeezing heavenly, and she gagged softly, even as she showed no hesitation and continued to take the man deeply down her talented, graceful throat. Jorel's hands were soon in her hair, nearly gripping her cat-like ears, and his hips thrust to fuck Silmaria's beautiful face, making her lips puffy as they stretched around his girth.

Almost reluctantly, Silmaria broke off, pulling back to gasp and pant for breath as she wiped the hanging rope of saliva that formed a bridge between her quivering lips and the man's twitching dick. She was quite enjoying sucking that impressive prick, but she had other plans, other needs that needed tending.

In moments Silmaria was face down in the straw, her juicy, firm ass raised high and bouncing rapidly as Jerol plunged into her cunt from behind. She was crying out now, unable to silence herself as the stable hand stabbed and pounded and rutted into her drooling twat. Silmaria gripped handfuls of straw and grit her teeth as the man fucked her so hard and wantonly that it made her slit ache and throb with a heady mix of pleasure-pain, a perfect feeling that made her belly clench. 




DarkFyre Ch. 04



Her knees skinned on the dirt, and she thrust her ass back even harder, making that fat cock plug and stretch her even deeper and wider than before. Her breasts swayed under her, bouncing in a frantic rhythm, her stiff nipples occasionally grazing the rough ground. Her pussy, already filled with cum, spasmed in a wet squelch when Jerol's dick drove forcefully back in. Every time he withdrew a wet, sloppy mix of their fluids would come dragging out, running messily down the serving girl's supple thighs. Her ass slapped a wet, meaty staccato as it met his thrusting hips.

Jerol's second release was the same as the first. His tensing, his slamming forward hard to burry into her desperately gripping pussy to the root. His cum spurted in heavy bursts in warm gushes of seed into her core, spattering wet and sticky against her already coated inner walls. Silmaria let out one final, shrieking orgasm at the feel of it spreading inside her.

She collapsed, spent and exhausted, the Stirring at last done with her. For now. All Silmaria wanted to do was lay there, still and motionless, and let her body recover from the aching heaviness that suddenly settled into her every muscle, leaving her sluggish and lethargic.

But Jerol was having none of that. He poked and prodded and pressured her to get herself together so he could get some sleep until, with a sigh, Silmaria grabbed her dress and shucked it on. She stood on shaky, tired legs and said nothing to the man as she stepped with far less grace than was her norm, and left the stables. What would be the point? He was crass and tactless, basically kicking her out after having his way with her, but it wasn't unexpected. They both knew what their little meetings were about. There was no love, no affection, not really even friendship between them. It was sex for sex's sake. 

And that was entirely why she went to him to begin with. He, and a number of others, she chose because they didn't try to complicate things with feelings or romance or unwanted closeness. She just needed to quell the incessant torment of the Stirrings, and as simply and cleanly as she could manage that, the better. It also helped that those she bedded didn't gossip overmuch about their trysts. Which was probably more due to her being a Gnari than any surplus of gentlemanliness on their parts.

Which was not to say, of course, that there was no gossip at all. Whether they spread the word themselves or not, people talked.

The Gnari girl crept through the empty halls in the back of the Manor until she reached her room. She slipped inside and quietly stepped around the other serving women already sleeping on their cots. She found her cot and settled onto it. She grabbed her threadbare blanket and wrapped it around her slim shoulders. It did practically nothing to chase away the chill, but the night was surprisingly so it didn't much matter and she wasn't too miserable.

Well, not miserable over the cold, at least. But Silmaria was miserable, nonetheless. Now that the Stirring had fled and her cravings were sated, she found herself filled with a melancholy and longing. She was lonely. She missed Master Edwin always, but more fiercely than ever in these moments. Though she often was able to be indifferent and practical toward her sexual encounters, there were times when she missed the warmth of strong arms around her, the security of capable hands soothing away the sting and the bruise and the raw, overly sensitive nerve endings after a hard, thorough fucking. 

That was one of the things she had loved most dearly about being with Master Edwin; he hadn't been afraid to be rough and firm and demanding with her, to give her that edge of pain that forced her body and her mind, fuzzy and muddled with the Stirring into sharp, keen focus. But always he soothed away the hurt afterward, and he was always there, strong and steady and sure. He'd given her strength and brought her back, calm and peaceful, from so many jumbled and violently intense emotions and sensations.

Silmaria wrapped herself up in a small little ball, her tail curling around her feet. Tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the soft, short fur of her face.

She heard and felt a shifting at her back, and glanced over her shoulder to see one of the other women, creeping toward her in the dark. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed when she recognized the old woman's face in the darkness.

"Sorry if I woke you, Lirena," Silmaria said quietly.

The old Human woman smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. "You didn't, little kitten. I don't sleep very much anymore, you know. I just lay here, listening to you girls sleep while I let my mind go whatever places it will."

"I wish mine would stop going places," Silmaria sighed, and sat up with her knees pulled to her breasts to look at Lirena tiredly.

Lirena reached up with a wizen hand and plucked a bit of straw from Silmaria's mussed curls. "If you wouldn't let yourself go to these places while, your mind and your heart would be still when you slept."

From any other woman, Silmaria would have been offended and hurt, and loudly told her where to take a walk to. From Lirena, Silmaria simply nodded absently. "I wish I could make it stop. I wish I didn't have these feelings, these cravings. They torment me."

"I know, child," Lirena said gently, picking at yet more straw. Lirena was not Silmaria's friend, not in the way that Cook was. But she was an old woman, and wise, and could be kind in her way. She wasn't not exactly supportive of Silmaria's activities, but she didn't judge her too harshly either, and seemed to genuinely try to understand why she did them. Lirena had lived a long time, and seen and heard many things. She had more of an open and experienced mind than most. "It's not an easy burden you bear. I wish this old mind had better answers for you."

"I would do anything for answers," Silmaria sighed, brushing her curls from her eyes. "But I've searched and searched. I don't think I'm meant to be fixed."

"There's nothing to fix, kitten," Lirena said, taking the young woman's hand and patting it gently. "You are as you are. Misunderstood and strange to most of us, but that doesn't mean there is anything wrong with you. You've a good heart. That's more than most have in these hard times."

"That's nice of you to say, Lirena. But I don't think many here agree with you."

"Many here wouldn't recognize wisdom if they stepped in it," Lirena replied with a wry smile.

Silmaria gave the hint of a smile despite herself. "Thank you, Lirena. Life would be easier if there were more people with your kindness."

"That's true. But then I wouldn't be so special. And you'd listen to me much less."

"I'm not very good at listening to begin with," Silmaria said with a depreciative smirk.

"Oh, that's not true. You listened to Master Edwin very well, as I recall."

A bitter-sweet smile twisted Silmaria's mouth. "I tried to. I miss him, Lirena. So very much."

"We all do, child," Lirena replied with a gentle smile, remembering. "He was a good man. And he would have told you to be careful. And to guard yourself."

Silmaria shifted, feeling a spike of guilt, for he had given her just that advice so often. He would have been unhappy with her choices of late, not because he disdained her for them, but because he would have called them so dangerous and risky. "Yes, he would have said just that. I'll be careful. I always am. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Silmaria."

The Gnari girl rolled over to face the wall, pulling her blanket tight around her curving form. The old woman meant well enough, but she could never really understand. She was what she was. But how could that ever be good enough for her if it was never good enough for anyone else?

***

Chapter Four is in the books! More fun to come, so look for further updates. As always comments, critiques, and questions are very welcome. Thanks and come again!



DarkFyre Ch. 05



Silmaria was on her hands and knees in the drawing room on the west side of the Manor, scrubbing at the wooden floor with a soapy rag. She was not particularly in the best of moods; some idiot had tracked dirt into the room, which was made all the worse by the fact that no one ought to really have been in here in the first place. Of course, given how downhill the upkeep of IronWing Manor was these days, it wasn't even noticed or addressed until several days later, when she got to be the lucky one to clean it. By then, the dirt had plenty of time to get good and ingrained into the wood.

The Gnari sat back on her haunches, knees drawn up to her chest as she crouched there balanced on the balls of her feet. She was exhausted. In addition to her usual duties, Silmaria was awake late into the night last night helping Lirena tend to Taleesha, whose fever had returned with a vengeance. Silmaria wasn't particularly good friends with Taleesha, but she didn't want the woman to suffer, either. The Gnari girl wasn't a healer really, but she had capable and steady hands and was familiar with the remedies Lirena liked to use. Taleesha had been delirious and blazing hot with fever through most of the night, but the fever finally settled into a low burn just before sun up. One of the other servants came to relieve Silmaria, staying with Lirena and Taleesha while Silmaria snatched an hour of sleep before rising to face the day.

A yawn overtook her and she stifled it with the back of a soapy hand, then plopped her rag into the small bucket beside her. She took a dry, much used towel and began to wipe the soapy water from the floor. All she wanted to do was get through her chores and duties and fall onto her pallet and sleep. She'd even skip dinner to go to bed early. She was lucky she wasn't falling asleep face down in this puddle right now, really...

Her sleepy musings were interrupted by a loud, booming thud bursting through the house, and she leapt to her feet and very nearly fell on her ass. She froze, waiting for more commotion, then after a few moments of silence she at last remembered to start breathing again.

"Get a grip, Sil," the Gnari girl muttered under her breath, trying to collect herself and make her heart slow. It was probably just the big, heavy doors at the foyer of the Manor being thrown open with a bit too much vigor. 

She heard footsteps cutting through the dining hall adjoining to the drawing room and the foyer. Muffled voices darted back and forth in hurried conversation. At least four or five people were making their way toward the front of the Manor. Silmaria's sensitive ears twitched forward attentively, but the voices were already too far down the hall for even her to make out what they were saying. Whatever they were about, they were about it in a hurry.

Since she was finished with her cleaning anyway, Silmaria decided to let her curiosity get the best of her. She gathered her supplies and slipped quietly out the drawing room, through the dining hall, and to the foyer. More than likely it was yet more of Steward Jonor's trinkets and gaudy fineries. Deliveries didn't usually come through the foyer, but it wouldn't be the first time someone got turned around and made a mistake.

The foyer was a spacious room fit to properly welcome visitors to the wealthy and Noble house IronWing. The ceilings were vaulted, reaching high overhead. The walls were finely made oak wood trimmed in mahogany, which itself was etched and hand carved in regal, ornate designs. Great wall tapestries were spaced regularly along the walls in House Ironwing's colors of blue edged in silvered. A grand imperial staircase swept upward on the far side of the foyer to the left and the right, the steps, balusters, and rails were also a rich, dark mahogany wood. A length of carpet ran from between the feet of the either stairs forward to the front of the foyer, also in the house colors. The foyer let out into the front lawn to the south through a great pair of heavy ornate, lacquered oak doors, and continued under and past the imperial staircase and into the formal dining hall to the north. The west wall of the foyer housed a large window looking out over the western gardens, and on the east wall hung a large painting of Master Edwin's departed wife. House IronWing's coat of arms, a fierce silver Dragon with wings spread wide open on a navy blue field, hung in the middle of the balcony where the imperial stairs swept upward to meet.

A small crowd of servants had already gathered in a little knot of people in the foyer. Silmaria hung back, her ears tilted forward and her eyes studying, but as she generally disliked crowds and saw no one in this one that she was particularly fond of, she stuck to the shadows under the stairs, removed but curious what the fuss was about.

The fuss seemed to be about a stranger who'd come to the Manor. Silmaria's slitted eyes rested on the man standing in front of the small crowd and took him in. He was hard not to notice, big as he was. Silmaria guessed he was close to six and a half feet tall, and his body had the breadth and build to match. Even bundled under a thick winter traveling cloak, the Gnari girl could tell the man was solidly built, hard and muscled with broad shoulders and long, thick arms. 

The man drew down the deep hood of his cloak. He was handsome, very much so, if in a road worn way. Long hair the color of burnished copper was held back in a warrior's braid grown wild and shaggy from days on the road. Even under a few layers of trail dust his skin was fair white in the way of Dale men. A thick growth of beard as brightly coppered as his head covered the man's jaw, partially hiding a solemn, watchful face.

All this Silmaria noted, yet his eyes were what held her attention fixed. Even across the room, the man's eyes were impossible to miss. They were strange and bright, an almost ethereal silver. They were intense eyes, sharp and intelligent. Unforgettable eyes.

And forget them she had not, for Silmaria knew she'd seen those eyes before. When last she saw them she was a girl, and he a growing youth just five years her elder. She remembered a scraggly boy, more legs than anything, with the short cropped hair of a squire. He had been home for a visit from court, where he had been apprenticed to the Royal Knight Brotherhood to eventually become one of their own. He was a serious boy, so serious he had frightened her a little bit. Though he had never said or done anything unkind to her, he had a quiet, brooding way about him. She'd been glad, then, that she was just a servant girl and had been able to avoid his notice. 

But for all that, she had never forgotten the young Lordling's strange, beautiful eyes.

And there he was, standing there in the foyer, a man grown and the rightful Lord and Master of her home, returned at last. Silmaria stared at him, watched him, and her jaw set in stubborn anger.

She hated him. Bad enough that the Noble had left his home, his birthright, and his people in the hands of an incompetent, power grabbing, lazy oaf like Steward Jonor. Bad enough he had let House IronWing fall into neglect and disorder, let his servants and people who depended on him turn into overworked, overwrought, half-starved shadows of themselves. Bad enough that he'd never in over a year since his father's death come home to check on his holdings or his folk or shown even a hint of interest in the rights and responsibilities tied to his family inheritance. 

All these paled, to her, compared to his worst crimes. Never once as Master Edwin went to his sick bed, falling more and more ill until he withered away and died, did Lord Rael choose to visit. Not even after Master Edwin died did he come. Master Edwin was a good man, a kind and honorable man worthy of love. He had been her friend, her lover, and her guiding strength. And his son didn't even have the decency to come see him buried or visit his resting place after they put him in the ground.

Silmaria blinked away angry tears, took a deep breath, and pushed her anger and hate down where it could fester and seethe. She was smart enough even in her anger to know that exploding in the man's face as he so rightly deserved would probably earn her nothing but a swift boot in the ass out of her home. She would be forced to scavenge through the cold, bleak days and nights in the empty countryside, caught in the approaching winter. Or as bad, she would have to fend for herself in the capitol city just a few miles to the west. Trelling's Rest was a hard city, especially for disgraced servants living on the streets. The winter was as harsh behind the city's old walls as it was in the exposed open country side, and she was as likely to survive winter in one as the other. Which was to say, not likely at all.

So, she wouldn't waltz up to the young Lord and spit in his face. But neither would she simper and grovel and fawn at him. She would serve, but she would be damned if she'd do it with a smile.

As she turned to retreat from the room and go find someplace quiet and secluded and far away from him, Cook jostled her elbow from behind. Silmaria was startled enough to jump, and that caused her to outright scowl then. She was deep in her head indeed, for Silmaria, with her keen ears and sense of surroundings, was usually not an easy person to sneak up on. And Cook was not precisely the quietest of people, for that matter.

Cook took no notice of her friend's sour mood, though, gawping at the tall Nobleman in the foyer as she grabbed excitedly at the Gnari girl's arm. "Look, look, that's him! Master Rael! Eldeen's balls but the man is big! Where's the scrawny lad I used to have to give extra servings to, and who is this fine specimen of a man taken his place!"

"You're drooling, Cook," Silmaria said dryly, turning her gaze back to the man in question. 

"In more ways than one, Sil my girl, in more ways than...what's this, though?" Cook leaned forward, her plain face screwing up in a squint, as the woman didn't have the best of eyes anymore. "Is that a walking stick? Something's the matter with him."

Indeed, now that Cook mentioned it, Silmaria noted the way the tall man leaned heavily on a long, sturdy walking stick with his weight resting on it. When he stepped, he stepped with a limp, as if one of his legs were lame.

"He must have injured it in the war," Cook said aloud what Silmaria was thinking, only she said it in a stricken, worried tone that made the Gnari want to vomit.

"Rightly deserved, I'm sure," Silmaria muttered bitterly.

Cook rounded on her, wagging a plump finger in her face as she hissed at her not-so-quietly, "What've I told you time and again about that pretty little mouth?"

"That I've got something unsightly on it again?" Silmaria quipped, reaching up to wipe her lips. 

"Don't start with me," Cook grumbled, though Silmaria could tell she was fighting not to laugh at her jest. "You know damned well if comments like that are overheard you'll be thrown out to starve, and that only if you're lucky! What's the matter with you? You've more sense than that, making snide remarks about your betters."

"That would require that man to be my better, for starters," Silmaria replied, then held up her hands as Cook's mouth went wide. "Fine, fine, I'll leave off, Cookie, don't look at me like that. You look like you're about to have an attack."

"And it'll be all your fault, if you keep on," Cook snapped, then looked at her friend curiously, shaking her head. "Really, though. Why are you being such a wretch? You should be happy. All of us ought be. Maybe now that Master Rael's returned, things'll be better."

Silmaria looked at the handsome young Lord doubtfully. Her tail whipped about behind her restlessly. "I don't think so, Cook. If he gave a damn about his House, or any of us for that matter, he would've shown it a long time ago."

"He ain't been here. He didn't know," Cook persisted.

"That's exactly my point."

"Don't you think he had more important things going on, out on the front and all?"

Silmaria shrugged her graceful shoulders and crossed her arms stubbornly beneath her breasts. "I think if he had more important things to worry about than his dying father and the state of his inheritance, that right there tells me all I need to know."

Cook harrumphed and shook her head, her patience with her friend growing thin. "Get off it, girl. And come on. Look, Steward Jonor's come out finally to talk to Lord IronWing. Come on, let's have a listen!"

With a sigh, Silmaria let Cook drag her out of the shadows under the stairs and into the small throng of servants and workers who crowded before the Nobleman. 

Indeed, someone must have run to fetch the Steward and let him know that Lord Rael had arrived. The fat old man came waddling down to the main foyer as quickly as he could. He was sweating despite the cool morning temperature, fat beads rolling down his wide forehead and glinting in the thin ruins of hair on his largely balding pate. The tunic and breeches he wore were brightly colored silk in shades of burgundy and dark crimsons edged in thread-of-gold, and more costly by far than anything Silmaria had ever seen Master Edwin wear. Rings glinted on every one of the Steward's thick, blunt fingers. A pair of soft soled slippers fit his feet in colors matching his clothes. The man's small chin beard was heavily oiled and twisted into a point. He smelled of costly oils and perfumes that mingled unpleasantly with his nervous sweat. Jonor looked unsettled and tense as he clutched a silk handkerchief in a pudgy hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. 

"Lord Rael! What an unexpected surprise! Welcome home!" Jonor said. His smile was exaggerated and, to Silmaria, desperate. 

"You are...Jonor, yes?" The big Nobleman said after a moment. His strange eyes were studying the portly Steward closely, his silvery gaze intense and focused and not looking terribly pleased as he took in Jonor's opulent clothes.

"I am, I am!" Jonor said hastily. "We've had no report of your return, my Lord, or a feast would already be prepared! I fear you've caught me quite unaware! Oh, what a blessing to have you home after so long, my Lord! These louts must look so poorly, with no proper welcome for our Noble Lord ready to receive you. Atrocious! Inexcusable!"

"No report came because I did not send one," Lord Rael interrupted as Jonor began to glare about accusingly at the small cluster of serving folk around them. "Nor do I need a feast, or a welcome."

"Uh...very well, my Lord, of course, of course" Jonor stuttered uncertainly, his overly-enthusiastic false smile plastered to his face. He glanced around, his sweating brow suddenly furrowing. "And where would my Lord's retainers be...?"

"I've brought none," Lord Rael replied, leaning on his walking stick heavily. That was unusual, Silmaria thought; a Nobleman of Rael's rank and station, not to mention him being a Knight Captain, usually traveled with a respectable retinue of squires, personal servants, retainers and servants to see to their needs and their personal effects. For a Noble to travel alone, especially with an apparent injury, was near unheard of.

"What I need is a trencher of whatever is hot and fresh in the kitchens, and to have my things brought up to my old room," Rael said.

"My Lord's old room? Surely my Lord means to say the Master Suite," Steward Jonor asked.

Rael's piecing gaze didn't waver. "I meant what I said. My old room."

"Y-yes. Very good, Sir."

"I want the household gathered in the main dining hall. All of the serving folk and staff. I will see them when I've finished my meal."

"My Lord," Jonor said, his voice growing even more tight, though his false smile remained.

His orders given, Lord Rael made his way, limping, between the sweeping imperial stairs and under the balcony, through the archway leading into the dining hall. Cook tugged at Silmaria's sleeve and the two serving women made their way down the halls toward the kitchens.

"Well he's a serious young man, isn't he?" Cook chattered as they arrived at the kitchen. Cook set immediately to making up a plate of food for Lord Rael. Though she was less than thrilled at doing anything for the man, Silmaria nonetheless helped her friend gather up the freshest loaf of bread and a plate of roast mutton. It wasn't fine or fancy and the Gnari was sure the Lord wouldn't find it up to his standards, but it was warm and fresh and that was the best they could do right now.

"I hadn't noticed," Silmaria replied glibly. "All I noticed was Jonor sweating his fat ass off, which is about the only good thing I've seen out of all this."

"You're right about that one," Cook grinned saucily. "He looked ready to soil his silks! The crow's come to roost and that one knows it!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," the Gnari woman countered. "Sure, Jonor is going to have to watch himself from now on, but you know him. He'll slick-talk his way out of whatever comes his way. And who's to say anything's coming his way to begin with? Lord Knightly there hasn't even been here since he was a boy. He probably doesn't even remember what this place looks like when it's in proper order, so how could he recognize how bad things have gotten? And even if he does, who says he cares? I haven't seen any sign that he does."

Cook eyeballed her sternly as she vented and complained, voice growing more bitter and petulant by the word. When Silmaria finished, the older Human woman grabbed up a ladle from where it hung from a hook overhead, which was not particularly clean, and smacked the Gnari girl atop the head with it.

"Ow! Cook, what in the nine hells!"

"Mind your tongue, you stupid little girl, before you end up getting it cut out, and mine with it for being here with you! S'the matter with you, honestly."

Silmaria scowled at her friend and rubbed the tender spot atop her head. "For someone who seems to think so highly of Lord Rael, you seem awful afraid of him."

"It's not him I'm worried about, you twit," Cook replied. She brandished her ladle threateningly once again.

Silmaria hopped back out of reach, not one to be caught unawares twice. She crouched down, grinning a Cheshire grin. "Who, then?"

"Jonor, course," Cook hissed. She placed a few thick carrots onto the plate and leaned forward to speak to Silmaria in subtle tones. 

Well, subtle for Cook. 

"You said it yourself. Jonor is gonna slick talk his way out of whatever troubles come his way, or do his best leastwise. But I say, he's gonna face a reckoning. The young Master's no fool, mark my words, Sil. And Jonor'll take as many of us down along the way as he can in hopes of getting away clean with the things he done that he shouldn't and ain't done that he should. And you flapping your fool tongue, saying nonsense about him or Master Rael, is gonna get you the wrong kind of attention when he's needing someone to take a fall!"

Silmaria stared at the older woman for a long moment with stubborn defiance lighting her eyes. Finally, she relented, her ears drooping in resignation. "Fine, fine, you're right. Damn you."

"Damn right I am," Cook nodded matter-of-factly, as if there'd never been any doubt. "Now come along and let's get this meal delivered so we can have this meeting with the young Lord done with."

Really, it was just Cook delivering the food. Already a small gathering of servants milled about, restless and nervous in the dining hall. Silmaria positioned herself at the back of the crowd, keeping them between her and the Nobleman and standing close to the group to be as inconspicuous as possible. It earned her some odd looks from her fellows, who were used to the Gnari keeping a pretty wide distance, but everyone was too distracted by the Lord's presence to pay much mind.





DarkFyre Ch. 05



Despite her attitude toward him, Silmaria couldn't help but watch Lord Rael as he ate at the formal dining table. He was still wearing his traveling clothes, which were surprisingly simple and plain in design and cut. His thick cloak was the only thing of any real remarkable quality, a rich dark blue trimmed in silver, IronWing colors. His clothes were otherwise unadorned, a pair of thick black trousers and a heavy gray wool tunic made for winter. His dark leather riding boots were dusty from travel, and he had a pair of thick riding gloves folded and resting on his leg. He ate in silence, with his walking stick propped against his chair. It was impossible to read anything from his face, but his glinting silver eyes moved about the room, watchful.

By the time Steward Jonor entered the full household was assembled. Silmaria noted how few they were; though they were closer to three dozen than two, once House IronWing had proudly been served by twice as many.

Jonor had changed to simple and modest clothes more appropriate to his station. They were by and far the cheapest clothes Silmaria had seen him wear since Master Edwin's death and the Steward's subsequent seizing of power. He still smelled overpoweringly of spiced perfume.

Lord Rael finished his meal. He did not rush his pace, but ate as his leisure. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on a dinner napkin, and turned his attention to Jonor. His brows rose slightly in question and he swept a hand toward the assembled servants.

"This is it? This is everyone?"

"Yes, my Lord," Jonor said, and had the grace to cringe a bit.

Lord Rael looked equal parts perplexed and displeased. "This can't be right. My Father's...that is, my House holds many more than this. I remember this place being alive and full of people tending the estate. Why so few now?"

Silmaria was balling her hands into fists again and she was literally biting her tongue to keep herself silent. That idiot! That great Noble twat! If the man had bothered giving a damn before this very second he would have known exactly what the situation with his people and his lands were. Instead, he was sitting there looking like the fool of a spoiled Lordly prick that he was, wondering why things were all amiss. It was all the Gnari could do not to go stomping off from the dining hall then and there. Cook's ever watchful look of reproach was all that kept her silent as it was; her friend simply knew her too well and was watching her like a hawk.

"Yes, well. That is, I'm afraid we've had a decline in the number of servants employed here, my Lord. We no longer house the number we once did. Dreadful business, really."

"Do tell," Lord Rael said mildly. 

"Well, you see...." Jonor began. He hesitated, panic flashing in his eyes. And then his face changed as his small, sly mind found an answer.

"I'm afraid that when your Lord Father, may The Twelve gods rest his soul, passed away, we lost many of our workers. Most of them cited displeasure with the way Master Edwin ran his Household. He became unstable as his sickness took him I'm afraid, and quite belligerent. Always yelling at the help and abusing them, even as he weakened. His sickness took his mind from him alongside his body, you know. Those who didn't leave of their own choosing were sent away by Master Edwin during his fits of delirium. On top of that, his illness unbalanced his judgment so much, he squandered much of the house coffers on nonsense and meaningless trinkets. I'm afraid by the time our Good Lord IronWing passed, the results...are what you see now."

The silence that followed was all encompassing. The servants watched, their faces registering the shock and discomfort with what Jonor just said, but no one said a word. The Steward's lies were bold and cruel, and he'd likely get away with it completely. Rael hadn't seen his father in years, and hadn't come home when Master Edwin fell ill. He likely had no idea the exact circumstances of his father's illness. 

And what use was there for the serving folk to contradict the Steward? Most Nobles didn't put much stock in the common servant's voice, and though the Steward was a servant of sorts himself, his station and authority was above theirs. Whether because they believed they wouldn't be heard and feared the consequences of the Stewards wrath, or they were simply too stunned to contradict him, the silence held.

"That is bullshit!" 

The whole room seemed to jump. Cook, getting over her surprise, tried to make a grab at Silmaria, curses tumbling over themselves in a panicked jumble. But Silmaria was already moving, squirming away from her friend and shoving the servants in front of her out of the way to step to the front of the crowd. Her exotic eyes flashed with emerald fire as she stalked forward, her jaw clenched, teeth bared. 

Jonor stared at her, the color drained from his face and his jaw fell open in a gape. "Y-you dare!" he sputtered at last.

Silmaria was past all caution by then. Jonor's outright lies and slanderous words against Master Edwin had driven her immediately beyond any semblance of restraint. She walked right up to the portly Steward and put an accusing finger in his face, her wickedly sharp claw's extended and pointing just inches from his cheek. 

"The rest of these cowards may not have enough love left for Master Edwin to speak up, but I do! You're a miserable lying sod! Master Edwin's mind was his own until the day he passed, and every last one of us here knew he treated us fair and good! No one left willingly. You forced them out! You forced out good people who loved this place from their home, and for nothing! So House IronWing could crumple and decay from neglect because there aren't enough of us left to keep it up properly. And for what? Because you're a greedy son of a whore and wanted the house funds at your fingertips so you could buy whatever useless decadence your black heart desires!"

By then the Gnari girl was so angry she was visibly shaking. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was folly, but years of bitterness and anger from being judged and shunned, the abuse and mistreatment over the past year, and most of all the pain of losing Master Edwin had built up too much, and now that she had let down her guard, she found she couldn't stop herself. 

"I can't stop you from cutting our food rations or working us into the ground. I can't keep you squandering the House wealth on your own selfish desires. But I'll be damned by the Old Gods and the New alike if I'll let you bold faced lie about it all and drag Lord Edwin's name through the mud to do it!"

By then Jonor's face was flushed crimson and his false smile had at last fallen away. His eyes were wide, bulging and filled with incredulous rage, and his bejeweled fingers clutched in a distinctly strangling motion at the air. "Let me? Let me? As if the feelings or opinion of a wretched little mongrel whore like you matter to begin with! How dare you speak to your betters this way! How dare you speak this way in front of your Lord! You are nothing but a mangy whore who can't keep her legs shut! That's right, you beastly harlot; I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I know how to deal with women like you!"

The Steward lunged forward clumsily and raised up a swollen hand to strike the Gnari woman. Silmaria sprang nimbly back out of his reach. Jonor tripped, stumbling unbalanced as she moved beyond the range of his arm. The man turned even redder, if it were possible, and made to strike her again.

And let out a yelp of surprise as Rael's heavy hand clamped around his wrist, holding it in a grip like steel. The Nobleman's face was not pleased, and his eyes were hard and flinty. He made to speak, but before he could, Silmaria darted forward. She got in Jonor's face again and spoke through gritted, bared teeth.

"You aren't worthy of scrubbing the muck out of my Master's stables, more-less running his house. He was a great man. And you? You're a pretender and a coward. You know nothing about me."

Jonor glared daggers at the woman, his arm quivering where he tried to strike, but Lord Rael's grip was implacable. Then his face changed, and he gave a sickeningly sweet smile while his eyes dripped pure malice, the look of a man who knows he knows where to hurt someone worst. "I know enough. I know you haven't served in this house so long because you're a quality worker. The only reason Lord IronWing kept you around at all is found squarely between your legs."

The servant woman stared into the man's smug, superior eyes. The sneer fell from her face, her features becoming expressionless and still for the barest whisper of a moment. And then the moment passed, and Silmaria quite viciously smashed her forehead into Steward Jonor's face with every bit of force she could. It was enough to send a resounding crack through the air, and Jonor screamed high and shrill, clutching his bleeding, flattened nose with his free hand. Without a word, Silmaria turned and ran from the room.

Aside from the whining and whimpering of the Steward, the foyer was totally silent with shock. The servants glanced at one another nervously, uncertain and seemingly caught between fear of some impending punishment and gladness for Jonor finally getting what he so well deserved. 

The pudgy, bleeding Steward cursed miserably, holding his nose as the red sticky drops streamed between his fingers. "Someone grab that impudent little Gnari cunt! I'll have her strung up from the trees, I'll..."

"Do absolutely nothing," Rael finished for him.

Jonor stared at him, incredulous. "M-My Lord! You can't mean to let her get away with this!"

"I've more important matters to attend," Rael said coldly. He still held firmly to Jonor's wrist. Even leaning on his cane, The Nobleman's grip was such that the Steward was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. "I'm not the fool you think I am, Steward. Nor was I as out of touch with my Father as you'd like to believe. I exchanged letters with him to his dying day, and I know his mind was whole and healthy. I also know the state of House IronWing in his final days, and it was quite stable and prosperous. And I know that my Lord Father instructed you to keep things running in the same way, without making any changes to the servants or house running until I was able to return from the front."

Jonor had gone from flushed to pale very quickly. He stared at the Nobleman towering over him with eyes wide with fear, and teetered a bit as if lightheaded. "My Lord?" He said, not seeming to comprehend.

Rael released Jonor's hand and grabbed the front of the Steward's plain tunic, wadding it in his big fist. He yanked at the man, who was too round to be very light, yet moved him as if he weighed nothing. "Steward Jonor. You have besmirched the name of my House, and the honor of my Lord Father, your sworn Lord. You have denied his dying wishes, taken IronWing funds and resources to use for your own personal gain and fulfillment. You have allowed my home, my lands, and what is mine by inheritance and birthright to fall into an unacceptable state. You have misused my people, wronged my staff, and let good folk go homeless and penniless without proper cause. You, Jonor, have failed in every oath you swore as Steward to this house, and you are every bit of what that girl accused you of."

Jonor began to babble out a nonsensical litany of apologies, excuses, accusations, and pleads for mercy. Rael ignored him. He spied one of the few men gathered wearing the uniform of a House IronWing guardsman, a short, solidly built man with dirty blonde hair.

"You. Tell me your name."

"Tomas, milord," the man replied, dropping a bow.

"Tomas, we still have that holding cell in the back, yes? The one Father built to hold anyone who drank too much until they sobered up?"

"Aye, milord, it's still there."

"Good," Rael nodded. He shoved Jonor, none too gently, toward Tomas, and the Steward stumbled and fell heavily. "See that Jonor spends the night in it. He will be on his way to Trelling's Rest tomorrow to face the King's Justice for his crimes against my holdings and people."

"What? My Lord, no! Please no, I beg of you!" Jonor sobbed, reaching for Rael. Tomas grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hauling him backwards, nearly dumping him on his backside once more.

Rael stared at Jonor, the set of his face calm and hard and unforgiving. "By right, I could have you beheaded for your crimes against me and mine. Don't push me, Jonor, I'm fresh from the road and not long on patience." He raised his eyes to Tomas and nodded to the man. "Take him."

"Gladly, Milord," Tomas replied, and proceeded to show obvious enthusiasm for the task.

Rael watched the men go, then turned his strangely colored eyes back to his servants. He gripped his walking stick, leaned against it as he studied them for a moment. Such a blend of emotion on their faces. Fear. Confusion. Hope.

"I owe all of you an apology," the young Nobleman said, his voice deep and rich as he pitched it to carry to all their ears. "I did not know things were so bad here. I did not know Jonor was false. And I should have, war or no. He will be punished, and I will not allow this to happen again. It is a late start, I know, and I understand if you all have no love for me for letting you be put through this. But I will make it right. You have my word.

"I need a few things addressed immediately, to get things on proper track. First, who is responsible for the kitchen here?"

Cook shuffled forward, did her best attempt at a curtsy, and then self-consciously began to fidget with the scarf wrapped around her head holding her hair up and back. "I am, Milord."

"What is your name, good woman?" Rael asked.

"Rosella, Milord, but everyone just calls me Cook."

Rael cracked a smile at that. "Very well, Cook. I need you to take two capable help, and make some food for everyone. Double whatever the usual rations are. If you don't think double rations would be enough to send someone to bed with a full belly, then triple it. No one goes hungry in House IronWing from here on, understand?"

"Yes, Milord. I'll make sure everyone sups well tonight!"

"Very good," Rael nodded, dismissing her. Cook grabbed two servants from the cluster in the Dining Hall and dragged them excitedly to the kitchens. Servants began to speak quietly, and not so quietly to one another, their faces alight at the prospect of a good meal for the first time in nearly a year. They fell quickly silent when Rael held up a hand.

"Who here is good with sums? I need someone who is confident in their numbers, sure of them even."

A moment passed in silence, then a Halfling nudged his way past the taller serving folk to stand at the front. He had a short, well-trimmed beard gone gray, a curly mop of salt-and-pepper hair, and a Halfling sized jacket that was heavily patched in the elbows. "I know my sums, Milord. I was the good Master Edwin's books keeper before Steward Jonor was given charge. He stripped me of my duties. Said he could count for himself."

"What is your name?" Rael asked the Halfling.

"Selm, as it please you Milord."

"Selm, how would you like your old job back?" Rael asked with a questioning arch of his brows.

"If it please Milord, very much," Selm replied, smiling nervously.

Rael extended his hand, which after hesitating a moment uncertainly, Selm shook.

"You'll be a very busy man for some time, I'm afraid. I need an accounting of our books and supplies by sundown tomorrow. And check in with Cook to see what our food supplies look like."

Selm drew himself up as a tall as he was able which, for a Halfling, was pretty respectable. "It will be done, Milord."

"Good man."

His gaze swept over the rest of the serving folk, addressing all of them. He met as many of their eyes as he could, his words frank and his expression serious, sincere. "It will take some time, and some hard work from all of us, but I believe we can restore my Father's house...my house...all of our house, to what it once was. We can bring House IronWing out of the hard times it has fallen on and make it shine once more. My Father led this House with honor and diligence that did his forefathers proud. I have not done a good job of following in his footsteps. But I will change that, with your help."

The serving folk stared at the tall, strong young man standing before them, uncertain what to say. None of them were very used to being addressed in such a frank way by someone of Noble station. They were still skittish, nervous from too many days of harsh treatment. None seemed to want to speak first.

At last an aged woman stepped forward, a shawl about her withering but strong shoulders. She looked at Rael critically with eyes that had gone cloudy with age but saw much. "My name is Lirena, Milord."

Recognition flickered, hazy but growing, in Rael's eyes. "Lirena. I know you."

"I should hope so, Milord. I've served House IronWing since you were a lad running about this place like an unholy terror. Before the Knight Brothers stole you away and left our house less cheerful and more restful."

Rael smiled again, this time more sincerely, and his face was the more handsome for it. "You used to scold me for tracking mud in after the winter snows thawed."

"And well I should, since I was the one cleaning the floors!" Lirena said with a nod as her smile creased her weathered face. She sobered somewhat when she said, "You've been away for a long time, Milord. I won't ask the whys; I believe you had good reason, and even if you didn't it wouldn't be my place to say so. All I know is, your Lord Father, may all gods rest his good soul, was proud of you. He believed in you. He knew you was about important business at the war, and when you returned, you'd be a good and proper heir. Master Edwin was the smartest man I ever did meet, and if he believed in you, that's enough for me."

Rael took the woman's small, thin hand in his and patted it gently, meeting her upturned eyes. "Thank you, Lirena. Father would be proud of you, too."

The Knight Captain looked to his people as one by one, they agreed to work with him to put the House to rights. "Thank you. All of you. Please, everyone go get some food. Eat your fill. Then retire early. Come the morn, we will all have much work to do. Tomorrow will bring many changes."

As the servants filed out, Rael turned his eyes back to the old woman, and patted her hand once more. "One more thing before you go, old mother. That woman. The one who spoke against Jonor. What is her name?"

The old woman stared at him for a moment, then a wry, rascally smile formed. "You certainly are your father's son, aren't you?"

Rael looked puzzled. "Come again? I'm afraid I don't understand."

Lirena laughed and shook her head, and this time it was she patting his hand. "Don't you worry about it, it matters not. Silmaria. The girl's name is Silmaria."

***

Comments, critiques, and criticisms welcome. Plenty more to come! 



DarkFyre Ch. 06



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

  Rael sat at the long, ornate dinner table in the main dining hall with his long legs stretched out before him, leaning back in his chair as he rolled a small apple around in his hand. Selm, his whiskers newly trimmed and looking determined, watched him quietly, waiting for the young Nobleman to speak.



  The Knight had fully expected to have some distractions when he arrived home. He hadn't been to IronWing Manor in a long time, and so much was left undone from his father's death. He'd even found himself glad for the excuse to return, pleased at the prospect of seeing his old home and seeing to some odds and ends that surely needed his attention.



But he hadn't counted on things being so bad. He expected some work, sure; some overseeing minor changes here and there, some time spent with his small folk to bolster their spirits and show them that he was a real and true person, and though he was occupied elsewhere, he did still exist, and he did still care. The truth of the state of his holdings was much worse. So much to do. So much wrong to set right.

And he would do it, too. Personal quest or no, these folk were his responsibility. The truth of it all was, their situation, and the state of his home, was his fault. Father had felt sure that things would run smoothly without his presence, but they'd both overestimated Jonor's loyalty and honesty, and underestimated his laziness and greed. It would take time, and work, but Rael meant to set things right with House IronWing, restore his home and his people and his honor to what it once was. If it meant delaying his search for answers...so be it. He would still search, but he would do it as he settled the House affairs.

The first of which had been bringing Jonor to the city guard in Trelling's Rest. Rael had escorted the Steward personally, as he would brook no mistake or mishap on the way. He and two of his House guardsmen brought the Steward, shackled and chained, to the great city to be delivered. Jonor had sniveled and whimpered, all sense of dignity abandoned as if he were on a death march. Which he very well may have been.

Rael hadn't been to the city in nearly four years. It was good to return. 

  Trelling's Rest, so named for High King Trelling, Trelling the Bloodied, Trelling the Righteous, Trelling Who Conquers, Trelling the Man-God. Trelling was of the Werdin line, one of the oldest lines of Kings among the Old Fathers who were the root of all Humanity. It was Trelling who first set foot in the Northlands. He founded the first kingdom in his name in the harsh snowed frontier, and tamed DarkFyre Dale for his people before being made one of the new god's and joining the other eleven gods to form the Circle of Twelve. It was said among the Circle of Twelve, Trelling spoke for and championed Humanity, especially his legacy, the Men of the Dale.



  So the tales told. Most credited Trelling with founding Trelling's Rest and settling the wild North of DarkFyre Dale. Priests and believers of the Circle of Twelve maintained his godhood. Trelling's Rest was home to many believers of the Twelve, but also hosted followers of the Old Gods, and several churches of The Devout, the faithful children of the Highest Holy. There were also minor small temples to various southern religions and shrines of the Demi-Human races, but these were less popular, and less tolerated.



  Trelling's Rest, despite being predominantly Human Dalemen, was full of many cultures and different kinds of people. It was by and far the largest city in the North, the Jewel of the Dale and home of the noble court of DarkFyre Dale for years uncounted. And it showed; though it didn't have the grace and elegance of Ser in The Reach to the east, or the riches and scope of RedStone, capitol of the Leflin Empire far to the south in The Ashlands, Trelling's Rest was a grand city all the same. It was marked by the thickness of her walls and hardness of her stone buildings, built in great tiers arrayed at the foot of the Frozen Keep, seat of power to DarkFyre's King. The tiers of buildings stretched away from the Keep, moving downward and outward until they butted up against GlassWater, a huge lake of crystal clear waters. Warf's and docks were set all along the lake's edge. The lake was the lifeblood of Trelling's Rest, with natural hot springs under the lake keeping the waters from freezing even in the depth of winter. The warmth of the hot springs kept the worst of the winter chill from strangling the city outright, and kept fish plentiful all year long.



  After depositing the Steward with the Trelling Guard, Rael was taken with the urge to linger in the city for a time. He'd spent some years in the city during his days as a squire in service to the Knight Brotherhood. Though most of his days were wrapped in duties and training at the Frozen Keep, he visited the town as often as he was able, taking in the sights and smells of the markets, exploring the narrow, dilapidated streets winding between the sturdy buildings, as hard and hearty as the Dalemen themselves. Trelling's Rest was a city of bustle and business, people always moving, always about their business lest they be overtaken by the cold. Men of the Dale were a boisterous lot, outspoken and as fierce as the land they called home. It was good to be here again, to see what it was he'd been fighting so hard to protect.



  Alas, his visit had been cut short. Duties called him back to House IronWing, where a meeting with Selm awaited. The two of them went over the books together that night, reviewing Selm's findings in the dining hall as they shared broiled goose, the skin crispy and the fat greasy and filling. They licked their fingers clean, careful not to smear the pages displaying Selm's figures.



  Now, nearly an hour later, Rael rolled his apple from one hand to the other, his movement absent and distracted. At last he noted his restless action, and noted Selm noting it. He placed the apple back in the small dinner basket of fruit on the table, and leaned forward with his hands together.



  "I'll admit, this is worse than I thought," he said.



  "I told you it was bad, Milord," Selm sighed.



  "So you did," Rael nodded. "I knew the man was a fool, but this...this is..."



  "Exceptional?" Selm suggested.



  "Exceptional," Rael agreed. He gave a grim, humorless smile. "I should have taken his head while I had the chance."



  "I'm sure the King's Justice could bear your advice in mind," Selm said. 



  "The King doesn't bear much of anyone's advice in mind these days, from what I hear," Rael said. "Besides, we're broke. We're as good as a lesser House at this point."



  "True," Selm shrugged a small shoulder. "So we'd best get to fixing that problem. You wouldn't want to be out of style if the King ever does start opening his ears again."



  Rael smiled to himself. He liked the little Halfling man. Not many would dare to speak so glibly about their King, even to their Lord. Especially to their Lord.



  "Our priority as of now is food and clean, warm clothes," Rael said, his smile fading as he returned to the issue at hand. He leaned over the sheets of figures spread out on the table. "This much in our stores isn't even going to last us through the winter. What was he thinking?"



  "I think he was thinking of letting more of us go," Selm suggested. He reached up and scratched at his great ruddy nose. "I also don't think the man could count much past his fingers and toes."



  "That would explain a lot," Rael said with disgust. He ran a hand through this burnished copper hair. "We have to find some money. We will have to start selling some of our goods to get money for the essentials."



  "I thought you'd say something like that. I've already thought of the perfect place to start," Selm said. 



  Rael studied the Halfling, who was grinning foolishly despite their somber conversation. Then Rael understood, and he couldn't help but smile as well. "All Jonor's useless, misbegotten finery."



  "Precisely!" Selm laughed. Grinning still, he pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, rolled it out, and pointed at the figures he'd scrawled. "This is all just estimates, mind, and I'm no merchant. But I guessed as fairly as I could, and this is what I came up with."



  Rael took the paper and ran his eyes over it. The normally unflappable Captain wore an expression that was equal parts surprise, disgust, anger and awe. "How in all the names of the Circle of Twelve did Jonor spend this much money? And this is the resell value? This is ridiculous!"



  "Well, he did have his bed special made, with a solid gold frame," Selm explained with a casual shrug. "Among other things."



  Rael stared blankly at the Halfling, then leaned back in his seat and placed a hand over his face, massaging his temples. "Should have taken his head."



  "This should be a good start, I think," Selm nodded, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction.



  "Indeed, a good start," Rael nodded. He stood then, and braced his hands on the table as he leaned over it, regarding the books carefully. "There are more measures we need to take, though. We need funds for an ample store of food, clothes, and repairs to the Manor. The grounds need tending and we need to begin to stockpile supplies for the coming year. We are nearly out of candles and lamp oil, and we need to gather firewood. And most especially, we need to hire more help. That will take even more food and clothes and other supplies, and we can't even begin to hire more people until we've fully provided for our own."



  "What do you suggest, Milord?" Selm asked as he grabbed a fresh paper and quill, then stared at Rael expectantly.



  "How many horses are in our stables, currently?" Rael asked.



  "Fourteen, Milord, including a foal, and your own mount."



  "Good. Keep my mount, and six more. Sell the rest. We can use the coin, and the horse feed will go farther. How fares our livestock?"



  Selm glanced at a sheet of parchment briefly. "Eight heifers, three bulls, a calf, ten sow, six boars, five goats, three geese, and a fair number of chickens."



  Rael nodded to himself. "Sell a third of the livestock, and set whoever in the Manor knows the most about livestock and animal husbandry to getting a few of the heifers and sows breeding. Have the same man sort out the best candidates for slaughter. In the meantime, I want four men going out every day hunting. They may take the best horses fit to the task, and whatever hounds are suitable from the kennels."



  "Do you think they'll find much?" Selm asked doubtfully.



  "Winter is young yet. There will still be some game to be found, if they're clever and work together."



  "Well, here's hoping to that," Selm muttered, and he scratched a few notations on the parchment. "I think I know a few lads right for the job."



  "Good," Rael nodded. "That will be enough for now. Keep me updated as we sell our goods and start to bring some coin in, and as food and supplies are added. Is there anything else we need to speak of?"



  "Not right now, Milord. This is plenty for tonight," Selm nodded wryly as he gathered up his papers.



  "Very good," Rael said with a small smile. "Continue the good work. We will take our progress as it comes."



  "Yes, Milord. A pleasant evening to you."



  "And to you," Rael nodded, and took his leave.

***

For her part, Silmaria spent several days after Lord Rael's return an emotional, frazzled mess. She flip-flopped continuously between feeling justified for her actions, and terrified that reprisal was coming any moment. Even after Steward Jonor was taken away to the capital to face the King's Justice, she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder often, paranoid and convinced that he would find some way to take his revenge. Her actions had been entirely impulsive and driven by her anger and emotion, and while she couldn't say she regretted it, she did worry what consequences would come her way. Maybe Jonor would be released and come back with a grudge against her. Maybe he had a friend or two among the servants who would exact his vengeance for him. Maybe Lord Rael would take exception to her boldness and punish her himself. The possibilities circled around in her head until she was warring with herself internally over whether she'd been righteously vindicated, or just plain stupid.

After a week, nothing happened. There was no retaliation from Jonor, and no rebuking from Lord Rael. She swore to herself she would be more cautious from now on, and slowly, began to relax.

As she came out of her panic, Silmaria finally noticed how the mood at IronWing Manor had changed. The oppressiveness, the languor, the lack of direction and drive, the bitterness and melancholy that had been ever present for months, so thick and pervasive that it was a palpable miasma in the air, was gone. Replaced instead by renewed energy and optimism. The servants were glad again, motivated and working with willing spirits. Whatever else she may think and feel about Lord Rael, he had invigorated his people.

Mostly it seemed to do with direction, change, and hope. The serving folk had been in such a rut of grim hopelessness and the whole Manor steadily stagnated. Lord Rael had changed all that almost immediately. He'd taken steps to bolster the House's coffers, and the estate now had much more food and supplies than Steward Jonor had maintained. The servants were well fed and the pantries and larders were stocked with food and supplies that would last them through the winter. Men had been assigned to ride out and hunt, and had brought in game that was being salted and preserved. Now working on full bellies, morale in the Manor had improved notably, and effort was being put into their work and duties that had flagged for months.

Just two days past, the serving folk had been surprised with new, clean clothes. They were simple and plain, but practical, well made, and new, made by hand by Karee, a seamstress of some skill Lord Rael hired to fill the position Steward Jonor had left empty after dismissing the last seamstress, a wizen old woman named Nina who'd been in Master Edwin's employ for as long as Silmaria could remember. The gossip was, Lord Rael had tried to find old Nina to rehire her, but searches in the country and Trelling's Rest turned up no sign of her.

Karee was an Elven woman of some two centuries. Like all her people, the years took no toll on her. She'd spent much of her early life traveling with a group of her people before settling in DarkFyre Dale and taking up needle and thread. Though she'd never studied under a master tailor and risen to that level of craftsmanship, she had almost a hundred years of experience and knew how to make quality clothing on a budget.

In addition to the new clothes that each servant received, thick, soft new blankets were distributed, enough to ensure no one suffered cold and shivering in the coming winter nights. Everyone's bedding was turned out and new straw and feather stuffing made each pallet far more comfortable. Wood for the hearth in each room was stockpiled so their fires could be made much warmer. 

Such simple things, but for the simple folk, each effort made a drastic difference. Warmly clothed, comfortably rested and well fed, spirits soared and the workers tackled their duties vigorously. Smiles replaced the ever present frowns and weary expressions they'd all been wearing for so long. Lord Rael's name was spoke often, and always with appreciation and high regard.

Silmaria's voice was not added to the praise. She did not trust the young Nobleman still. Oh, he seemed capable enough, and was taking steps to make things better, she could admit that. But she wasn't yet able to let go of his failing to keep the estate in good form to begin with. Moreso, she couldn't forgive his callous absence during Master Edwin's decline and death. It was simply too much for her to overlook.

The increased rations, the new clothes, the blankets and bedding all felt like bribes of a sort to her. Gifts come too late. Despite that, Silmaria was no fool, and if she was begrudging about accepting the help, she accepted it nonetheless. 

Things stayed busy around the Manor now. New servants were added to the staff in a trickle, for Lord Rael was cautious about adding mouths to feed and backs to clothe while the Estate's resources were still recovering. But help was coming, slowly but surely, and in a few instances the new arriving faces were familiar ones, old fellows and friends Jonor had cast out returning home. 

The Manor was turning to its old self. With more servants taking up the slack and work effort improving, neglected duties were well tended again. Repairs had begun that had been long put off, such as the hole in the roof from a heavy storm last summer, and the broken window in one of the sitting rooms downstairs. The cleaning and tidying in the Manor overall was kept up properly for the first time since Master Edwin's passing.

As the days turned to weeks, Silmaria caught frequent glances of Lord Rael around the Manor. She'd expected he would be far removed from the work and efforts around the great house, as most Nobles tended to be, but that was not the case. On the contrary, Lord Rael was a present and included figure in almost everything around his holding. He oversaw repairs, directed supplies being added to the stock rooms, encouraged the efforts in the kitchen, advised in the cleaning and upkeep of the stables and kennels, oversaw the training and routines of the House guard, and all manner of other efforts being made around IronWing Manor. 

  He cut a proud figure, standing upright and tall with his big hands resting atop his walking stick. He'd shaved the thick growth of travelers beard away a day after arriving, and now kept his beard short and neatly groomed. He cleaned up well, and his face was well made now that his beard was tamed, his jaw solid and strong, his cheeks set finely, and his beard when properly tended complimented his features handsomely. 



  Silmaria did her best to avoid him, but even she wasn't immune to the uplifted spirits in the household. Her mood was more cheerful and optimistic and she caught herself smiling more often. Though she'd been a hard worker even during the grimmest times this past year, she set to her tasks with more energy than before. Cook had gleefully speculated on the state of endowment of the source of Silmaria good mood. Smiling, Silmaria suggested she take a long walk along the docks of Trelling's Rest in nothing but her knickers.



  Some three weeks after Lord Rael's return, Silmaria was sent to Master Edwin's study. She made her way along the halls and upstairs, her mood light and pleasant, humming an old folk tune to herself. Her tail flitted behind her, a physical tell of her energy and high spirits, for few things were as soothing to her as spending time in that special place.



  As soon as she entered the study, however, her mood shattered. She stared, her big slitted green eyes wide with shock. Where Master Edwin's desk should have been empty and neat and clean, his chair empty save the memory of her beloved Lord, Lord Rael sat. His big frame was larger than his father's had been. He had several books pulled out upon the desk and a sheaf of paper at his left hand where he was scrawling notes in tight letters. A strange arrow of some kind rested on the table in front of him.




DarkFyre Ch. 06



It took every bit of Silmaria's self control to keep from screaming at him to get out. She had to take several moments just to gather her wits and force herself to find some shred of calm. She hated him so much in that moment, she could barely bring herself to even stay in the same room with him. 



  How dare he! The insufferable prick had no right! This was Master Edwin's place, his pride, and it was the place they'd shared together, been happy together, and spent so much time together. This, above all places, was where she'd grown and learned and loved. And now this young oaf just came in here and presumed to help himself to the books and the desk, ruining it all! He was just...just...



  But of course the truth of it was, no matter how much it galled her and she hated it, he did have a right. Silmaria took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, forcing her fists to unclench at her sides. The sudden rushing, then stilling of adrenaline left her shaking. He had all the right in the world. She didn't like the man, but he was Master Edwin's heir, and the now rightful ruler and Lord of House IronWing.



  It was a bitter pill to swallow. But she had no real choice. Silmaria reached for the door.



  "Wait."



  The Gnari girl froze at the word, spoken gently but with unmistakable command. In that single, simple word, Silmaria felt a pinch in her heart, for it reminded her so of her Lord Edwin. He would have said the word just so, and it struck her to her core how similar the word was coming from the son. She couldn't help but obey the command.



  She turned slowly to find those eerie, beautiful silver eyes trained on her. His face was serious and solemn, but his eyes were...curious, perhaps? Wondering? It was difficult to read his eyes, but there was something there. He was studying her, considering her closely. The intense gaze made her keenly uncomfortable.



  He shut the book he had been reading and placed it aside on his father's desk. "I remember you. The Gnari child that followed my father so often. The servants called you his shadow, or his pet kitten. I remember thinking that an unkind thing to call you, but secretly thought it had the ring of truth to it too."



  Silmaria regarded him doubtfully. She had been sure on the few times he visited in her youth that he'd never taken note of her. That he'd noticed her, and remembered her, was even more unnerving than thinking she'd been ignored. She said nothing, having no idea how to reply to him.



  Lord Rael continued to watch her. "Tell me. How well do you know my Father's study?"



  The Gnari woman stood up straighter; part of her didn't want to so much as speak to him. But despite her distaste for the man, he'd touched on something important to her.



  "I know the study better than anyone else," Silmaria said with pride in her voice. "For many years I was the study's caretaker. It was my primary duty. I helped Master Edwin to organize his books and tomes regularly. Even now, I know where most everything is."



  "Then you would know where any books my Father had regarding magic would be," Rael replied.



  Silmaria's brow furrowed thoughtfully for a moment. "Magic? Yes, I know where those books would be." Then, belatedly remembering the manners expected of her, added "My Lord."



  Rael arched a brow at her pronunciation, which was proper and not at all like a commoner or peasant, but he didn't comment. Instead, he said, "Do you have any other duties requiring your immediate attention?"



  Silmaria hesitated. She could lie and say yes. She sensed he would release her if she did, and he seemed preoccupied with something so he probably wouldn't inquire into her other duties to catch her in the lie. As much as she was reluctant to have anything to do with him, she knew at some point she would have to serve him. Besides, magic...that was some unusual reading, to be sure. She had to admit, she was intrigued.



  "No, my Lord. The study was my assigned duties for the day."



  "Very good," Rael nodded. "Do you think you could find those tomes for me? I've need of them."



  Silmaria at last stepped further into the room. She moved closer, careful and skittish at first as she approached him, looking all the world like a nervous cat, but as curious as one as well. She leaned forward, looking over the tomes on the desk. Her hair fell forward in a tumble of midnight curls, clashing with the whites and oranges of her pelt. 



  She pushed her dense mane distractedly out of the way. "These are the books on Magic you've found so far?"



  Rael shook his head and gave a wry smile. "These are my attempts at finding the books on Magic. So far I've not had very much success."



  Silmaria nudged through the books. He was certainly right about that much. After examining the books on the desk, she stacked the books together, keeping one apart. "That one is a book on traditional Sorcery and Magic of the Orinthian people. The rest of these are more about myths and tales than any real Magic. I can fetch the other tomes I know of if you'll give me a few moments, my Lord."



  "Very good," Rael nodded. He rose and began to gather the volumes she'd stacked to the side.



  "I can put those away, my Lord," Silmaria said, feeling a twinge of possessiveness.



  "It's all right. I can take care of them. I remember where they go. I'll put them away, while you focus on finding the books."



  He rose, gripping his walking stick with one hand while he gathered several large, heavy books with his free arm, balancing them as if they weighed nothing. Silmaria pursed her lips unconsciously and remained silent, unhappy, but fetched the books he required.



  Both of them finished their tasks and met back at the table. Silmaria had found a half dozen or so volumes of research and lore on the practical magic, rituals, and spiritual powers of various sects and cultures.



  "Very good," Rael nodded as he picked up one of the thicker books and ran his hand slowly along the leather bound cover. 



  "Master Edwin was just starting to collect these books before..." Silmaria began, but left the rest unsaid. "He said it was very hard to obtain texts regarding magic. Most sorcerers and mages guard their secrets very closely. But he was pleased with these. Some of these tomes are very old."



  "I see. Thank you for gathering them. I will be very careful with these books."



  Silmaria nodded slowly, watching him as he placed the books carefully side by side, arranging them upon the desk in order of size. "Why are you researching Magic? You don't seem the type to be taken with enchantments and parlor tricks."



  Rael looked up at her, meeting her strange eyes with his own unique ones. After a moment he gave a wry smirk and said, "Don't I, though? I've always had a secret fascination with the mystical. I have robes for when I'm feeling in the mood and everything."



  It took Silmaria a moment to realize he was joking. Her immediate reaction was a mix of irritation and, for reasons she couldn't explain, embarrassment. "Well. If that is all my Lord requires, I have duties elsewhere."



  Rael's brow furrowed. He stared at her for an uncomfortable moment, then at last said, "Yes, of course. Thank you for your assistance, Silmaria."



  Silmaria's mouth opened and then shut hastily. How in the hells did he know her name? She hadn't told him, and she certainly didn't believe he remembered from his few visits during his youth. Now she was totally uncomfortable and confused. He made her head spin, confounding and infuriating her despite not actually doing anything at all wrong. She had to get away from him. The Gnari servant muttered a "my Lord", dropped the most graceless curtsy she'd ever done, and all but ran from the room.



  Rael sat at his Father's ornate writing desk and stared after the fleeing woman, feeling more than a bit perplexed. More than a lot, even. "Well done, Rae. You're first time speaking to a woman who wasn't in a uniform or mail in the god's know when, and you scare her away just by talking to her. You haven't lost you're touch at all, it seems."



  And now he was talking to himself.



  Rael sighed, scrubbed a hand roughly through his thick copper hair, and stood to stretch. He had been faking a limp and placing his weight unevenly when he stood for so many weeks now that it was starting to make him limp in actuality. 



  He sat back down and picked up the unusual arrow meant to end his life, and turned it absently in his hand, his fingers cursorily tracing over the etching of runes. His eyes drifted back to the door unbidden. There was something different about the Gnari woman, strange and fascinating, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.



  But, of course, he had more important things requiring his attention. The unexpected task of rebuilding his House weighed heavy on him. His people deserved to be properly cared for, and he certainly wasn't about to be the one to let his House degrade into obscurity and ruin. He would rebuild and renew his estate and bring honor to his House and a better life for his folk.



  And then, of course, there was the matter of the arrow in his hand, the magic tied to it, and the people who wanted him dead. He still didn't understand the means arrayed against him. The arrow seemed deadly enough; if some hidden archer were able to put an arrow through his chest, why bother with the strange magic tied to the arrow? It seemed unnecessary and extreme. Extravagant measures for a simple Knight Captain, regardless of how talented he may be. 



  Rael was sure that the strange magic tied to the arrow was the key to finding the assassin. It couldn't be a common spell. And if he found the assassin, maybe he could find who hired him.



  He took up one of the books and opened it. He didn't consider himself much of a scholar, but his Father had instilled in him early that a good Knight and Commander of men must be well read to keep his mind sharp. 



  If Father were here now, he would have known exactly where to look. Father had always been wise and well learned. Not for the first time, Rael wished Lord Edwin were still with him to advise him. He had spent much of his life away from his Father, but he nonetheless admired the man and had always valued his counsel and guidance.



  But he was not. Rael was alone, and he must find answers to this mystery alone. He would not let these assassins go unpunished, nor their masters. Gods willing, the answers he sought would be in one of these books.



  Lord Rael turned his attention back to the books on his Father's desk, and putting all other distractions aside for a time, he began to read.

***

It was a fuzzy, indistinct sort of night. The sky was big and dark, stretching out in a black, moonless nothingness broken sporadically by pinpricks of starlight outside the great big glass window of the study looking out to the north reaches of the Dale, unseen in the night. 

The study was near as dark as the sky, with only a few candles lit to give a soft glow to the otherwise shadowy room. The light was more than enough for Silmaria to see by, but her eyes were shut so it hardly mattered. A soft, shuddering breath trembled from between her barely parted, soft lips. The tips of her breasts were hard and aching, her thick nipples stiff from exposure to the cool air. She hardly noticed. The roundness of her lush ass rested on the cool, smooth top of Master Edwin's desk. 

  The warm, thick honey of her cunt seeped down her slit to pool at the crack of her ass. She had the brief guilty thought of making a mess on her Master's desk. Then Master Edwin's tongue slid firmly up and down the length of her slit, tasting her slick pink flesh before his lips closed around the stiff little swelling of her needy, sensitive clit, and all thoughts fled from her mind in a barely muffled shriek of pleasure. He sucked firmly, his lips pulling and tugging on the bundle of pleasure as his tongue circled it, lapping and flicking and sending bursts of ecstasy jolting through her body, radiating outward from her weeping cunt. 



  Silmaria's legs were spread wide, her limber young body open and offered up to her dear Master's pleasure and desire. She reached up, her hands slipping over the supple, rounded flesh of her breasts, restless and searching, needing to touch something, anything, unable to be still. She caught her nipples between slender fingers and tugged them, sharply, gasping as her back arched, the little sting of sharpness as ever giving focus to the overwhelming haze of unfocused need that was her Stirring. 



  Her hips lifted, circling sensually against Master Edwin's mouth. The older Human gripped her widely spread thighs. His hands were strong and weathered and scarred from a lifetime of serving as a warrior. His grip was firm, controlling and guiding her body as his tongue worked at her slick pussy, attacking her clit aggressively, insistently, drawing her orgasm out in no uncertain terms, demanding her to cum and give up her pleasure. 



  She complied, readily and with abandon, screaming and bucking and near weeping with the intensity. Her release exploded and rushed like the sweetest burning fire through every neuron in her body, leaving her shaking like a leaf in a storm. The only thing keeping her grounded to her sanity was staring down with eyes watery and wide, to see Master Edwin's focused blue gaze staring up from between her shapely spread eyes, his approval and satisfaction shining in his eyes even as he pushed her even higher, his mouth sucking hard at her clit as his rough fingers thrust firmly into her spasming cunt.



  Abruptly then, everything shifted. The study faded away, and Silmaria was in Master Edwin's room. There was a storm outside, rain coming down in a deluge that would have been deafening if it weren't drowned out by the frequent clap and crackling boom of thunder. The only light came from a single candle set on a bedside table, and the exploding flashes of lightning racing across the sky, forking and arching and forming intricate white serpents coiling and dancing through the black heavens. 



  Silmaria was on her belly, pressed into the mattress by Master Edwin's weight on top of her, her firm round ass arched up as he pounded roughly into her. His thick cock speared into her tender pussy over and again, stretching her cunt wide open as she screamed and moaned and whimpered his name into the sheets and pillows. He'd been fucking her for what seemed like forever and her flesh was stinging and sore and alive where his hands gripped her so tight or his nails raked firmly along her glossy pelt. She took everything he gave, eager and compliant. She was his, his plaything, his little puppet on a string and she would dance whatever dance he commanded gladly.



  One strong, capable hand circled under her writhing body to clutch one of her heavy breasts, squeezing and kneading, his fingers sinking into her pliant flesh as his wonderful cock plunged in and out of the welcoming wet warmth of her body over and again. His pace was powerful and demanding and his throbbing length hit all the most perfect spots inside her with every deep, lunging thrust. It was beautiful, and wicked, and earthshattering and soon Silmaria was lost yet again, screaming and quivering, her body thrashing and wriggling but he had her pinned so deliciously to the bed she couldn't move and could barely breath and he was hot and heavy on top of her and that only made her cum all the harder. Her upraised haunches quivered as she came, her body taut as a bowstring as her pussy milked and squeezed rhythmically at her Master's plunging length. 



  Master Edwin hammered and fucked her right through her orgasm, his cock thrusting deep into her core, sliding through the slick, gripping passage of her pussy even as she came violently. Silmaria gasped, sobbing, his pace making her orgasm extend into another, and another, and soon she was squirting all over the bed, a hot, sticky spray of girlcum splashing in silky slick streams from her cock-stuffed slit.



  A moment later, she was on her back, shaking and twitching, her legs sprayed out wide in the mess she'd just made as Master Edwin's thick cock pressed past her panting lips and thrust deep, working its way down her talented, tight throat. Silmaria moaned, shuddering yet again, her pussy clenching on emptiness as she responded to the taste, a heady mix of the taste of her Master's flesh and the sticky-sweet coating of her own cunt juices. Her muffled moans and whimpers came even as she began to bob her head up and down that hard, throbbing length of flesh, reveling in the taste of their joining.



  Master Edwin's cock was filling her airway, choking her and gagging her even as she pushed forward to try to get him even deeper, her lips pursed and struggling around the base of his cock. As her mouth worked up and down her Master's shaft her tongue swirled and licked, running firmly along his meat as she gave all of herself, every scrap of her energy and ability and lust focused on pleasuring the man that meant the world to her. She slurped, loud and wet, and the taste of his flesh and her juices combined made her mouth water until saliva ran in rivulets down her chin, and she gave her Master the sloppy, hungry cocksucking he deserved.



  Silmaria couldn't help it any longer. She reached down between her supple, strong young legs and plunged her fingers into the hungrily gripping hole of her cunt. She looked up, to gaze upon her Master with adoration and servitude and love, as she felt him go rigid and shove deep to finally give Silmaria her desperately needed reward.



  And then she froze in horror. Master Edwin had changed. In the darkness, his lean, solid, fit form was bigger, taller, broader, more muscular and defined. The lightning outside writhed across the sky. In the flash, she stared up at that beloved faced, and saw instead the face of his son staring down at her with eyes too intense and serious and knowing. The cock in her mouth jerked, and burst, cum spraying thick and hot and creamy, spurting down her throat in generous ropes. It choked her and flooded her mouth, and Silmaria wasn't sure if the seed on her tongue tasted of the father, or the son.



***

Silmaria woke, shaking, laying in the room surrounded by the deep breathing and soft snores of her fellow serving women. Her heart beat violently, leaping in her chest as her sensitive eyes and ears strained in alertness for a moment. Then she curled into a ball under the covers, buried her face into her pillow, and wept. The dream left her overwhelmed, distraught and frightened and confused and full of an unexplained shame and self-loathing.

And even then, her traitorous body won out as it always did, so shamefully aroused by her dream that her thighs squished when they rubbed together. Her hands slid down between her legs and she frantically plunged three fingers into her sopping sex as her other hand found her clit and roughly pinched and rubbed at it. 

  She hated herself intensely in that moment, but her flesh would not be denied.



  Her sobs were muffled into her pillow. She tried fervently to forget that last moment of her dream, even as she recklessly gave in to her needs, remembering.



***

Please send all comments and critiques. All feedback is welcome! I hope everyone enjoys how things are progressing, and continue to read as the plot thickens!



DarkFyre Ch. 07



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

The shop was claustrophobic. Despite the blustery cold outside, the room was oppressively hot. Four sooty wall sconces cast off a weak glow. The rest of the light came from two stone hearths in opposite corners of the room banked high with logs, radiating uncomfortable warmth. Several braziers were set around the room, adding to the heat. They threw off a heavy shroud of incense and scented smoke, cloyingly sweet. Behind the sweetness of the incense lingered a pervasive mustiness, the smell of old things becoming older. 

The sense of cramped closeness was probably due to the fact that, in addition to being a tiny little box of a shop, the entire space was atrociously cluttered and messy. The room consisted of book cases lining the wall to the left and right of the entrance. Two short, squat rows of shelves were set in the middle of the room, low enough to see over to the back of the room, where there was a counter space with two chairs behind it, and a stairway leading up into what was likely living quarters, not-quite obscured by a curtain of brightly colored beads. There was barely enough room to walk between the shelves and around the room.

There were objects, nick-nacks, accoutrements, paraphernalia, and bits-and-pieces of every conceivable sort scattered around the environs. There were more books piled up in random heaps around the shop and on the counter than were on the book cases, which seemed to be designated to housing anything at all in the world, as long as it was not a book. Shelves were heaped with figures and relics and mystic talismans, fetishes of wood and grass and flint. 

Strange, exotic stones were arrayed on one shelf, only instead of being displayed or separated by their various types, they were thrown in a haphazard pile in a basket, so that a seemingly precious crystal was lumped with a stone that glowed scarlet and orange as if lit from a fire within, both of which were covered over by a rock that looked for all the world exactly like a rock. 

The proprietor of this fine and strange and untidy shop was a gnarled old gentleman named Mithayu. Mithayu was a Sorcerer, a merchant, and a businessman, all while looking more like a hermit and a recluse than any of the former. He had heavy, bushy white brows and set over squinting, rheumy eyes and a bald, pale pate that he occasionally kept covered with a floppy wide brimmed hat that seemed too big for his head. His robes were a deep brown and voluminous, hanging from his small, thin frame and blotched liberally with many stains of mysterious and questionable origin.

Rael looked around the shop with sinking hopes. He was dressed warmly in plain commoner's clothes similar to what he'd traveled home in, a heavy wool tunic and breeches, with a thick fur lined traveling cloak wrapped about his broad shoulders. He'd managed to give his concerned and protective guardsmen the slip, claiming he was riding out into the countryside to hunt for game and then circled around to Trelling's Rest. He knew his guard meant well, but his purpose was a too sensitive in nature to let word get out, and he knew that even the most well intending guardsmen were notoriously loose lipped.

Which begged the question, why he'd allowed Silmaria to know the nature of some of his studies and inquiries. All good sense pointed to it being a bad idea, yet somehow, he felt sure that she wouldn't speak of it to anyone else. He could not explain why. But Rael was usually inclined to trust his intuition.

This was not the first such outing he'd taken, nor the first shop of Sorcery, mysticism, witchcraft, or hedge magic he'd visited. In the two months since his return home, Rael hadn't been idle. Between putting his House and fortune back together and caring for his people, Rael had been researching and studying, digging persistently for answers. He'd already scoured through all the tomes related to magic in his Father's study, with Silmaria's tight-lipped but confident assurance that all tomes she knew on the subject had been brought out for his review. 

Rael expanded his search to Trelling's Rest, pursuing resources outside his halls. He had to be cautious and selective about his inquiries. The Knight Captain was cautious of his search being noticed by the wrong set of eyes and ears. Since his return to his home there'd been no sign of his assassins following him, no suspicious activity or untoward disturbances in his day to day life. Rather than feeling relief, Rael actually felt more paranoid, his every waking moment filled with tension and suspicion. He found it inconceivable that having failed such a strange attempt, his assassins would simply let him be.

And so, the Nobleman avoided the obvious sources of knowledge such as the Royal Libraries, the Halls of Lore and Record, and the Magi's Sanctum, the home and hub of magic and mysticism in the North. He trusted mages little, and the dangers of someone taking note of his search was too great in one of those more public and populated places.

Instead, Rael searched the Hedge Wizard shops, the small sorcerer peddlers, the private libraries and lore collectors. He scoured any place he deemed safely away from scrutiny for any information on the dark and twisted spells tied to the deadly arrow. He kept circumspect and gave little information away, but as visit after visit was met with puzzlement and confusion and little else, his patience wore thin. Every lost opportunity and fruitless attempt left him feeling more keenly the blade at the back of his neck. With each new day, Rael felt more and more like a cornered animal. 

He wasn't overly fond of the feeling.

In an uncharacteristic moment of frustration, Rael asked old Lirena if she knew anyone familiar with old, unusual magic or lore with the excuse of continuing his father's studies in lost magical arts. Mithayu's name came up.

Rael stepped through the cramped shop, looking around dubiously and trying very hard not to knock over, well, everything. The shop wasn't built for someone his size. Hell, even a Dwarf or a Halfling would find the room uncomfortably crammed together. The Knight looked up at the leathery old man and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Master Mithayu, I presume?"

Mithayu looked up at the much larger man as if noticing him the first time, despite the loud jangling of bells tied to his front door. He over slightly, the book he'd been nudging through still clutched in age spotted hands. He squinted up at Rael, then leaned far back, his neck craning with an audible pop. He looked thoughtful, pensive, his face screwing up as if contemplating some great mystery in the Nobleman's strange, silvery shining eyes. He stared at Rael with such intense scrutiny, and the wisdom of ages seemed to dance in his old, fading eyes that saw without seeing.

Then, the old sage blinked, opened his mouth, and said, in a crackling, harsh voice, "Huh?"

Or he was just an eccentric old geezer. Rael stared at him and barely suppressed the urge to turn right around and walk out the door. He stepped closer, placed his hands flat on the counter top, and said, louder this time, "I'm looking for information, Master Mithayu. Of the magical sort."

Mithayu frowned and then spat off to the side behind the counter. Rael wasn't sure there was a spittoon back there, and he didn't much care to find out. "Information? Go find a library! Or someone who has time for questions!"

Rael arched a brow cooly and said, "You're a Sorcerer, are you not?"

"Yes, a Sorcerer, precisely. A Sorcerer, not a Library, which is where you should go. Go, go on, off with you, I'm a Sorcerer as you said, a big oaf like you doesn't scare me. Big, small, it doesn't matter, you'll only be a bigger cat, or pig, or frog or rat or...you know. Who cares what I turn you into? I'll turn you into it if you don't leave. Go find a Library!"

Mithayu said all of this while flitting about behind the desk, poking his head into a drawer, flipping through books, and rummaging about in a pile of charms and totems from the Johake Grasslands, or so a scribbled sign in front of the pile claimed. The old man pretty much busied himself with anything and everything aside from looking directly at Rael.

The young Knight set his jaw hard and with a will, he pushed his temper down. Somehow he felt sure that Lirena was laughing at him right this moment. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Master Mithayu. It's simply that I am looking for a Sorcerer possessing old and expansive knowledge of spells and magic craft. And I was told you were just such an exceptional Sorcerer. And I'd brought sufficient means to make it worth your time, too."

He accentuated his words with the solid clunk of his coin purse dropping onto the counter. The sound brought the old man's frantic activity to an almost comically sudden halt. "Of course," Rael continued, "If you are not the man I am looking for..."

By the time Rael's hand closed on his coin purse, Mithayu was a man of drastically different temperament. "Ah, I am that man, yes sir, I am that man exactly! That Sorcerer! Good Sir, please, have a seat and let the great Mithayu answer your questions! I know many spells, many! I am a Master of the craft, have no doubt."

"Of course, you must be," Rael said dryly as he sat in the small chair in front of the counter. The old Sorcerer's weathered old face splitting into a wide grin that showed more than a few missing teeth and one of gold flashing in the corner of his smile. His eyes were hidden under the weight of his bushy old brows. The effect was strange to say the least.

"I am looking for information on certain spell. I'm not very familiar with magic, but I'm given to believe that it's a very rare and uncommon sort of spell," Rael explained.

"M-hmm, M-hmm, I know many uncommon spells," Mithayu nodded matter-of-factly. "Go on."

Rael leaned forward and stared intently at the old man. "Mind you, I've only heard whispers of this spell. My Father spoke of it, once. He was no mage, but he was fond of researching magical arts, you see. He spoke of a spell that was both a spell of wasting, and a spell of sealing at once. He saw it used, in his youth, to cause a man's wound to seal up over itself, while rotting and festering and decaying from the inside. Some way to seal the rot inside the body and let it corrupt and eat away at a man while masking the rot under healthy flesh. To keep anyone from detecting it, I suppose, or letting the rot free."

Mithayu listened to him, blinking. His mouth gawped open a moment, then he looked petulant and annoyed. "What is this? You think me an old fool, is that it? Well, old I am, but fool I am not! Such a spell is a faery tale, nonsense! Take your tall tales and foolish talk elsewhere and..."

Rael silenced him by removing a silver from his coin pouch and clacking it onto the counter top, sliding it toward him. His eyes, colored to match the coin, never left the old man, and never wavered in their serious gaze. "No tall tales, Master Mithayu. My Father said this spell was very much real. He was not a man to lie."

"Yes, well...I see," Mithayu muttered as he took the coin. He rolled it in one hand and with the other rubbed his chin where likely a beard had once been, but now was not save a wispy little patch. He considered the coin thoughtfully. Rael, praying he was not wasting his time, sat and waited.

At last, Mithayu admitted, "I do not know such a spell. If it truly exists, then a spell of that sort would be a thing of secret and shadows."

"Meaning?" Rael pressed.

Mithayu glanced about as if making sure they were alone, then leaned in closer, though he did not drop his voice at all. "Black Magic. The Dark Arts. Curses. These things are not commonly shared and practiced, even among powerful Magi. Spells such as they are old, and powerful, and closely guarded. The Magi's Sanctum dabble in these magic's, but they fear to delve too deep, and those mages who explore more than the surface of the Dark Arts are viewed suspiciously by their fellows. A spell like you describe... that is Black Magic deeper than any I've heard of."

Rael sat back in his seat and let out a deep breath. He'd heard this before, of course; every Mage and Sorcerer he'd visited thus far had told him the same thing. "Can you tell me anything else?"

"Hmm, huh, hum," Mithayu muttered to himself, rocking slightly in his seat, distracted. "Perhaps I can, maybe I can, but I don't know. This spell, this Dark Art...you said your father saw a man struck down of this wound, yes you did. How did it happen? How long did this festering take, and how deeply did the wound foul?"

Rael leaned forward once more, his hands resting on the countertop between them. "According to my father, the man died very shortly after receiving the wound. Maybe half an hour. The wound itself was grievous, but not immediately fatal. The rot was extensive. In half an hour, the wound had sealed itself, forming scar tissue over the flesh. Almost his entire chest cavity was rotted out under the first few layers of healed tissue. He said the tissue resisted being opened and exposed, like it was trying to protect and preserve the rot coursing inside."

The man appeared to shudder a bit, and spat in the same spot he had before. "That is Magic most foul. Dark spellwork indeed. I cannot help you young man. I do not know that spell, and would never want to know it. Such Magic is corruption, an old, evil thing best left to be forgotten and fall from the hands of Man."

As Rael listened to the old man, he teetered on the edge of decision, weighing whether to tell Mithayu more. He considered the risks against the payoff. The risks were great, and the payoff unlikely.

Rael couldn't shake the feeling that he was running out of time, and desperation won out.

"One more thing," he said. He reached for his belt and pulled the black shafted arrow from where he'd hidden it. He laid it upon the counter between them. "This is the arrow that struck the man down and caused the wound that was effected by the spell."

Mithayu looked at the arrow, then back up at him. He made no move to touch the arrow. "How do you know it wasn't poison, then? A poisoned arrow is much more likely than an ensorcelled one, yes it is."

"What poison makes a man's wound close over while rotting him from the inside?" Rael returned.

"How should I know?" The old man snorted. "I'm a Sorcerer, not an apothecary."

Rael ignored him and nodded to the arrow. "There are runes. There on the shaft just beneath the arrowhead. Etched into the wood. Strange runes I've never seen before."

That seemed to pique Mithayu's interest. He plucked the arrow up, frowning curiously, and brought the arrow up closer to his squinting eyes. "Yes, I see them. Curious indeed. They are runes of power, that much is sure. They..."

The arrow slid from Mithayu's fingers, falling to the countertop and resting on its side between them. He stared down at the arrow, his squinting, rheumy eyes wide now. His hands trembled violently. 

"What is it? Do you recognize them?" Rael asked as he gripped the edge of the counter, tense and eager for answers.

"This...those...how dare you! How dare you bring those words into my shop, into my home? You blighted fool! They are anathema! The language of abomination! You will bring ruin to me!"

"Calm down, I meant no disrespect. I don't understand," Rael said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace as he tried to calm the old man.

But it was no good. Mithayu slapped the arrow away from him and jerked to his feet, backing away as he leveled a shaky, clawing finger toward the bigger man. "Take it away from here, take the misbegotten words and be gone! Do you hear me? Get out! Get out!"

Rael stared at the man, frustration and confusion warring inside as he struggled to calm himself. He wanted to grab the man, to shake him and pry the answers from him. He clearly recognized something about those runes! But as he stared at the panicked man, he recognized the crazed look in his old eyes as an expression of abject terror. He was scared beyond reason, and pushing him would only make it worse.

The Knight Captain gathered his strange, terrifying arrow and left old Mithayu's shop with a 'good evening', all the while swearing to himself he would return. Later, after the Sorcerer had a chance to calm down, he would visit again and get his answers. The man's strange reaction was different shades puzzling, intriguing, and disturbing. What could have caused the man to be so terrified, simply by seeing the runes alone? He'd been odd, certainly, but in those last moments he seemed a completely different kind of strange. 

Rael wondered, but in the end, it didn't matter. He'd finally found the lead he'd sought for months. He could be patient. The time would come, and Mithayu would talk.

***

Silmaria was on dining hall duty. This consisted of cleaning, wiping down, and polishing the large dining table and accompanying chairs, checking those same chairs to be sure the cushioned seats didn't need replacing or stuffing, washing any soot stains out of the wall sconces and replacing the candles in them with fresh ones, dusting the portraits of House IronWing's founding fathers, sweeping the floors of any debris, and going through the tea cabinet and silver drawers to make sure everything was not only organized and in order, but also polished to a shine.

Really, it was all rather pointless, she thought. Lord Rael entertained guests even more rarely than Master Edwin had. In fact, Silmaria could only think of two instances since his return Lord Rael had received guests at all, and both times they were representatives from the Knighthood come to check on his health, or his recovery, or something of a similar nature, Silmaria wasn't entirely sure. Whatever the case, the man's visit had been brief on both occasions, not even necessitating the use of the good silver wear or tea pottery. 

Plus, Lord Rael took almost all his meals in his room. It was rare for him to eat outside of his room, and when he did more often than not he went down to the barracks to join the Guardsmen for dinner. He felt a certain kinship with them, she supposed.

Silmaria stopped in mid chore, leaning across the table and wiping it down, and gave a half-hearted scowl, annoyed with herself. Here she was, thinking about Lord Rael again without any intention to do so. It was vexing. She continued to try her damnedest to avoid the man to no avail. Sure, most of their encounters were brief and happenstance, but that didn't make them any less uncomfortable for her. She saw him about the Manor; it was impossible not to as he seemed to always be up and about doing something. The man seemed completely unable to be still, and when he sat for any length of time it was always with a book in hand or a sheaf of parchment and quill at his fingertips. He was as restless as his father had been and more, always needing to be doing. His projects and pursuits seemed endless. It made avoiding him difficult, as he seemed to be everywhere all the bloody time.

Still, she had to admit, in two months the man had made a wealth of changes at House IronWing, and most of them pointedly for the better. The house was finally running with a full staff of servants again. Workloads were reasonable, allowing each servant to focus on doing a proper and thoroughly job of their duties. Food was plentiful and the larder and pantries were stocked and full once more. Cook doled out hearty rations, and where once the serving folk had been wasting away to skin and bone, now everyone was hearty and robust and well fed. Even with winter now fully settled in, the Manor was kept warm enough to chase off the chill, the servants quarters included. 




DarkFyre Ch. 07



If she were honest with herself, Silmaria recognized that Lord Rael had kept his word and worked hard to turn his holdings around. He'd brought them from the brink of ruin, and if House IronWing was not yet as wealthy or well established as it had been at its height under Master Edwin, it would be there again soon. She saw it, she knew it, and she was even thankful for it. The Gnari woman was still unable to fully forgive the man, but when she allowed her stubborn pride to relax a bit, she could admit there was some good in him.

She resolved to put Lord Rael out of her mind, the matter too complicated to dwell on with the day so fine and life at last good again for a time. Silmaria took a deep breath and smiled. She began to hum the tune of a bawdy old marching song Master Edwin taught her that never failed to lift her spirits. The Gnari girl finished with the dining table and padded across the dining hall on bare, graceful feet, the wooden floor warmed by the hall's hearth fire. She walked to the hearth, wiping down the mantel above it, basking contentedly for a moment in the warm glow of the fire as she did her work.

The perfect, pleasant day shattered. A scream ripped through the Manor, high and stricken, coming from the direction of the foyer. Silmaria dropped her cleaning rag and bolted toward the front of the Manor, her heart pounding wildly.

Panic had already broken out by the time Silmaria dashed into the foyer. A number of servants had come running just as she did to see what the scream was about, and now ran scurrying this way and that in fright. Silmaria jumped out of the way as one of the men nearly ran her over in his haste to get away.

Looking past the dispersing cluster of servants, Silmaria clearly saw why. There was a group of strange men, half a dozen of them, standing in the middle of the foyer. They stood in a semicircle, and Tomar, the young Elven boy was sprawled on his back at their feet, one hand lifted in feeble defense. Blood dripped down into his frightened face from a deep cut on his upraised arm. The stranger standing foremost held a wickedly curved short sword that dripped wet and red with the Elf's blood.

Thinking quickly, Silmaria reached out and grabbed the next servant running past, who happened to be Margle. The woman was so panicked she didn't even give her usual sneer of distaste when she saw Silmaria. 

"The Barracks! Go to the Barracks and bring the guards, quickly!"

Margle nodded and with a wordless cry, rushed down the halls. Silmaria turned and took a deep breath. She willed her feet to move forward and did her best not to shake. She hoped the men couldn't see her tremors, because she felt every one of them. The Gnari girl walked toward the unfolding scene, grabbed Tomar and pulled him back, shifting the lad behind her and shielding him.

The men before her did not move. They didn't seem to care about the boy, and stood perfectly still, eerily so, like strange statues, not the hint of a sway or shifting of weight among them. Each of them were shrouded in black, deep cloaks wrapped about their bodies. Heavy hoods hung over their faces, covering most of their features from view save the columns of their necks, which were thin and long, with flesh so white it appeared bloodless and sallow, like corpse flesh. The men all wore fingerless black gloves running up slender arms. Their exposed fingers was the same sickly white as their necks, like long albino worms. All of them carried the same dangerous, curved blades.

"What's the meaning of this? Are you cowards, the lot of you attacking an unarmed boy? Where is your honor?" Silmaria demanded, made bold by her fear.

"Where is your Master?" The lead man asked, ignoring her questions. At least, she thought it was him asking. It could have been any of the others, she supposed. It was hard to tell. The question was a harsh hiss, like the sound of gravel being ground together. Her ears flicked back against her head and she had to fight not to wince.

"My Master is dead," she answered.

One of the dark men lunged forward, his blade flashing out. Silmaria went very still, the point of the sword leveled just inches from her left eye. "Do not lie. We know he lives. Where is the Lord IronWing?"

The Gnari woman swallowed her fear, refusing to let it choke her, and instead clutched at every shred of her stubborn, foolish defiance. "Do you think if he were here, you'd be talking with me instead of him? He's not home. He's off cavorting who knows where. You know how Nobles are. Leave us small folk alone and go settle your business with him, and good riddance to the both of you!"

"She has a viper's tongue," one of the men rasped. "Cut it out."

Silmaria shifted back slowly, ready to spring away from the men should they come an inch closer. But in the next moment the cloaked stranger's forgot about her, their attention drawn to the seven House guards who came rushing into the room, dressed in full mail with shields strapped to their arms and swords flashing in hand.

"You bastards dare shed blood in House IronWing? You'll suffer our Lord's justice!" one of the guards, who she recognized as Tomas, screamed loudly, then charged forward, his fellows screaming, "IronWing!" and advancing behind him. Silmaria scrambled out of the way, darting back and huddling under the stairs, staring out into the foyer with wide eyes.

When the House guard arrived, Silmaria felt a blossom of hope. The guardsmen charged out, shoving with their shields as they slashed and stabbed with their long swords. The shadowy men met them with their deadly steel. The cloaked men moved nimbly and quick, weaving and dodging the guard's strikes. It seemed no matter where or how the guards attacked, the strangers weaved and shifted away, swaying disconcertingly under or around the cutting offense of the IronWing men. The strangers worked together in deadly tandem, and soon the Guardsmen were no longer attacking at all, and instead were forced onto the defensive. Their shields were all that kept them alive, and only barely. The foyer was filled with the clinging-clack and thunk of steel blades cutting shallowly into the thick oak of IronWing shields. The Dragon of the House coat of arms emblazoned on their shields was soon gashed and mutilated.

The guards formed up a circle with their backs turned inward and shields raised. It was an impressive, steadfast defensive ring, but even then, the guardsmen were too pressed by their attackers. The cloaked men circled and spun, one attacking after the other, methodical and relentless. When one man's attack was blocked or parried, he still managed to effectively create an opening for the next man to exploit. 

The first guard fell to a stabbing thrust that lunged up into his chest from under his upraised shield. His death left an opening, and it was all the strangers needed. Before the body fully crumpled to the ground, one of the cloaked men vaulted past and into the middle of the ring, and his cruelly curved blade buried deep into the exposed back of one of the guard. The circle of shields crumpled, guardsmen scrambling to get some space from the suddenly swarming shadows to no avail. The guards were cut down, falling to the brutality and efficiency of their enemy.

A hand raised over her mouth, Silmaria watched with mounting horror as the guards, most of them good, decent men, fell one after the other. The air was thick with the smell of blood and pain. Screams and moans of the dying were spaced between the screech of metal on metal and the wet sound of meat being torn and separated from itself. The Gnari sank to her knees, struck helpless and paralyzed by the carnage and cruelty of life's violent end playing out before her. 

Tomas was the only guard left alive now. He edged back toward the far wall, panting as blood seeped in a steady pour down the side of his face. He was struggling to hold his shield between his body and the ashen skinned killers, but his arm was wounded as well, and it was heavy, so heavy. They stepped slowly now, circled him casually and without hurry; they had all the time in the world, and he had none. They were toying with him.

Then the heavy front doors were thrown wide, the boom of them hitting the walls echoing in an ominous thud through the Manor halls. Silmaria blinked, expecting more doom to come pouring through the door. Instead, Lord Rael stood, dressed all in commoner's clothes and leaning on his walking stick.

His appearance froze the cloaked men in their tracks. All of them turned toward the Nobleman and staring silently behind the shadows of their hoods. 

"Run, my Lord! Get away!" Silmaria screamed, breaking the sudden, heavy silence.

"Go! Lord Rael, go!" Tomas croaked from where he'd sagged against the wall.

Lord Rael scanned the room, sweeping over the blood spattered and pooled liberally all over the wooden floors, the limp, torn bodies of his guardsmen tossed carelessly about to lay in whatever unsightly crumple they fell in. His gaze took in the wicked men and their bloodied swords. His face changed, becoming hard and sharp. His expression was the picture of focus and deadly, calculating calm. Yet his eyes burned with such a raging, consuming silver fire that Silmaria felt chills run the length of her spine.

One of the strangers lunged for him, exploding into swift motion. Too late, Silmaria screamed a warning.

Lord Rael moved, and his speed was stunning for a man his size. Rael met the attacker, his walking stick cutting through the air to turn the man's blade aside. He pushed the dark warrior's blade downward to the ground, unbalancing the man. Just as fast he brought his stick back up in a vicious strike to the slim, cloaked man's throat with enough force to crush his airway. The man dropped to the ground, choking on his own blood.

Rael was already moving forward, and his left hand reached down to pull a longsword from the scabbard at his right hip. Silmaria had seen him with the steel at his hip before. She always thought, given the condition of his leg, he wore it out of habit, or perhaps even out of vanity. Now, his limp gone, she saw the truth of it.

The assassins moved as one to meet him. He waded into them, fearless and bold and aggressive, his walking stick in one hand and his steel in the other. One of the men squared off with him and brought his sword in an arching overhead cut. Rael caught it with his walking stick. The blade was sharp enough to sever the stick in two, but it served to deflect the blow upward and to the side. Nimbly, Rael ducked under the cut as he surged forward under and past his attacker's guard, bringing his own sword forward in a horizontal cut that laid the man's belly open from hip to hip.

Then it was all motion and frenzied action, a deadly dancing and weaving of man and muscle and razor edged steel. As before, the men attacked as a team, moving in tandem and looking to create openings for one another. Rael moved through them, aggressive and precise. He parried and dodged their attackers, his blade quick and flashing as he blocked and turned their slashes aside. For long, tense moments, each one seeming to last an age, the Knight Captain held them at bay. He spun and lunged, dipped and turned, moving instinctively one step ahead of the men. He moved to keep them always adjusting and compensating for his changing stance or position. For a brief time, the men seemed at a standstill, Rael too busy defending against the four to begin any sort of offense, and the four unable to pass his guard or find a clean cut.

A momentary lapse was all it took, and the standstill was broken. The cloaked swordsman on Rael's left overextended, throwing his balance off just enough when Rael parried. The Nobleman's foot shot out and kicked the man's lead leg out from under him, and the assassin tipped forward just as Rael's longsword arced in an upward cut to flay his chest cavity open. The Knight spun, dropping into a crouch as he whipped his blade out, cutting the legs out from under the assassin behind him. He brought his sword back around in a downward slash across the man's throat to end his life, then quickly rolled back to his feet just in time to parry the next attack.

The assassin pressed him furiously, his curved short sword slashing and stabbing frantically as he lashed out. Sparks flared where Rael parried and blocked, their steel meeting again and again. Then Rael was the one advancing, his blade flashing in arcs of deadly grace, forcing his foe to dance away and retreat before his assault.

Lord Rael was focused on the man engaging him and had lost track of the other remaining assassin. The sinister figure had edged away from the Knight, and now his hooded gaze fell on Tomas, slumped and panting against the wall. He rushed the injured guardsman and knocked his feebly raised shield aside. Pale, strong fingers grabbed Tomas by his hair and yanked him up to his feet. He circled behind the struggling man, pulled his head back, and laid his blade to the guard's throat.

"Stop!" the assassin rasped. The other cloaked attacker disengaged from the Nobleman.

A look of rage swept over Rael's face. He flicked his blade, sending droplets of blood spraying from the length of steel and onto the floor. "Let him go. I'm the one you want, your fight is with me."

"You're the one we want, yes. And we will cut down everyone around you to get you," the man growled.

"Milord, don't worry about me," Tomas began, then stilled as the blade at his throat bit into his skin and a thin trickle of blood slipped down his neck.

Rael kept his blade in hand, but allowed the tip of his sword to point at the floor. "Release him and I will give you a merciful end."

"Fool," the shadowy warrior replied. "Keep your mercy. You'll receive none in return." 

Before the words had left the man's lips, his fellow lunged at the distracted Nobleman. Rael felt the approach and leapt to the side, but he was a moment too late and the assassin's sword bit deep into his side. A dark red stain spread across the side of his gray wool jerkin. Tomas thrashed against his captors hold. The assassin raised his blade to give the guardsman the killing blow.

Silmaria burst from her hiding place, moving on fleet, silent feet, swift and agile as any predator moving for the kill. She sprang, leaping onto the back of the man behind Tomas. Her legs wrapped around his bony waist, and one hand grabbed his sword arm, gripping tight to still his blade.

"Go, Tomas! Go!" she screamed, and raked her long, wicked claws across the assassin's face. The man's grip on Tomas released as he screamed, trying to grab at the wild woman thrashing and clawing on his back. Tomas let out a desperate shout and rounded on the injured man, wrestling for his sword.

Wounded, Rael was still a force to be reckoned with. As soon as he saw Silmaria jump onto the other assassin's back, he rounded on his attacker, his blade flashing out viciously. The power of his blows rang against the assassin's sword, knocking him back. The cloaked figure scrambled back and away, trying to recover, but Rael was relentless, springing after him and pressing the advantage until the assassin's blade slipped from nerveless fingers and Rael swept his head from his shoulders.

The Nobleman turned, ready to finish the last of the attackers. The cloaked assassin was crumpling, his hood torn and pulled to the side. Silmaria had sank one of her claws into the man's left eye, blinding him and disabling him long enough for Tomas to win the struggle for the assassin's sword. The Gnari leapt free and Tomas stabbed the curved blade into the man's chest.

The whole thing took a matter of moments, really, though it seemed a lifetime had passed. The last of his energy spent in that final struggle, Tomas let out a groan and began to fall. Silmaria grabbed hold of him to keep him from going face first into the floor. His body was limp and heavy. Blood poured from his head, the wound in his arm and another on his chest. It spread across the front of her dress in a warm, sticky smear. Then Rael was there, gripping the guardsman and helping Silmaria ease him to the ground. Rael tore a strip from his ripped shirt and pressed it firmly against the gash in Tomas's chest. 

Rael and Silmaria's eyes locked over the panting man's body. Tomas's breathing was shallow and obviously painful. Rael nodded to her, the fire in his eyes faded and his face somber. "You're okay?"

"I...I'm fine," Silmaria said, her voice shaking slightly. She took a deep breath and tried again, more steadily this time. "Tomas isn't. I'll go get help." 

"Good. Go now," Rael said softly but firmly.

Silmaria glanced down at Tomas worriedly once more before rising and going down the hall at a run to find where everyone was hiding.

Silmaria returned soon with a multitude of servants wearing fearful expressions, and the two guardsmen who had gathered everyone up and protected them. 

Lirena's small form pushed her way to the front of the group and knelt beside Tomas, ignoring her creaking joints. She touched his brow and pressed her fingers to the pulse point at his throat. Rael and one of the guardsmen helped the old woman peel off Tomas's shirt of chainmail so she could examine the wound on his chest. 

Rael stepped back to give Lirena time to check Tomas without being in the way. He looked over the faces of his people. There was too much fear in their eyes, fear and confusion and restless, anxious energy. They needed some direction, something to occupy themselves with and distract them from the terrible things that had just burst violently into their lives.

"Oen, help Lirena with anything she needs for Tomas. Porton and Alir, take the stranger's bodies and dump them outside. We will dispose of them later. Saul and Mirini, take our dead to the east day room and tend and clean the bodies. I want it notated who we lost, who their families, if any, are and what kind of burial rites they're to receive. The rest of you, clean this mess, then get supper and retire for the night. I'll meet with you all soon."

Given purpose once again, the servants scattered to obey, glad to have something to do. Rael turned his attention to his small books keeper, who was looking pale and not entirely well. "Selm, I want our guard replaced immediately, and doubled. I don't care if you have to enlist some of the more able bodied field hands, hire mercenaries, or get men on loan from the palace guard itself. Whatever must be done, do it. Use whatever coin it takes."

"I understand, Milord," Selm nodded, looking unsettled still, but determined. "It will be done."

"Good. See that we have guards ready to keep the House secure by tomorrow night."

Selm looked doubtful at that, but nodded nonetheless. "MiLord."

Silmaria was crouched down with Lirena at Tomas's side, helping her check over the man's wounds and holding pressure where the old Human woman instructed. Her pelt was already matted with blood up to her elbows. Tomas's wounds were worse than she realized. Rael moved to their position and bent down. Silmaria stared at him for a moment, then shifted to allow him to huddle in a bit closer.

"How is he?" Rael asked softly, his voice pitched so only Silmaria and Lirena could hear.

Lirena shook her head slowly. She reached up, wiping sweat from her brow with her forearm to avoid smearing Tomas's blood across her face, and not quite succeeding.

"He's lost a lot of blood. The head wound will heal well, though he'd bear the scar of it. The wound to his chest isn't too bad. The cut very nearly went through his breast bone, but none of his vital organs beneath were damaged. The cut to his arm may be the worst. It's bleeding very badly. I think he may have a severed artery."

"What needs to be done?" Rael asked.




DarkFyre Ch. 07



"We've stopped the bleeding, for now. I have medicine and supplies in a workroom in the back. It will be quiet and less crowded and I can look him over and work on him properly with the things I need. I will save him, if I can."

"It will be done," Rael nodded. He motioned to some of the men helping to clean the foyer and they came to help move the fallen guardsman as gingerly as possible.

"I'll go get the room ready," Silmaria announced as she rose to her feet.

"You'll do no such thing," Lirena quipped matter-of-factly.

"Why? You need my help. I know more about stitching someone than anyone else but you," Silmaria protested, looking confused.

"I'm sure our good seamstress Karee would take issue with that statement, though I doubt she's ever practiced stitch work in human flesh. You're right, dear Sil. Which is precisely why you can't come." The old woman raised a bony finger, leveling it at Rael. "You need to see to our Lord."

Rael gave a look of momentary puzzlement, before his gaze fell to the red stain of blood spreading along his wounded side. He shook his head. "Don't worry about me, I'm all right. It's a scratch, nothing more. Tend to Tomas, he needs your help."

"A scratch my wrinkled arse," Lirena hissed just loud enough for them to hear, causing both of them to look surprised. "If that gash you're hiding under there isn't tended soon, it'll heal all wrong, or become infected and fester, and that's if you don't pass out from blood loss first to begin with. It's still bleeding."

"It's not that bad, truly. It won't fest. I promise you," Rael insisted, trying to sooth the increasingly irritated old woman.

Lirena gave the Nobleman a long suffering look of annoyance. "You're a young fool, Milord, which is the worst type of fool. And a stubborn, rock headed ass on top of it, just like your father so often was, may the Old God's guide his soul."

Silmaria almost choked on her shock. Even as bold and outspoken as she was, Silmaria wouldn't have dared speak to Lord Rael that way, and she was pretty sure she liked him a good deal less than Lirena did!

For his part, Rael simply stared at her with his brows raised, perplexed.

Lirena leaned forward, and the look on her face said, 'I really shouldn't have to explain this to you of all people, now of all times'. 

"Your people are frightened, Milord. They're frightened and full of panic, and holding onto calm by fragile little threads. If they realize you're wounded, and worse, that you aren't having it tended, those threads are going to snap entirely."

Rael regarded the tiny old woman for just a moment, then his lips pressed into a tight, thin line, and he relented to her wisdom. "Very well. You are right, old mother. Please do all you can for Tomas. He deserves our best for his bravery."

"I will try," was the best Lirena could promise. She nodded to the men that Tomas was as ready to move as he could be made. They gathered around the man and carefully, slowly lifted him. He stiffened and a small, weak cry briefly escaped Tomas's dry lips, then he sank into an oblivious stupor once again.

Lirena nodded to Silmaria, said, "Take care of him," and then followed after her patient. The Gnari looked up at Lord Rael, towering over her from his frustratingly tall height, his eyes strange and beautiful and unreadable.

It was too much. The shock of the strangers invading and attacking her home, the blood and the death, men she knew dying senselessly. Her stupid bravery, attacking a man who could have killed her outright, every muscle and fiber in her lithe body straining desperately against the man from his back or he would surely kill her and Tomas both. Feeling the assassin's flesh shredding under her slashing claws. She'd as good as killed him. Tomas struck the killing blow, but if she hadn't attacked the man, he wouldn't be dead now, his corpse being hauled away with all the others. Even now, she could feel the blood caked under her claws, sticky and thick on her hands and forearms.

So much blood. 

So many corpses.

"Silmaria?" Rael asked, and there was concern in his deep voice.

She didn't respond, didn't even really hear him. She was swaying where she stood, now, a high, droning ring filling her ears, pushing out all other sounds. The room swung, tilted nauseatingly, and then went fuzzy at the edges.

All she could taste then was copper. It reminded her of blood all over again, the blood on her hands that she was certain would never wash away, staining her beyond all cleaning.

***

Chapter Seven has been one of my favorite chapters thus far. I hope you all have enjoyed it. Things continue to pick up as we move forward. As always, please send any comments,

critiques, questions and the like to me via the CONTACT tab on my profile.



DarkFyre Ch. 08



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

When Silmaria came back to herself she was laying on a soft, large, comfortable bed. A bed that size should have been draped in silks and finery, but instead was covered in simple, practical sheets of cotton and a heavy, warm wool comforter. The glow of a fire and a number of candles cast shifting shadows and orange light against the ceiling and walls.

Silmaria fought not to panic; she had no idea where she was.

The Gnari girl sat up to get a better view of the room. It was a simple and largely unadorned room and not especially large, but it seemed bigger than it was due to its near emptiness. There was a fireplace across the room from the bed and a well banked fire had recently been started and was now chasing the chill from the room. Over the mantle of the fireplace hung a small plaque displaying House IronWing's coat of arms, and a portrait of a young couple posing together dressed in fine clothes. The man sat behind the woman, his hand resting on her brazenly exposed shoulder while she sat before and slightly lower than him, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

A large cedar chest sat at the foot of the bed, and there was a thick rug in IronWing navy blue trimmed in silver set before the heavy door to the left of the bed, a small table with two plain chairs in the upper left corner of the room, and a rack displaying a set of armor to the right side of the room accompanied by a rack holding a large greatsword in a finely made leather sheath, and just below it, a simple, sturdy longsword.

The room failed to hold her attention, however, once her eyes found Lord Rael, grabbing up another log and placing it on the fire in the hearth. She realized she was in the man's room...in his bed no less. She felt herself flushing, which was ridiculous considering how many men she'd slept with and allowed to bed her down, but flush she did. She swallowed her initial urge to run from the room then and there, and cleared her throat to say, "My Lord?"

Rael stood and faced her, but made no move to close the distance between them. "Are you well, Silmaria?"

She bit her full lower lip, nervous and uncertain, unsure why, and really, really hating that look of concern and sympathy in his eyes. "I'm fine. What happened? Why are we here?"

"You fainted," Rael explained calmly. "It's okay. It's a pretty normal reaction, under the circumstances. We're in my chambers. I needed to take you someplace quiet and away from prying eyes. Everyone is panicky enough already. Are you all right now?"

Silmaria swallowed, nodded, and hastily hopped off the Nobleman's bed as if it were about to burn her. She straightened her dress, then realized it was still smeared in blood. Her hands had been carefully washed clean while she was unconscious. She tried very hard not to think about that.

"What about your wound, my Lord? Have they been tended?" Silmaria asked as she returned her gaze to the Nobleman.

Lord Rael waved a hand dismissively. "No, but it's nothing. I'll tend it myself. You may go, it's fine."

The two regarded each other as the room and the silence stretched tense between them. For a moment, Silmaria was relieved that he'd given her exactly what she wanted, and she almost turned to go.

Then her eyes met his, and she saw truly. There, in that intense, intelligent gaze he pinned on her, was a challenge. It was unspoken and subtle, but it was there nonetheless. He knew he made her uncomfortable and awkward, Silmaria realized now, though she doubted he knew why. But he knew, and she could tell from his eyes, he'd given her a way out of this situation, and he fully expected her to take it. 

The very notion struck a defiant cord in her. He didn't think she could put aside her own concerns to do her duty, was that it? He probably thought her too weak and delicate to rise to the task. Well she'd be damned if she would give him the satisfaction of being right!

"I'm fine, my Lord. If you would please sit, I can tend your wounds," she said at last. She even managed, with a rather large effort, to keep her voice calm and composed.

Rael considered the young woman closely. Her response and her voice were polite and reasonable. But he'd commanded and led men long enough to know defiance hidden under a disguise of obedience when he saw it. He could tell the Gnari was complying because she was too stubborn to admit she'd rather be anywhere from here.

Her dress was stained with dried blood and yet she stood tall and proud, her chin tilted back to meet his eyes. Her arms were crossed under her full breasts and her tail was cutting the air behind her aggressively. He doubted she was even aware of it. Bright, wide emerald eyes stared up at him and he saw the fire behind that gaze. She was lovely. Beautiful. And, even more intriguing, she was strong.

"You don't like me," Rael said, deciding to drop pretenses and take the direct approach.

His words clearly caught her off guard; her surprise flitted across her face. Then she stared at him with a look of reserved suspicion. Still, to her credit, she did not try to deny it. "It's not my job to like you, my Lord. It's my job to serve you."

"That's true. But I wouldn't want someone to serve me who didn't do it gladly."

Her smooth brow furrowed and she stared at him as if he were mad. "How many servants do you really think are truly happy being servants, my Lord?" 

"A fair question," Rael conceded. He tilted his head ever so slightly, giving Silmaria the uncomfortable sensation of being studied. "Have I done something to make you dislike me?"

Silmaria wasn't about to answer that question. "Maybe I just don't like Humans," she shrugged one graceful shoulder.

"I'm don't doubt you've been treated poorly by many Humans. I know my people aren't very tolerant of Gnari. But I don't think you hate Humans. You loved my father."

"I don't want to talk about this," Silmaria replied quickly.

Rael's eyes bore into her, calm and sure. "Maybe you don't have a choice this time," he said, and for the first time there was the stern, firm tone of command in his voice. His father's voice echoed in his words.

Silmaria scowled softly and briefly considered telling him where to take a walk to, but then let out a deep sigh and shook her head. Her thick, curling black hair fell across her face and, irritated, she shoved it back over her shoulders to spill down her back. "Fine. If I must. Sit down so I can take care of your wound, I may as well get it all done at once. My Lord."

Rael stared at her for a moment, then let out a soft, low chuckle. One corner of his mouth curved up slightly in a wry smile. "Fair enough. The supplies are on the table."

The Gnari girl walked to the small table, where there was a basin of steaming hot water, clean towels and bandages, needle and thread, and a small container Silmaria recognized as Lirena's salve to help chase off infection and hasten wound healing. She nodded to herself, having all she needed. Then her eyes were drawn to Rael as the man peeled his shirt free, and she froze, entranced.

Rael was a specimen of a man. Exposed, he was even bigger than she'd thought. He was powerfully built, his arms thick and toned, his chest broad and powerful, with shoulders wide and thick with corded muscle. The muscles of his belly were thick and taut with defined grooves running between each group of muscle. His woolen trousers hung from his hips, showing the deep V cut running down to his groin.

Yet as finely made as his body was, it was marred with scars. He had many small scars scattered about his abdomen and his arms, testament of his years of war and battle. They ranged in size and shape and severity, standing out vividly on his pale ivory skin. But none stood out so much as the huge, jagged scar running down his body, an ugly length of scar tissue extending from the top of his left shoulder all the way down to the bottom of his right hip. 

Silmaria swallowed heavily, her attention pulled in so many directions at once. Her thoughts were scattered and confused. She felt a measure of horror, for she couldn't even imagine what kind of grievous wound would leave such a scar. A flare of appreciation for the strength and power of his body, the way his muscle shifted under his fair skin, the light spread of copper and red curls on his thick chest.

No, Silmaria thought with dread as just like that, suddenly the Stirring came over her, hard and intense like a battering ram, and her eyes studied his exquisite flesh while she imagined the feel of it under her hands and lips and tongue, the strength of his arms around her while he took her on that bed just behind her. He was in her senses, flooding her. He smelled so good, of sweat and leather and steel and masculine musk. How had she never noticed before? He smelled of violence and war and blood, and even as disturbed as she was by blood right now that smelled good, too, because it smelled of him. She could practically taste him on the air.

Shaking, warring with herself. No, no, no. Not now. Not here. Not him, gods please, have mercy. Silmaria fought for control. She tried to push the primal, overwhelming longing and need flooding her veins down deep. 

Rael was looking at her oddly, his brows raised. But whatever showed on her face, he didn't ask. Instead, he grabbed one of the chairs at the table and turned it so the back was to his chest, then sat.

Being faced with his back did little to quell her desires, as like his front, it was thick with hard, toned muscle that she imagined gripping tight to, feeling the corded muscle shift under her fingers as she clutched him while he used her roughly for his pleasure. At least this way he couldn't look at her face. And with his body turned this way, her attention was drawn to the ugly gash in his side. The sight sobered her somewhat. She gathered herself, steeling her will against the pulsing between her thighs, and set to work.

Her hands trembled so badly at first that she had to take several deep breaths to get herself composed. She was fearful she was about to badly botch the job of stitching this man up.

"Are you all right?" Rael asked, near startling her out of her thoughts.

"I'm fine," she snapped, irritated that she was such a mess around him, and even more irritated at how tightly she had to clench her thighs together at the mere sound of his voice. She hated him for how strongly he was effecting her right now, and he didn't even know it! 

"Shouldn't you drink some wine, or maybe some brandy? It will help the pain."

"Don't worry about that," he replied. "I don't like the way spirits dull my wits. I'm fine without it."

"I'm glad one of us is," Silmaria muttered sourly, but went to work.

As much of a distraction as her Stirring was, making the job all the harder, she was glad to be doing something, anything that put her attention on something beside the nearness of his body and the acute ache of her need. As she worked, she took a closer look at the wound. Really for how deep and long the gash was, it wasn't in bad shape. Rael's had already stopped bleeding and the flesh was free of the red, puffy look of infection. The edges were fairly symmetrical, and she felt sure he would heal very well. Her hands had finally steadied and she worked the curved needle and thread through his flesh, the firm pressure and then yielding of her needling working through muscle. Rael was tense, his body taut as a bowstring, but he didn't move, and he didn't complain.

"You were going to tell me why you don't like me," Rael said just when she was wondering if he'd slipped into some kind of trance.

"While I'm putting a needle through your flesh?" Silmaria muttered.

"Seems as good a time as any," Rael said lightly.

She shook her head. He was the strangest man she'd ever met. "Different reasons I guess. Because you abandoned us, for one."

Rael grunted softly as the needle lanced through him once more. "A fair point, and true. I can understand that, and cannot blame you for feeling that way. I was preoccupied at the war front, commanding my troops, but that doesn't excuse my neglecting my other duties here, my responsibilities toward my land, my holdings, and my people. I regret what happened to you. To all of you, in my absence. I am doing all I can to remedy my mistakes."

"Better that you'd never made them to begin with," Silmaria said softly, but relented, saying, "But everyone makes mistakes. Even Lords. And you're more willing to admit to them than most Lords I've known or heard of. And you've done much to make life better for us since you returned."

"But that is not the only reason you dislike me," Rael mused.

Silmaria slid the needle through his skin and drew the stitch tight. "No."

"What of the rest, then?" Rael pressed.

The Gnari woman pursed her lips and was silent for so long, he thought she was going to refuse to answer. Then, at last, she said, "Your father was a great man. The greatest man I knew. He was noble, and kind, and just. He was taken before his time. And you didn't come. And then, he passed, and still you didn't come. And when we put him in the ground, you did not come. You weren't there. For almost a year you didn't come to see him."

Rael had no words. He sat quiet and still as she spoke and thereafter. 

Silmaria let out a quiet sigh as her heart ached, not the grievous hurt it had been a year ago, but just a quiet, sad little reminder of what had been. More than anything, the feeling just made her tired, now.

"I hated you, you know. I hated you so much. I thought you must be the most insufferable, wretched, ungrateful and self-absorbed snob of a Noble to ever live. I thought you a craven, a coward, and a poor excuse for a son. I thought pretty much every bad and wicked thing conceivable of you, and laid every evil happenstance and thing gone wrong at your feet. I felt that way from Master Edwin's passing right up to your arrival here. It was a long time to bear a grudge against someone I didn't even know, but I did it."

Rael nodded slowly, staring into the softly burning fire, his eyes seeming far away. "And now?"

"Now..." Silmaria paused, looking inward, searching and mulling through a confused muddle of feelings she hadn't even fully sorted out for herself yet. She answered as honestly as she was able. "Now, I just wonder how a man who seems by all measures a good and honorable man could have done something so callous and heartless. How you could be such a reflection of your father in so many ways, yet have so little love for him that you never came to honor him and say goodbye."

There, she'd said it, and said it aloud, and managed to say it without screaming with anger and rage and heartache. And oddly, now that she'd said it, she couldn't find that knot of rage in her anymore.

The silence stretched, then, filled only with the crackle of the fire and the occasional soft hiss of the stitches being drawn through Rael's flesh to close his wound.

"I loved my father, in my way, as he loved me in his," Rael said at last. The tone of his voice made Silmaria feel that he wasn't entirely talking to her anymore the feeling that he was not entirely speaking to her. "I spent most of my youth away from home. Training, learning, and growing as a squire to the DarkFyre Dale Knight's Brotherhood. It was a high honor; House IronWing is wealthy and established in its own right, but our House has never been among the most powerful at court. I was accepted on the strength of my Lord Father's military career and valor as a Knight. 

"Father retired from service not long after I became apprenticed. I saw less of him, then. You know how infrequently I was able to return home. By the time I reached adolescence, I hardly saw him except on the odd visit.

"Still," he said with a soft sigh, "I loved him nonetheless, and honored him. I applied everything I had into my training and apprenticeship. Everything. I strived with every fiber of my being to become a Knight worthy of my family name. I looked up to my father, to his wisdom, his valor, and his strength. I idolized him. It was bringing honor to my father that made me strive for glory in the Knighthood. I would stop at nothing to become a great man that would make him proud."

"He was proud," Silmaria said softly, not even realizing what she was saying or why, only she could hear the wistful tone in his voice. It was a brief glimpse inside a closed, guarded man, and she felt an instant kinship with those feelings toward his father. 

"He said you'd grown into a good man. He said you made him proud, many times. Especially...toward the end."

Rael's smile was bitter sweet. "I'm glad to know that. It's all I ever wanted."

Silmaria tied the last stitch and cut the string. She placed the thread and needle aside, then smeared some of Lirena's salve on the wound. It would heal very well; already the wound looked worlds better. She began to wrap the Nobleman's side with bandages, but he gently took them from her hands and finished it himself.

She stepped back, and quickly dashed the tears from her face. "Then why? Why didn't you come? You say you loved him, so why didn't you come say goodbye?"

Rael pulled a fresh shirt on, then stared down into her obviously pained face with something as close to unguarded sadness as she was likely to ever see from him. "Because it was too much. For both of us. My memories of my father are of him as a soldier, a leader and a strong, capable man. A man who could do anything. My father was my hero. And that's how I wanted to remember him, always. That's what he wanted, too. We said our goodbyes. Just not in the way most people do."

Silmaria opened her mouth to say something, but Rael held up a hand, forestalling her. He walked to the cedar chest at the foot of his bed and opened it, reaching in to rummage through his belongings and take a small roll of parchment out. The Nobleman turned and came back to her, standing close. She could feel heat radiating off his body like a furnace, even without touching him at all. He held the rolled up scroll out to her, his silver eyes staring into her face somberly. "No one else has ever read this. I trust you will be discrete about what you see in this scroll. I would like it back when you are finished with it."

"What is it?" Silmaria asked as she took the scroll in trembling hands. The simple parchment seemed heavy with significance and secrets.

"You will see. It's best you find out yourself." He nodded, then cleared his throat, and there was that tense, uncomfortable charge in the air between them once more. "Thank you for stitching me up. You did well. I've had plenty of far worse stitch jobs. Now, please. Go get cleaned up, and get some food and rest. You've earned it."

"Thank you, my Lord," Silmaria said weakly. She was suddenly aware of just how tired and hungry she was; by now it had to be late into the night, and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Her stomach was gnawing on itself, and she felt exhausted, drained to the point of dropping. Her Stirring fled in the face of those needs, her body simply too spent and wrung out to hold any sort of arousal any longer.

He walked her to the door. It was a strange thing to do, since it was his own room, but he did it anyway. He regarded her with his strange eyes and once again they were unreadable. "Goodnight, Silmaria," he said at last.

"Goodnight, Lord Rael."

***

To my son, Rael, blood of my blood and heir to my holdings,




DarkFyre Ch. 08



What a pompous way to begin a letter. I've written so many letters to you just so. Stiff, formal, like we are two stuffed shirts sitting across the dinner table at some highborn court function. 

But that's not really us, is it? I've always been a man of simple words and deeds. I hardly known the man you've become, but I can say with the certainty of my gut that you are the same. So why, I've asked myself, especially recently, do we cling to these formalities and stiff diction? Why do we not speak simple and plain and from our hearts, Father to Son?

Because we are men, of course. You are a man of honor just as I strive to be, and we speak as one honorable man to another. On one hand, it makes me proud. Proud that I have a good, honorable, strong son to carry on my line. And on the other...I want, just once, to speak with you as, simply, my son.

Rael. You may never fully understand just how proud I am of you, of what you became, and what you will one day become. I knew the first time I held you in my hands, so small and frail and new, that you were destined for great things. I see those great things in you already. 

But I confess, I am afraid for you as well. Your Mother often said I had my own special version of the Sight. I'm not prescient; I cannot part the veil and take visions of what may be as some seers do. But I get feelings, now and then, and those feelings are strong, and often right. 

I see darkness around you.. A heaviness of danger and risk. I cannot say what form this takes. Logically, you are surrounded by it every day of your life at the front, waging this long, terrible war. But I feel this is something different. Something more sinister, and thus more worrying.

So I say, guard yourself, my son. Be vigilant. Know that great men are loved, as you will be, and men who are not loved will forever hate you for that greatness. You will be a mirror held up, showing them all their faults and wickedness and shortcomings by the things you are that they can never be. Such men can never abide to see those things in themselves, reflected from your greatness. They will smash you before suffering to look upon their twisted reflection.

It won't be long now. My death draws near. I feel it in my bones and in my blood, this sickness. It will take me soon. 

Heed my words, my son, as they will likely be the last I send you.

Be brave, and valiant. Be just. This world knows too little of justice and virtue. And be kind, for the world knows even less of kindness. Hard men and warriors such as we can be kind. It costs us nothing, and can give everything to those who know nothing of kindness or a caring word. I have seen much cruelty in this world, and I know you have seen the same. It is a hard thing, knowing as a soldier, you've given that cruelty to other men. Men who may have been good fellows. Men who didn't deserve to have life snatched away too soon. The things we do as soldiers and warriors are necessary, yes, but not always right. Grant kindness where you may, so you don't lose yourself in necessary cruelty.

The arrangements have been made, Rael. All is ready here. Your place at the front is vital, and you cannot turn your gaze from the Haruke. I have arranged for the estate and holdings of House IronWing to be attended when I pass, so you do not have to return until such a time as it is sensible and convenient. Do not forsake the efforts of your command. All will hold until you are ready.

I think, from time to time, that it may be better for you to come. A place in my heart longs to see you one last time. But then, I think of you, seeing me as I am now. The way you knew me when I was proud and strong erased forever by final memories of me as I am now, decaying and slipping away. And I cannot bear that thought. Your memories of me would be forever changed and, knowing that, my final memories of you would be, too. 

It is better this way, for you and I. We both know that.

Goodbye, my son. I go to join our forefathers, forever proud of you, and forever loving you. 

I ask one final thing. Please, watch over my kitten. My favorite one. You will know her when you see her. She is strong, and fierce in her way, but she will need your strength more than you know. Protect her. She is worth it.

Lord Edwin IronWing. 

Father.

***

Silmaria clutched the letter to her breast, and rolled up into a tight little ball on her pallet, sobbing in great, heaving gasps until she was sick from her tears.

***

DarkFyre is burning its way into my brain at an alarming rate. I am digging it, big time. I hope everyone is having as much fun reading it as I am writing it. As always, questions and comments of all sorts and kinds should be directed to me.



DarkFyre Ch. 09



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***



A light knock sounded on his door the next morning. Setting aside the remnants of his breakfast, Rael wiped his mouth before rising and answering the knock, half expecting it to be Silmaria.



Selm stood on the other side of the door instead. His Halfling advisor bowed low. "Apologies for disturbing your breakfast, Milord."

"It's all right, Selm. No harm done. How can I help you?"

"Milord, I believe we've found something that needs your attention."

Rael arched a curious brow. "What could need my attention this early in the morning?"

"It's the corpses, Milord. The strangers, I mean."

Rael's face immediately shifted, deadly serious and all business. "Show me."

The sky was a dreary gray-white that promised a fairly gloomy sort of day. Snow was falling lightly and though the morning wasn't as cold as it had been the last few days before, the wind cut sharp and cold as a knife. 

Selm led his Lord to where they had placed the bodies, up on a gentle rise about a hundred yards in front of the Manor. The bodies were arranged neatly under the towering old oak that capped the hillock. All of them were covered in plain white cotton shrouds and were dusted with the lightly falling snow.



"Well? What's the problem?" Rael asked.

"Here, Milord," Selm nodded. He grasped one of the shrouds and pulled it down to bare the corpse from the neck up.

Rael crouched down for a closer look and his jaw set hard. The killer was as pale in death as he was in life. He appeared to be an ordinary man in his thirties like any other, his face plain and un-noteworthy. Except that there was a very noteworthy rune carved deep into the man's forehead. The rune was distinct, the mark going down almost to the bone of the man's skull, the edges of the wound red but clean, showing the handiwork of a very sharp blade. 

He had no notion of what the mark meant, but Rael was positive he'd seen the rune before, etched into the shaft of a black arrow meant to end his life. 

The nobleman pulled the shrouds back on each of the corpses to confirm with his own eyes that each one did, indeed, have a matching rune carved in their heads.

With Selm's help, Rael covered the bodies back up, and then turned the intensity of his gaze to the Halfling. "Who else knows of this?"

"Kel and Orlion. They helped move the bodies out here and get them prepared."

"Speak with them for me. Make sure no word of the mark leaves their lips," Rael instructed.

"As Milord says," Selm agreed.

"Good. Have a pyre set up. I want these bodies burned to dust, and their ashes scattered far from here."

Selm looked surprised at that, and a bit confused, but he voiced his agreement all the same.

Rael turned and looked out across the rolling hills leading down to the fields to the south, before The Sliver, the great icy river cleaving through the Dale that fed into Lake Glasswater on the other side of Trelling's Rest. He didn't know just what this meant, but the connections of the strange sorcery, the runes, and the group of men trying to kill him left him with a deep sense of unease he couldn't ignore.

"I want the House guard tripled. Do whatever must be done to make it happen," he said quietly.

Selm stared at him for a moment with worry creasing his brow. "It will be done, Milord."

"Very good. That is all. For now."

"Milord?"

Rael turned to face his advisor. "Yes, Selm?"

The Halfling didn't try to hide the fear in his eyes. "They're going to come back for you, aren't they?"

Rael's handsome face twisted with anger and determination. "Not if I come for them first."

***

"Sil," Cook said loudly, and snapped her fingers just below Silmaria's nose.



Silmaria flinched and shook herself from her distracted revelry. "Sorry, Cookie. I was worlds away."



"You don't say?" Cook returned sarcastically, eyeing her friend dubiously. "Dinner's been done, I've finished setting up for tomorrow morning, the other help have gone to bed, and you're standing there stirring the soup to death."



Silmaria looked down at the very-well-stirred soup and shook her head. She was too distracted and melancholy even to laugh. She sighed softly, tapped the ladle on the side of the hefty black kettle, and hung the utensil on the rack to her left. She wiped her hands on a nearby cloth, then reached up to undo the pins holding her hair up in a bundle atop her head. The thick black curls fell in a tumble of silken darkness down her shoulders and her back. The Gnari girl ran her fingers in frustration through her hair, not caring that it was slightly damp with sweat from the heat of the kitchen.



"I haven't been very good company today," she admitted softly.



"No shit! You've been about as cheerful as a boil on my arse," Cook returned, but her tone was teasingly jovial. Silmaria tried to smile, and failed miserably.



Cooks look changed briefly to a look of genuine concern before settling on a stern, no-nonsense matronly expression. She crossed her arms over her hefty bosom and fixed Silmaria with her look. "Alright, out with it, Sil. You've been moping around like a wounded thing for three days now. The girls that share your quarters say you've been crying at night. All your fire's gone out. By the Twelve, what is wrong with you?" 



Briefly, Silmaria considered insisting nothing was wrong, then quickly discarded the notion. Cook knew her too well, and she would poke and prod and wheedle her until she inevitably gave in and opened up. 

"I'm really confused, and sad, and angry, and...gods, Cook, I don't know. I'm going through just about every emotion I can think of lately, and most of them aren't good ones."

"Uh-huh. And this is about...?" Cook ventured, letting Silmaria fill in.

Silmaria looked away and swallowed softly. She leaned against the counter and her tail beat softly against the wood. "You know I didn't...don't...like Lord Rael."

"Well, you didn't exactly make much secret about it. Hell, I'd be surprised if the man himself didn't know it by now. Everyone else does. And that, by the way, is not earning you any friends, and has probably cost you some besides."



"I don't care about having any friends," Silmaria said distractedly, just because she always said as much. "And he does know already."

"Does he, now?" Cook said as her brows raised.

"Yes. I told him as much."

"Silmaria!" Cook practically screamed in outrage.

"He asked!" Silmaria protested. "He did. He asked me outright if I didn't like him. What was I to do? Lie?"

"Of course you were supposed to lie, you idiot!"

"Lying to a Noble is a punishable offense," Silmaria reminded her friend.

"So's not groveling or licking their boots properly, but I don't see you doing that!"

"It doesn't matter," Silmaria insisted. "He asked, and I told him the truth."

Cook let out a heavy sigh. "How deep in shit are you?"

"It's not like that," the Gnari girl shook her head, sending her dark locks swishing. "I'm not being punished or reprimanded. He asked me why I disliked him. I told him that, too. And now..."

"Now? Now what?" Cook pressed curiously.

Silmaria rubbed her face tiredly, trying to hide the confliction warring inside her. Now what, indeed?

She told Cook everything. Her anger and distrust of the young Nobleman and just how deeps the roots of those feelings went. How her anger and outrage and heartbreak and rage had all comingled and festered until she'd been nearly unable to even think reasonably where Lord Rael was concerned. How she'd wished he would just disappear, no matter how much good he was doing for her and her fellows. And then their talk last night, and the letter from Master Edwin.



At last, she was faced with proof that much of the wrong she'd blamed him for was unfounded. His callous and insensitive absence from the House when Master Edwin was sick and dying, missing his own father's funeral and burial, the long delay in his returning home...it all made so much more sense now after reading that letter. And now she didn't know how to cling to her anger anymore. And without anger, that left her with...what?



"I don't even know how to feel anymore," Silmaria ended lamely, tossing her hands in frustration.

"Wrong, maybe?" 

"Cook!" Silmaria complained.

"Well it's the truth!" Cook laughed, smiling. "You're struggling with this so heavily because, underneath all the other emotional muck I'm sure you're feeling...the rub of it remains, you were wrong. You piled all these bad feelings and pain at Lord Rael's feet, because you needed him for that. You were hurt when we lost Lord Edwin. Probably more than any of us. I get that, Silmaria. I don't know why it hurt you so bad, and I don't need to. But it did. And you didn't know how to cope. So you took a lot of the bad feelings and issues wrapped up in all that, and saw Lord Rael, not there loving his Da the way you did, and you put it on him because it was easier. How'm I doing so far?"

Silmaria opened her mouth, then shut it, and opened and shut it again. Why the hell was Cook saying all this? It was mortifying, and worse, she realized, it was damned right. Unable to find the words, Silmaria finally gave a curt nod.

"Thought so," Cook nodded in a way that was more sympathetic than smug.

Silmaria took a deep breath and gave her friend a plaintive look. "So what do I do? It's too much. I was so wrong about him. I thought he was the lowest bastard to walk the earth, and really, he loved Master Edwin. In his way. A way Master Edwin understood, even. He's...a good man. I judged him wrongly. I don't know how to face him after all this."

The older Human woman smiled and crossed the distance to give her young friend a hug, because the Gnari girl looked like she desperately needed one right then. "Oh, come on, it's not so bad. It's not like you spit in his tea or anything." 

Cook then pushed her back, holding her at arm's length as she looked at Silmaria with a suspicious expression. "You didn't spit in his tea, did you?"

"No!" Silmaria said vehemently, then, despite the jumble going on in her heart and her head, she gave a small, begrudging smile.

"Then Elard's sack, girl, just apologize to the man! Tell him you were wrong and you're sorry! He's been a reasonable and good sort so far, and seems to have taken a shining to you. He'll understand, I'd bet my ovens on it."

"You think so?" Silmaria ventured after a few moments of thought.

"Now I wouldn't be jesting about my ovens if I didn't, would I?" Cook asked in a serious tone.

Silmaria laughed at last, and when she smiled again it was a sincere and full smile. She hugged the bigger woman tightly and when she hopped back, she felt lighter. She still had some murky feelings to deal with; clearly, she'd never quite gotten over Master Edwin's death. She also had to finish sorting out the blame and guilt she'd piled onto Lord Rael, and see how she truly felt about the man when all that was cleared away. But, for all that, she felt worlds better. Cook gave her a bit of direction and clarity, if nothing else. The rest she could work through herself.

"I think you should be a counselor instead of a Cook, you know," Silmaria jested with a smile. "You always know how to figure things out."

Cook snorted and rolled her eyes. "To the hells with that. It's enough making sure there's food in a Lord's belly and his people are fed. Having to poke around in a Noble's head, and speak politely about it while I'm at it? Like sorting out your head without cursing you up one end and down the other isn't hard enough! I'd be lynched my first week on the job!"

"A week is a little generous, don't you think?"

Cook poked her finger at her laughing friend's face. "Hush your loose lips!"

"Loose? I've always been told my lips feel quite tight, all of them in fact," Silmaria returned saucily.

"Slut!"

"Whore!" 

Silmaria burst from the kitchen and bolted down the hall on quick, padding feet, laughing all the way as Cook half-heartedly threw kitchenware after her.

***

It was three days after the attack before Rael was able to safely slip away from the Manor. It was a risky move, for him and his people both, but he had to have answers. He wouldn't sit and wait quietly for the bastards to come for him in his home. Not again. If he was ever going to find out who these assassins were, the runes were his only hope. 

And he had one lead on where he could find out what those runes meant.

He raced through the back streets and byways in Trelling's Rest, ignoring the peasants and paupers he nearly tripped on and bowled over. He had no time or patience left; every moment could be vital, every second a second closer to another assault on his home. All the Nobleman's attention was bent on reaching Mithayu's shop and pressing the old man for every scrap of information he knew.

His haste was for naught.

Rael barreled into the shop in a rush. There was no Mithayu. There was no shop.

The room was utterly empty. Not a shelf, or a sheet of parchment, or a single oddity or trinket or charm remained. Nothing but four plain walls and open, uncluttered space.

Every last sign of the Sorcerer had been erased as if he'd never been.

***

The better part of three weeks had passed since the attack on the manor, and life at House IronWing was at last returning to some semblance of normal. The serving folk had finally started to feel comfortable again and stopped looking over their shoulder as if doom would descend on them all at any moment. Security was tighter around the Manor now with the new guards, but after the violence they'd seen, no one seemed to mind overmuch. 

For his part, Lord Rael had become something of a recluse. He emerged from his chambers, or the study, to attend to his official duties, conversing and planning with Selm and checking on the state of his holdings, the guard, and any other matters that required his attention. Then he would quickly spirit away to be alone. He left strict orders not to be disturbed unless in case of dire emergency.



Which left Silmaria frustrated and impatient. It had taken her a few days after her enlightening talk with Cook, but finally she'd gotten her feelings sorted out and gathered her courage. And just as she decided to seek Lord Rael out to speak with him, he'd ordered everyone away.

It was a break in the man's character and habit, to be sure; always before, Lord Rael had welcomed audiences and discussion with his serving folk and staff and made it plain that he was approachable. He'd been a man of bustle and activity, seeming to enjoy his people, his House, and his lands. He put sincere effort into making his House prosper once more. He'd been an encouraging, steadying force, his serious but open face seen everywhere his people went. These days, he was hardly glimpsed at all.

The Gnari girl swallowed her disappointment. The time would come, or it wouldn't. There was nothing she could do but wait.

In the meanwhile, her duties continued as usual. She found herself one day in the rooms Lirena had converted to a makeshift infirmary. It was a fine day, the sun shining outside and the air cold and crisp and fresh, a rare bright winter day. Silmaria threw open the shutters on the single window to the room, letting in the sunshine and cool air to chase away some of the closed stuffiness of the room. The shift in the room was immediate and refreshing.

Lirena was tending to other duties, of what nature Silmaria wasn't sure, so the Gnari girl had come down to the infirmary to oversee and tend to Tomas.



Three weeks under Lirena's careful tending had done Tomas a world of good. The man was still weak, spending the vast majority of his time in bed, but he could rise and walk a short way with some guidance and assistance to be sure he didn't have a dizzy spell and fall. He'd lost a good deal of weight after a heavy fever in the first week.



But he would live. He'd started to slowly put weight back on, and in time he may even be strong again. His right arm would never be fully whole; the damage had been too great. It would retain rudimental function, but it would never have the range or strength of his left arm. He would bear the scars for his brush with death for the rest of his days, the one to his scalp and face especially. It ran from his forehead down the right side of his face to the middle of his cheek, just missing his eye. 



Aside from some self-depreciation, Tomas was handling his injury and subsequent recovery well enough. He had an occasional bleak moment, but they passed, and he was overall an easy and cooperative patient, who was more than anything starved for news.



"I hear Lord Rael has increased the guard. Has a bunch of sell swords and old soldiering types keeping us safe."



Silmaria looked up at him from where she was removing the dressing on his chest, and shrugged. "So it seems. I don't really pay too close an attention to the ins and outs of the guards. It's a bit over my head."



"Seems like since the attack, everyone's pretty concerned with exactly what's going on with the guard these days," Tomas grunted.



"I suppose," Silmaria muttered. She used a clean cloth and brushed some of the salve Lirena had been applying to the wound onto Tomas's chest. The tissue there was healing nicely, a good scar already forming. "Some of the girls were talking about it the other day. Seems like one of the new men got a bit roudy. They said Lord Rael straightened him out. Everything's been smooth since then."



Tomas chuckled softly. Silmaria decided to leave his chest open to air for awhile, and busied herself putting away various supplies. Tomas stretched, winced slightly, and laid back. "Lirena told me the same. I don't much like new guardsmen, especially if they're causing a stir already. But if anyone will keep a garrison in line, it'd be Lord Rael."



"Yeah," Silmaria nodded with a rueful smile. "Especially if they know what he can do to a man. I'd hate to be the one to set him off."



Tomas grinned lightly and nodded. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen. He fought like a force of nature. I'd heard the stories, mind you... but I figured, with his leg and all, his war waging days were over."

Silmaria frowned and her brows furrowed pensively. "I'd wondered myself what that was about. He hasn't used his walking stick since then. He walks completely normally. No limp or anything. I doubt the gods suddenly touched him and made his leg whole in our hour of need. He must have been faking the whole time. I just haven't figured out why."

Tomas shrugged. His injured shoulder didn't move quite as well as the other. "Who can say? I can only think he had a good reason for it. I've only known him about as well as you, but Lord Rael is a good man. And an honest one too, for the most part. If he was pretending to have a bum leg, he had a purpose behind it."

"I guess," Silmaria nodded. She pulled up a stool and sat beside Tomas's bed, crossed her slender legs, and smoothed her skirts down. "I've already judged him harshly, and for no reason it turns out. So now I'm trying very hard to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Tomas's look turned thoughtful. "How is he? I've not heard much word on our Lord since the attack, and I know he took some injury."

"He's fine as far as the injury stands. I think," Silmaria added. "I tended his wounds after the battle. They seemed to be in good shape and I did my best to mend him right. I haven't seen him since that night...but from all I've heard, he's healthy and well. But not very sociable, apparently."




DarkFyre Ch. 09



"What do you mean?" 

Silmaria held up a hand in a gesture of helplessness. "For the past few weeks he's shut himself away. I've wanted to see him, to speak with him about...something he told me. But he's left orders not to be disturbed and locked himself away in his room, or in the study. He attends official business with Selm and makes sure the guard are doing their business properly, and that's it."

"Strange," Tomas muttered. "Do you think maybe his injuries are effecting him worse than he's letting on?"

"How so?" Silmaria asked, confused.

"I mean," Tomas explained, "He's a Lord, a Knight, a leader of men, and a bloody fine warrior besides. A man like that has his pride. And he'd not want to acknowledge hurt and pain and injury to others. He wouldn't want to let others see him as weak."

"Men," Silmaria rolled her eyes. "You're right, I could see something like that happening. He didn't want me to even treat his wounds to begin with. But...I don't know. I feel something deeper at work. Something's got him awful preoccupied."

"I'm sure he has much to worry about," Tomas nodded. 

"Undoubtedly," Silmaria agreed. She yawned, then arched her back and reached over her head in a cat-like stretch.

Tomas eyed her for a moment, then gave a wry smirk. "Well, I think I'll be fine here. I'm sure old Lirena will be back in a few hours. You've seen to me, so there's no worry, I won't be killing over in my sleep. You can run along now."

Silmaria's brows rose slightly. "I'm perfectly happy to stay here and keep you company for awhile. Unless you don't want me here?"

Tomas shook his head. A pinched, bitter expression passed over his face. Silmaria had seen it before, when he came out of his fever and realized the extent of his injuries and scarring. Then he flashed his self-depreciating smile. "Nothing like that, I just figured you had better things to be doing than playing nursemaid to an ugly old guard."

The Gnari woman stared at him frankly for a moment. The man was neither ugly nor old, really, even with the scarring. Oh, it would deter the shallow lasses not worth their salt, but anyone with sense would be able to see the worth and character of the man beneath the scar.

"Nothing at all in the world I'd rather be doing right now, actually," she said with a nod, and a slowly spreading smile. "What can I do to make you more comfortable, at least?"

Tomas rubbed the short golden stubble on his chin, looking a touch perplexed. "I'm fine, really. I'm mostly healed past hurting now, and what little pain I have Lirena keeps at bay with her tonics and medicines. I'm about as comfortable as a bedridden guard can be in an infirmary. I don't think you can do much more for me."

"I could suck your cock," Silmaria offer nonchalantly.

If Tomas had the strength to spring up out of his bed, she had a good feeling he would have done just that. As it was, the guardsman looked at her incredulously with his mouth agape.

Silmaria gave him a cat-ate-the-canary smile. She leaned closer, bending forward and meeting his eyes in such a way that let the front of her dress scoop forward to offer a tantalizing and quite purposeful look at her deep, plentiful cleavage. "Don't look so surprised, Tomas. I know I have a reputation around the house, and I'm sure it's even more well known in the barracks. I don't mind. Especially since it happens to be true."

"I'm almost twice your age," Tomas protested, though his eyes were quite plainly feasting upon the view she so boldly offered.

"You exaggerate," she countered with a grin. "You haven't even started going gray yet. And even if you had, I've happily fucked men twice my age, more than a few times. It doesn't matter."

Tomas swallowed heavily. She was effecting him, she knew. She reached a hand out, and laid her palm just below his chest. The guard's expression shifted, then, and he gave her a look of suspicious apprehension. "I don't want pity. I don't need it."

Silmaria's face softened, then she let her hand slide lower, under the sheets of his bed, and her slender, skilled fingers wrapped around the length of him and began to caress and stroke languidly. Tomas tensed, his eyes flickering, and he couldn't help but immediately respond to her intimate touch.

"This isn't about pity, Tomas, or even sympathy. My reputation is well deserved. I like sex. And I'm not shy about it. I don't want to pleasure you because I pity you. I want to pleasure you because I would enjoy it. And, even more important, because you deserve it. You are a good, decent, brave man. The sort of man who risks his life to protect his people and his House and his holdings. A man like that is rare, and should receive whatever comfort he can have, carnal or otherwise. I'm more than happy to give it, if you'll let me."

"This is...I don't know," Tomas said, but his protests were weak and fading fast.

"This is what?" Silmaria said with a smile, running her hand up and down the length of Tomas's shaft, caressing and stroking before her thumb brushed along the sensitive, swollen head, where she found droplets of his precum. She swirled the precum around the crown of his cock, then raised her thumb up to her mouth to suck the sweet stickiness off. Her smile was inviting and mischievous. "Good, I hope?"

"Gods yes," Tomas breathed, and then smiled nervously at her as he began to relax at last. "Sorry. I'm just not usually one to...er..."

"Go whoring?" Silmaria suggested, then laughed at his panicked reaction. "I know, Tomas. Like I said, you're a good man. And that's why I want to do this."

Without another word, Silmaria scooted her stool closer to the side of Tomas's bed, and tugged his sheet back enough to expose his cock. The Gnari leaned in, cradling his cock, which was pleasantly impressive, and dipped her head down to the guardsman's lap.

Tomas let out a soft groan as Silmaria ran her talented pink tongue along his dick in a long, wet drag from his base to his head, bathing his length in saliva. She swirled her tongue along his bulbous head, tasting the precum she'd smeared all over his glans. Her tongue flipped across the crown of his cockhead, that flared, sensitive rim, and then along the underside of it where head met shaft. Then she kissed her way to the tip of Tomas's cock, before she slid her full, plump lips down around his cock, enveloping him inch after inch into the wet, supple heat of her hungry mouth.

Silmaria mewled softly with pleasure as her mouth filled with the taste of his swollen meat. He was clean and tasting of sex and male. It was delicious. She took him deeper, much to Tomas's shuddering enjoyment, her tongue slipping and swirling along his thick shaft all the way.

She loved every moment; she wasn't in the grip of her Stirring, but Silmaria had always enjoyed the taste and smell and feel of a man filling her mouth and throat, and even without the stirring ravaging her body and driving her out of her mind and senses, Silmaria was a highly sexual creature and reveled in it. Now, she was simply enjoying the mutual pleasure of servicing a man who deserved some kindness and warmth.



Tomas shuddered, his cock throbbing with pleasure as Silmaria bobbed her head up and down his length, her thick, dark hair spilling in a curtain of curls framing her exotic face. She stared up at him, her slitted eyes green and alive with mischief and satisfaction as she took the man's cock deeper with each bobbing downstroke. 



Soon, Silmaria had the guard's thick cock buried down her throat, and the tight muscles there milked and gripped his shaft. She gagged softly as she buried her nose in his pubic hair, the full length of his meat stuffed down her throat and weighing heavy and warm along her flicking tongue. She looked into the man's eyes, slurping wetly, and finally drew back. She sucked in a deep lungful of air through her nose, refusing to release that warm, hard cock from her wetly sucking mouth.



Silmaria put full effort into pleasuring him, giving Tomas an enthusiastic, sloppy blowjob, sucking and slurping, her lips supple and silken as they glided along Tomas's slick shaft. Her saliva spilled in glistening little ropes from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin and his cock as she stuffed his meat into her throat over and again. The guard's hands rose to slide into her hair, not pushing her head down or showing much force, but giving her encouragement and letting her feel his pleasure through his hands. 



With a purr, Silmaria buried his cock down her contracting, gripping throat, her moaning and purring vibrating around his shaft to drive his pleasure even higher as her saliva spilled wet and warm to cover his aching balls.



"Sil, I'm going to cum, I'm gonna," Tomas groaned out his warning, panting.



The Gnari girl slipped his cock from the hot confines of his throat, but only enough to keep his head in her mouth, under the deliciously tormenting circle and swirl of her tongue. She stared up into his eyes as she gripped his swelling shaft, running her fingers up and down the saliva coated length of his dick as she waited to get her reward.



Tomas's hips lifted weakly from the bed and he gasped as he came. His seed released in a wet rush, thick ropes of sticky cum spurting thick and warm to coat her tongue and splatter all over the inside of her mouth. He came again, and again, and Silmaria happily swallowed him down, her tongue swirling and lapping at his cock and tasting his creamy release. She slurped on his seed, swallowing, letting the warmth coat her throat and experiencing the full pleasure of his orgasm, the taste, the heat, the thick coating in her belly. She stared up at him through it all, basking in the pleasure of service and a job wonderfully done.



When at last his orgasm was at an end, Tomas sagged back into his bed, breathing heavily. He looked supremely spent, and his smile was one of satisfied exhaustion.



"You're an angel," he stated.



Silmaria allowed herself to giggle. She wiped the corners of her mouth, then covered him back up with his sheet and an extra blanket. "No, I'm a whore, remember?"



"Same thing, this time," Tomas said sleepily. He pulled the blankets in closer and shut his eyes, relaxed and content. "Thank you."



"You deserved it," Silmaria smiled, and meant it.



She placed a kindly, innocent little kiss to the top of his head, not caring that her lips brushed his scar.



Tomas was snoring softly before she could even quietly leave the room.

***

House IronWing was settling down for the night's rest. The servants were making their way to their pallets, ready for sleep after a long day's work. The sun had set long ago and the moon was up, full and round and heavy in the night sky, its radiant silver light comingling with the stars sprinkled about the heavens like so many brilliant gems. The night was cold, but not oppressively so. It was a good night for sleep.

But sleep eluded Silmaria. She tried sitting on her pallet for a time, waiting to get tired. After a day's labor, sleep was rarely a problem for her, but tonight she just could not seem to be still. Her thoughts raced each other in her head, yet she couldn't really seem to pin any of them down to concrete notions. They were flitting, fickle things, her thoughts tonight.

Finally, Silmaria rose and slipped into her warmest dress. She tossed on her cloak, the simple wool one that had been given to all the servants about a month ago to ensure everyone stayed warm and well as winter's grip hardened on the land. Bundled thusly, the Gnari girl slipped out of her chambers, made her way on silent feet along the Manor halls, and out one of the back doors into the cold of the night.

Most people would have thought her foolish, walking out into the winter night. The freshly fallen snow crunched softly under her slippered feet. But she was able to keep warmer than most, thanks to her pelt, and she'd never much minded the cold. 

The Gnari woman wandered through the gardens at the back of the Manor, stepping around the rows of sleeping flowers buried under snow that would bloom with color and vibrancy when winter fled. The evergreens reached far overhead, their boughs sheltering and broad, letting the occasional dusting of snow slip down from their branches to tickle her face. She drew in a deep breath, the cold shocking her lungs as she let the smell of pine and fresh snow and clean, crisp air soak into her.

On the far side of the snowed in garden, in a small clearing ringed by ancient pines whose boughs reached longingly toward one another, sat two grave stones marking the resting place of the Lord and Lady Edwin IronWing. Lord Edwin had chosen to break tradition and not be entombed with his forefathers in the House IronWing burial hall set in the stones beneath IronWing Manor. Lady IronWing couldn't stomach the thought of being buried in that dark, cold place, Master Edwin had told Silmaria, and requested to be buried someplace under the sun and stars, where there was beauty and green things that grew. Master Edwin had chosen to be buried beside his wife instead of with his fathers.

Silmaria couldn't say for sure what drew her here tonight. Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps she just needed to feel close to Master Edwin and his House and his study just was not offering her that solace anymore. 

Perhaps she was coming to finally make her peace with the man, the father, and the lover she'd loved so dearly.

Whatever the case, she wasn't alone. 

He was crouched down in the snow, his back turned to her, one big hand resting on Master Edwin's gravestone, but there was no mistaking the broad, strong shape of Lord Rael. He didn't speak; whatever thoughts or words he had for his father were kept silent and between the two of them. The Gnari girl could read the depth of feeling in the man in that moment just from the set of his body. Feeling suddenly like an outsider watching something deeply personal, Silmaria turned to go.



"I would give much for his guidance right now," Rael said, almost whistfully.

Silmaria turned to face her Lord once more. Rael stared at his father's resting place still, not acknowledging her, and almost she could believe he'd just spoken aloud and not to her at all. But she knew. He rose slowly to his feet and simply stood there, staring down at his parents, quiet and somber.

Steeling herself, Silmaria stepped up to his side, and stood with him. For a time, they shared a silent vigil together. Finally Master Edwin was no longer an unbridgeable divide stretching between them. They stood together at last, with the man before them, loved and respected by them both.

Lord Rael reached out and took her small hand into his large one, his fingers wrapping around hers, full of warmth and strength. Silmaria didn't even question it; in that moment, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, as if it would have been strange if he hadn't done so.

That was the first time Silmaria had felt truly connected to someone, sharing something so deep and heartfelt with another, in what seemed like a very long time. They needed no words, no explanation to one another. Lord Rael felt it, too, she was sure of it, sure of it in her bones. It was simple, and it was clean.

It was good.

"I'm lost, Silmaria," he said after what seemed a lifetime, and far too soon.

The serving girl looked up at him at last, craning her head back to stare up into his face, the moonlight showing him perfectly clear to her acute night-eyes. She was surprised to see his handsome visage transformed by exhaustion, his face haggard and worn. There were dark circles under his eyes. His face had a pinched, worried look, his cheeks seeming sharp angled and severe. His beard was grown shaggy and thick and obviously hadn't been groomed in a few days, and he looked as if he hadn't eaten a proper meal in as long.

"My Lord, what's wrong? You look horrible."

"I need answers, Silmaria. Answers to a very important question. A life changing question. I must find answers, or I'm lost. I don't know if I can find them anymore. I've looked so hard, and just when I thought I'd come upon something, it vanished in smoke. I'm tired. So tired."

Silmaria's face twisted with worry. She'd never seen him this way; always before, Lord Rael had seemed unshakably steady and sure. An endless fount of strength and valiancy. She sensed a desperate exhaustion in him now, and it was unsettling. She twined her fingers more firmly around his and squeezed his big hand.

"What do you need answers to?"

Rael was quiet for several moments, and she wondered if he'd even heard her. "It doesn't matter," he said at last. "I've searched every tome and book and scrap of lore and knowledge I safely can. All other sources are full of risk and danger."

"So be dangerous," Silmaria suggested.

That brought his attention around. He stared down at her, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. "Be dangerous?"

"Be dangerous," Silmaria repeated, looking up at him, and shrugged. "You said you have to find these answers. That you're lost without them. The only answers left will be dangerous and risky. But you've never struck me as a man to fear danger, my Lord."

He stared at her for a time longer, then turned his eyes back to the gravestones. "Perhaps not."

Silmaria stood there beside him, letting him mull that over. She let her eyes slip over his face, severe and somber. She couldn't imagine the weight he bore on those broad shoulders. Almost, she'd thought before, he bore it without feeling. But now she saw the truth of how heavy it weighed on him.

The realization only made her respect him more.

She knew then, that her animosity had fully died. She had finally separated the pain and lost she'd held onto for so long from him, and could fully admit that he was a good Lord, a good man, and a good son. 

"My Lord. I want you to know, I was wrong. I..."

Her words fell off unsaid as she noted a strange flicker of light dancing along Lord Rael's face. An orange glow was cast along his tall, powerful form and the countryside surrounding them, glittering on the powdery snow. It was cast from behind them. 

Silmaria turned. Rael looked down at her, seeing the Gnari girl's face frozen in an expression of disbelief, those big emerald feline eyes wide with horror. Finally he noted the intensifying orange light casting its flickering, glowing light around them, and he turned.

He went as still and as captivated as she.

"No," he whispered with disbelief.

IronWing Manor, the seat of power to the Nobles of House IronWing, home to them both, had stood unchanged for more than three hundred years.

And now it was burning to the ground.

***

I do so love me some cliffhangers.

Please write any comments, questions, or critiques to familiarstranger86@gmail.com. 

The feedback I've been receiving from everyone on this story is truly amazing and humbling, and really encouraging and pushing me to continue this work. I have some awesome readers out there.

Thank you all. 

More to come soon. 



DarkFyre Ch. 10



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

Wordless, Silmaria burst into motion, springing forward to dash down to her burning home.

Or tried to, at least. Before she'd gone two strides, Lord Rael's hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist in a grip like steel. He yanked her back toward him and growled softly into her ear, "Don't be a fool. We don't know what's down there. Follow me and stay quiet! Keep low."

Though it galled her to be slow at all right then, Silmaria gave a reluctant nod and followed her Lord's lead.

Rael took them around the Manor, making his way out to the tree line as they circled toward the front of House IronWing. They stayed in the shadows, mindful of the flickering light cast by the flames. It was easy enough for Silmaria to mimic his cautious, stealthy approach, light footed and fleet as she was, but impatience tugged at her every moment. She wanted to run to the house, to be sure everyone was okay, to do whatever she had to do to get the fire under control. 

She refused to look at the flames rising higher and higher, or contemplate that her home may already be lost.

They skulked through the trees, snow crunching quietly underfoot, the sound drowned out by the crackle of flames. One section of the roof creaked ominously, then gave way in a noise some crash, splintering and smashing down into the rooms below as sparks and tongues of fire reached high into the night sky. The blaze was intense and ravenous, consuming all in its path with the indiscriminate voracity that only a fire possessed.

By the time they reached the edge of the trees that bordered the front of the Manor, it was obvious House IronWing was lost. The blaze was too complete, too consuming. The stone walls would stand, sure, but it would be a ruin, everything but the bones of the structure burned away to ash and cinder.

"Gods, the Manor...what do we do? What do we..." Silmaria gasped.

"Shh," Rael silenced her roughly, then nodded to the stable yard where the fire set in the stables and stalls was illuminating a group of people. Silmaria felt a blossoming of hope, grateful at least that some of her friends and fellow servants had made it out alive. 

Then she looked closer, and her heart sank. There were several cloaked and hooded men, the same that attacked the manor before standing with their weapons naked, gleaming and deadly. They stood in a ring around the huddle of servants who were forced down onto their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. More servants were being dragged to the stable yard by the assassins, intercepted and caught as they came panicked and coughing from the burning Manor. Silmaria saw Cook in the group, and Selm, and so many others, their faces covered in soot and their eyes filled with terror.

"Look," Rael murmured into her ear from where he crouched behind her.

Silmaria followed his hand to a spot further down the tree line. At first, she saw nothing. Then the shadows moved, and she discerned the shape of one of the assassins leaning against a tree, watching closely in the direction of the Manor with a heavy black crossbow resting in his pale hands. Rael pointed out another, and another, all of them ringing the front of the Manor. Their posture was relaxed but alert, their focus poised and ready. 

"What are they waiting for?" Silmaria whispered.

"Someone to slip past. They set the fire to flush everyone out of the Manor so they can catch them on the way out. The men on the edge of the clearing, at the treeline, are there to catch anyone who make it around the first group. They're herding us."

"Why? Why are they doing this?" Silmaria said as she began to tremble.

"Stay here. Do not move," Rael instructed her firmly. 

He drew a small but deadly looking dagger from his belt and moved between the trees, crouched low and sticking to the shadows, moving quick and silent. He was surprisingly quiet when he chose to be, and good at keeping his large size to the shadows. Soon she lost sight of him as he disappeared into the woodlands completely.

The Gnari girl huddled low in the shadow of the thick spruce tree she was hiding behind, and gazed down at the stable yard again. Someone down in the cluster of bound servants was sobbing and wailing loud enough to reach her ears over the din of the fire. If their captors cared, they showed no sign of being bothered. 

A moment of irrational panic overtook her; was Lord Rael even coming back? She didn't know where he'd gone off to, but it definitely wasn't in the direction of the captives in the stable yard. Stricken and distressed as she was, her heart beating erratically in her chest, Silmaria couldn't help but wonder if the Noble had decided to slip away while the shadowy men were distracted by the serving folk they'd gathered.

She looked back up to where the nearest cloaked figure stood at the treeline just in time to catch sight of Lord Rael creeping silently up behind him. The man stiffened, sensing something wrong, but it was too late. Rael's hand circled around the man's head, covering his mouth and yanking his head back to bare the white column of his throat, then the Knight dragged his blade cleanly across the assassin's neck. Blood spilled from the man's slit throat in a violent gush to blend with the shadows of his black clothes.

Rael lowered the body to the ground, quickly hiding it behind a tree. He rifled around the body for a moment, and when he straightened Silmaria glimpsed the man's crossbow slung across Rael's back. Then he was gone into the night once again.

She looked over into the clearing, expecting that at any moment one of the killers surrounding her friends would spot Rael out in the trees and raise the alarm, but no one seemed to notice the Nobleman's actions. Their attention was fully turned toward the Manor and anyone emerging from the blazing structure. Even if they had turned their gaze toward the trees, Silmaria realized, the men there were set far back enough in the shadows that no one without her heightened night eyes would be able to see Rael's work anyway.

Twice more Rael struck silently at the assassins in the trees, cutting them down quietly and taking their crossbows, as well as one of their wickedly curved short swords. Silmaria watched him, her heart pounding wildly in her breast as she said silent prayers to ever god old and new she could think of, willing Lord Rael to fix this, somehow, some way.

Silmaria glanced again into the stable yard as she wiped the sweat from her nervous, clammy hands. The assassins were mulling around the servants more closely now, circling the group slowly. They paid no mind to the Manor anymore, as no more of the simple folk seemed to be emerging. There were so few of her friends and housemates in that little group of frightened people. Where were all the others?

Hurry, Hurry, Silmaria thought, sending a silent plea to Rael to move quickly while cursing her own helplessness.

It happened all at once. Silmaria saw no signal, no nod, no sign of agreement or decision to act. One moment the men were circling their captives, and in the next they stepped in and began to quickly, efficiently slit their throats one by one.

The good, simple, hard-working IronWing folk were helpless, defenseless, and they died in terror and pain on those blades. Silmaria watched them bare Cook's throat. The path of the blade. Her friend's blood staining the trampled snow vivid red.

"No! No, no, no!" Her anguish and heartbreak ripped from her throat in a ragged scream.

The assassins looked up as one at her position. One of the men motioned, and a cluster of them seven or eight deep broke off from the group, dashing across the stable yard and the clearing around the Manor toward where she huddled. The rest of them remained, and continued their gruesome, evil work.

Even as the killers raced toward her, Silmaria was frozen, the horror of seeing her friends and loved ones butchered as her home burned to ruin utterly overwhelming her. She remained rooted to the spot until at last the men drew near. They moved more slowly now that they'd reached the trees, and it quickly became evident by their careful searching that though she'd given away her general location, she'd remained hidden in the shadows and trees well enough that they didn't know exactly where she was. 

The drive to live, to survive finally won out over her shock and paralyzing fear. Silmaria scrambled nimbly up into the tree, struggling with her dress but moving as quick and quiet as she was able, swinging up to the branches and high out of reach.

The murderers searched about in the underbrush for a time, moving in an organized fashion. Every moment stretched out endlessly, while Silmaria huddled up in the branches above, watching them, waiting. Finally, and much too soon, one of the men had the notion to look up in the trees. After a few moments of searching he spotted her. He pointed and the other men gazed up as well. The assassins circled around her tree, patient now knowing she was cornered and had nowhere else to go.

One of them leapt up onto the tree and began to climb, scaling the branches at a careful pace. Silmaria shifted, climbing higher, but soon she could go no further, already up in the highest branches that would support her weight. Silmaria knew what would come next; there was no escaping them now. She braced herself and pressed her face to the rough bark of the tree.

The man was only a yard or so below her when a sharp whistle cut through the air followed by a meaty thunk. The assassin gave a strangled cry, then a gurgle, and fell out of the tree, snapping branches along the way.

The men below scrambled out of the path of the body and it smashed into the snow below. She heard them cursing in their gravelly, rasping voices. A moment later a throwing dagger whipped into the trunk just inches from her face. Silmaria gasped and looked down at the cruel men below. She realized they thought somehow she'd killed the man, and if they'd been ready to kill her before, now they were eager for her death.

Another man shot up into the tree, this one climbing frantically and quickly, a surge of shadows moving nimbly toward her. Silmaria held tight to her tree and wrentched the thrown dagger free.

Again the whistle, the thunk of something fast and heavy pounding into the body, and the killer dropped as heavy and lifeless as the first. Fearing more daggers thrown her way, Silmaria moved in the tree, twisting and swinging through the branches to make it difficult to track her. 

Before they had a chance to send another man up the tree, a third assassin went down, this time from the ground. Silmaria looked down, her eyes straining, and she saw it, the thick crossbow bolt sticking out from the cloaked figure's chest. Blood welled and spilled into the snow beneath the body in a spread of crimson. 

A moment later he was upon them. Rael leapt from the shadows. She glimpsed his face, a mask of fearsome rage, his jaw clenched and teeth bared like a wild thing, his handsome face screwed up in a snarl. His eyes promised death uncompromising. Yet he made no sound, no battle cry or roar of retribution. His rage was quiet and sure, and all the more terrifying for it.

Rael caught the nearest man unawares, swinging the fired crossbow and catching the hooded assassin across the face before bringing the curved short sword he'd stolen down in a chopping arc across the man's exposed neck. The assassin managed to bring his blade up to parry, but in his stunned state it was slow, and Rael easily whipped his sword back up under the man's guard to flay open his belly.

As the assassin fell dead, Rael shifted past the body, moving immediately to the next two men. More ready than their dead brother, the Knight Captain was nonetheless on them before they could fully recover from their surprise. He lashed out in a brutal attack, slashing at one man, then the other, pressing them back as they struggled to hold off his savage onslaught of quick, deadly blows. He made space from one assassin before closing with the other, forcing the killer's sword back with pressure from his own and pressing in enough to viciously headbutt him in the face. The man nearly crumpled, stumbling back in a stunned daze, letting Rael meet the other assassin unencumbered.

From her vantage point above, Silmaria saw the third man circling to flank the wild Nobleman. Without thinking of the risks, the Gnari slipped down into the lower branches and then launched herself from her tree. 

She slammed into the butcher's back, and even as small and light as she was the impact bore the man down to the ground. He thrashed about under her as she struck at him and recovered quickly, spinning to face her. 

Silmaria kept her position, straddling the man with all her weight, but he was too strong and he bucked her off. She struggled and kicked, raking him with her claws, but the man simply grunted and pressed in on top of her, pinning her with his weight and strength. His hands were as strong as iron and as cold, the feel of his fingers like the touch of the grave. He reached for her throat and she knew the moment his grip was secure around her neck, he'd never let go and she'd never draw breath again.

Silmaria finally remembered the dagger she'd snatched, tucked in the folds of her cloak. She gripped it tightly and plunged it into the man's chest. She could feel the tissue and flesh resisting against the dagger's blade, then yielding, opening. She yanked the dagger out, then stabbed it home again. Then again. 

Her attacker fell back, sputtering and gurgling as his hands fumbled ineffectively for his sword. Silmaria surged up to follow him, driving him down to the ground, landing atop him once more. Her blade rose and fell, rose and fell.

Rael finished dispatching his men, the struggle taking only moments. When he turned to find the third assassin, he saw Silmaria over him, stabbing her dagger down into the quite dead man repeatedly. She was shaking violently, sobbing, her face a mask of desperate, horrible anger and grief. Tears ran down her cheeks to mingle with the spatter of sprayed blood already there.

"Silmaria," Rael said firmly, as loudly as he dared.

Midstroke, her blade raised overhead to plunge into the man once more, Silmaria froze at the sound of her name. She looked at Rael, her green eyes dark and full of pain and loss and unguarded fury.

"Enough. It's done."

Something in his words, or his tone, reached her. She looked down at the body beneath her as if seeing it for the first time, then to the bloodied blade clutched in her crimson stained hands. The man's blood was hot on her fingers and where it had stained her dress. 

Silmaria began to shake. She threw the blade to the ground in revulsion as she fully comprehended what she just did. Rael saw panic and a sort of madness flash across her face. She had the look of a woman pushed too far, too quickly. All the violence and wrong, the trauma packed into so little time. She was on the verge of breaking.

Rael stepped quickly up to her, grabbed her upper arm in an unforgiving grip, and shook her, hard. Silmaria gasped, looking up at him as the lost, crumbling look retreated, replaced by surprise edged in pain. 

"Stop that," Rael commanded brusquely. "We don't have time for you to fall apart, do you hear me? We don't know how many of these killers there are. There could be dozens down there, watching the Manor, waiting for any sign of us. We're lucky this group came far enough out that the rest didn't see or hear what just happened. They won't wait long before they come to investigate. We have to be away from here, now."

"But...but IronWing Manor..." Silmaria whispered, still clinging to the last vestige of a stable, sane life, anything that made sense anymore.

"Is lost," Rael finished in a tone of finality. "And we will be, too, if we don't move. Here. Take this."

Silmaria flinched as Rael thrust the remaining crossbow he'd slung over his shoulder into her hands. She took it in trembling fingers. She watched, half numb with shock and grief as Rael quickly pilfered through the bodies, gathering some supplies as he went and stripping the cloaks off of two of them. He bundled his stolen supplies into one of the cloaks, rolled it into a tight little wad, and then using the other cloak, tied the ball of supplies onto his back. 

"Let's go," he said urgently. He tucked his stolen sword into his belt, took the crossbow from her, and grabbed Silmaria's wrist. He yanked her toward him and led her into the woods. 

Silmaria struggled to keep up as Lord Rael set a demanding pace, his long strides eating ground as he led them quickly away from IronWing lands. She was lucky she was quickfooted, as he was relentless, practically dragging her along as he took them deeper into the woods. 

Silmaria had never been this deep into the forest before. The further they went away from settled land, the more densely clustered the trees became, crowding in a massive huddle with their boughs interlinking overhead, shutting out much of the moon's silvery light. The underbrush grew thicker and their clothes were snagged on low hanging branches and various plants reaching at their legs from the ground. Silmaria was sure they were being followed by small, wild eyes.

"Where are we going?" she panted at last, her heart racing as they sped through the woods.

"Away from here," was all Lord Rael would reply. He looked back frequently, the crossbow gripped and ready in his hands.

"There's no one there," she told him at last after he nearly stumbled into a tree trying to look for signs of pursuit.

He looked down at her with a frown. "How can you be sure?"

She leaned against a thick trunk, trying to catch her breath. It seemed like they'd been running for hours. She had always been a physically fit, capable girl, but she had nowhere near the conditioning Lord Rael possessed, and he'd set a high pace even for himself.

"My eyes work a lot better than a Human's in the dark," said Silmaria when she could finally breath again. "I can see clear enough to tell no one is following us."

Rael looked at her closely in the near darkness for a moment, then nodded curtly. "Keep watching, then. You'll see them before I do. Let's go. We can slow to a walk for a bit, but we can't stop yet."

Silmaria took a deep breath and willed her body to move. It wasn't easy; her whole body ached from the night's activity, and she was feeling the physical effect of too many shocks coming all at once. Her mind was numb right now; the thoughts were there, somewhere, but she'd been driven past the point of even contemplating them. For the time being, she thought of little more than putting one foot in front of the other, and surviving.

Lord Rael took them further into the forest at a reasonable pace for a time. Silmaria followed in his wake, huddled in her cloak, chilled to the bone and miserable. She looked around, studying their surroundings to try to distract herself. The woods were a blend of green and barren, evergreen and sleeping deciduous trees intermingled, with spruces and their green needled branches being most common. The winter night was filled with the sounds of stirring trees, the wind shifting through leaves and needles and branch. The towering giants around them creaking as their old wooden bones shifted. The occasional owl hooted a lonesome call. The smell of pine and dead leaves and live things, green and furred both, intermingled in a rush of scents that was not unpleasant. To her sensitive senses, inexperienced to such things, there was enough new smells and sounds and sights for Silmaria to gratefully lose herself in for a time. 




DarkFyre Ch. 10



Rael called them to a stop to allow her to rest. Silmaria sat gratefully on a smooth stone covered in a soft carpet of moss. She took her thin slippers off and rubbed at her sore, frozen feet, trying to coax some warmth into her almost numb toes. The little slippers, not made for such heavy use, were already wearing away and wouldn't last much more than a day or two of forced march.

While she rested, Lord Rael undid his makeshift pack and clambered up into a nearby tree, climbing high up into the branches. She looked up at him, curious, and after watching him for a time guessed that he must be staring up at the sky to read the stars.

Sure enough, when they resumed their march at a brisker pace this time, their direction changed. Rael led them at a hurried jog through the woods.

"Where are we going?" she asked at last, and half expected Rael to avoid answering yet again.

The Nobleman was silent for a time before finally saying, "Trelling's Landing. We've set out to the east into the Turan Wood. We're a few miles in by now. Now we're heading southward. We'll continue this way for a few miles and then cut southwest. We'll come out in about a dozen miles into the Greensward, and circle west and back north until we reach the city. This route is the least direct, and we'll spend the least amount of time in exposed ground this way."

"Are we going to the Guard?"

"No," said Rael as they trudged up a steep hill. "They'll be expecting that. They'll be watching for us to contact the Guard. Even if they aren't, it won't matter. The Guard can't help us against these men."

"Then who can?" Silmaria asked, panting again as she struggled to keep up.

"I don't know. Yet. I will by the time we get there," he replied, and that was that.

They continued to the south for what must have been close to an hour, and seemed even longer. Silmaria kept lookout behind them. Every hundred yards or so she stopped and looked carefully, scanning the wooded area all around them for any sign of pursuit. Mercifully there was no sign of anyone else in the wood, the only tracks in the snow their own, and those quickly fading under a sudden, steady snowfall that started in the middle of their march. They took a brief break, and Lord Rael scaled a tree once more to check the stars. It took him longer this time, trying to glean a decent look through the overcast of clouds and snow. Finally he descended, and they changed direction once again, moving southwest toward the open grasslands of the Greensward. 

It was the early hours of the morning by the time they came upon a large, icy stream that was just large enough and fast moving enough not to freeze over completely. Silmaria eyed it dubiously; she was loath to even attempt to cross the water. It didn't look deep, and would probably only come up to her knees or lower thigh, but she was already near frozen to the bone as it was and she felt sure if she stepped foot into the freezing water she was going to end up losing a foot.

Lord Rael crouched down at the edge of the stream and stared at it for a few moments, then gave a small nod. "This is good. We've probably come far enough south for now. We can follow this to the west. It may be a tributary that feeds into White Rock River. That feeds into Lake Glasswater. If that's the case, we can follow the river all the way to Trelling's Rest."

He stood and led her west down the bank of the stream for a time, until they reached a small alcove worn into the side of the stream where the bank hung over a depression worn away by the streams moving waters long ago. Now, dry and removed from the waters, it would offer some respite from the wind and snow, and would provide some cover to hide them from searching eyes.

"This is as good a place as any to stop for some rest," said Rael. 

Silmaria needed no further prompting. Exhausted, she sagged to the ground. She was shaking with exhaustion, weary beyond knowing. Every part of her ached, not the least of which was her heart.

Rael busied himself by undoing his makeshift pack and sorting through the items he'd pilfered. He'd kept the short sword he'd bloodied on their enemies, and taken a second still in its scabbard. He had two stolen daggers, plus his own, and the single remaining crossbow he'd taken. The two thick, black cloaks were heavy and warm and lined inside with the black dyed fur of some large animal of prey she only half recognized. There was a quiver of crossbow bolts, a flint-and-tinder kit, a small pouch holding a few coins, and, most important as far as she was concerned, a small pouch that Rael opened to reveal a portion of traveling rations in the form of salted and cured meat, probably venison.

When Rael pulled a strip of the meat from the rations and handed it to her, Silmaria took it gratefully. Only in that very moment did she fully realize just how hungry she was, her stomach turning over in angry knots at the very notion of food. She attacked her food, then slowed as she noticed how slowly Rael ate his own portion, chewing carefully in slow, small bites. The rations remaining were pitifully small when Rael pocketed it.

Rael put the rest of their things to the side, then grabbed up the cloaks. He pulled one on over the cloak he already wore, then handed the remaining one to Silmaria. She pulled the cloak on over her own sad, small cloak, and almost moaned aloud at the warmth of it. She was numb from the tips of her feline ears to her toes, and even the extra warmth of her pelt wasn't enough to keep her from violently shaking from the cold now. The temperature had begun to drop with the snowfall, and hadn't stopped dropping since.

"C-can we have a f-fire?" Silmaria asked through chattering teeth.

Rael shook his head, his jaw setting in a grim line. "It's too dangerous. Even in this little alcove, someone could see the light. It would give our position away for sure. No. We can survive without it, if we press in close for warmth."

His words didn't even fully register past her disappointment at not having a fire. She didn't realize what he meant until he scooted in closer, and reached out for her to take her into his arms.

Silmaria's reaction was immediate. Despite being utterly exhausted, she somehow found the strength to slap his hands away, recoiling and squirming away from him.

"Don't touch me!" She snarled, baring her teeth as her ears pressed flat to her head. One moment she was utterly drained and the next, all the stress, the shock, the heartache and anger and helpless rage of that horrible night came rushing to the surface, potent and overwhelming and unreasonable. 

Rael stared at her in surprise for a moment, then shook his head, moving in close again. "I'm not going to hurt you, Silmaria, and I'm not going to do anything improper. We have to do this. We have to stay warm or we'll freeze before the dawn thaws us out."

"I don't care! Don't you fucking touch me!" She shrieked. Her voice was hysterical, the screeching of some pathetic, broken thing she didn't recognize. 

"You bastard, you useless bastard! You should have protected them! You should have saved them! Saved all of us! It's your fault!"

Rael's face flickered, emotion playing through it before he pushed it down and a look of grim determination took its place. Silmaria was too far gone to notice or care any injury she did him. It had taken all her will and control to make it this far, to push all her feelings and grief aside to survive through the night. Now that their forced march was over and everything had slowed, she was overwrought with the rawness of pain and grief.

But he ignored her raving and screamed accusations. He grabbed her, his hold implacable. She struggled and flailed, pushed and shoved and heaped every foul curse upon him she could think of. She pounded on his chest and struck at him, but he wouldn't let her go. He pulled her into his arms, enfolding her into his embrace, and held her body tight to his. He said nothing, made no reply to the blame she laid at his feet. He simply held her and refused to release her.

She didn't want this. She didn't want his warmth, his closeness, the strength of him surrounding her. She didn't want the security of that embrace, the way it sheltered her from the cold and the horrible place the world had become. She wanted to hate him. She wanted it to be his fault, because her world was crumbling and someone had to be responsible for it.

"It's your fault. They were there for you! They were there for you, and you didn't protect us. It's your fault," she screamed until her voice was hoarse, until she was hiccupping, and then sobbing, sobbing and shaking and crying into his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt as he held her there, huddled in the warmth of his arms.

Silmaria thought she had cried enough to last a lifetime. She thought she'd felt enough loss and grief and pain to wring all the tears she could ever make from her. She had told herself, after those long nights reading Master Edwin's letters, and then letting him go that she was finally done with tears and heartache and grief, forever.

How very wrong she'd been. 

***

Please send all questions and comments. The next chapter will be on the way as soon as I'm able. Stay tuned and let me know if you've enjoyed!



DarkFyre Ch. 11



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

In the late morning hours the sun shone bright and glorious on Trelling's Rest. The overcast clouds of yesterday's snowfall had fled in the face of a clear and temperate day, the sort of mild and cheerful day DarkFyre Dale rarely saw this deep into winter. The snow underfoot gleamed pristine white under the sunshine, a blanket of innocence and purity cast over the countryside, a beautiful thing to behold.

The Bear's Maw was Trelling's Rest's main gate and the site of the majority of traffic in and out of the city. The thick oak and iron gates were thrown wide today to admit travelers, merchants, tradesmen, crafters, Nobles, herdsmen, and paupers of all kinds. The crowd gathered at the gate was vast on this clear and pleasant day, a sea of humanity, Human and DemiHuman alike. All sorts of folks and classes mingling in a great press of raised voices, stinking bodies, and impatience to be on their way.

Of the three city gates, the guards were heaviest at the Maw. Even still, they struggled to maintain any remote semblance of order, and only succeeded if by 'order' you meant anything short of outright pandemonium. They kept the crowd moving out the way when a cart laden with goods made its way up to the gate, and swatted the peasants aside when a Noble came riding up the muddied road. 

Rael gazed up at the ramparts of the towering stone walls flanking either side of the Maw, studying the guards stationed and patrolling upon them from beneath the hood of his cloak. There didn't seem to be any more men on watch than would be expected, but that was plenty still. The risk of increased security was worth it. At the Maw, the crowd was so great that it became much easier to blend in with the multitude of folk coming into the city for a vast array of reasons. Their presence wouldn't be noted as strongly as it would at the less crowded and secure gates. With luck, if the gates were being watched by unfriendly eyes, the crowd would help them slip by unnoticed.

A herd of pigs nearly ran Silmaria over. The pig herder tending his squealing charges waved a gnarled walking staff in her direction, as if she were about to snatch one of the piglets up. Rael gripped her upper arm and steered her in front of him and out of the pigs tromping path. The press of people around them was claustrophobic and chaotic. Rael kept his hand on Silmaria's shoulder. He could feel her tension through that touch, though she did well at appearing to be impatiently bored and unconcerned. 

They moved in closer to the guards stationed in front of the gate, moving with the flow of people surging forward and shuffling back like the current of a vast, living tide. There was a group of street performers from the south clustered to their left, brown skinned Human's mostly, with a tall elf and a dwarf, both of them as swarthy as their Human friend's, all of them speaking in a rapid, undulating tongue he didn't recognize. 

A grimy-faced street urchin crashed into him from behind, stumbling against his big frame and falling into the muddy snow. The child picked himself up, made a show of wiping off the newest smears of mud collected on his knees, and then ran shrieking and laughing into the crowd. Rael had shifted and moved as the child flopped against him, and the would-be pickpocket ran off empty handed.

Rael's reminded himself to let his posture sag and keep his eyes to the ground before them. Inside he was full of apprehension and highly strung nerves. It took an effort of will not to constantly look around and scan his surroundings for any sign of watching eyes. Appearing casual was extremely difficult; though everything appeared normal now, he was ready for things to turn ugly at any moment.

Silmaria stumbled a bit as her foot caught in a muddy pothole. She cursed under her breath as she yanked her foot free. Her slipper, already in bad shape as it was, was now pretty thoroughly ruined. 

"Are you sure you can do this?" Rael asked her not for the first time, pitching his voice just loud enough so she could hear over the din of the crowd.

"I'm sure," she replied irritably. "Why do you keep questioning this? It's your plan, after all."

It was his plan. It was the best one he could devise, given the circumstances.

Rael's idea called for them to be a shabby, run down pair, peasants and beggars like any other who came and went from the city. It wasn't a hard disguise to pull off; they were both covered in dirt and grime from a night and day trekking through the Turan Wood and the Greensward, and their clothing was travel worn and looking the worse for wear.

Silmaria's dress was especially convincing. They'd had to hack her skirts short so she could better keep pace with him, and her legs were exposed to her knees, her butchered skirts swirling in tatters around her thighs. The pelt of her lower legs was a vivid orange with the striking black slashes of her striping along the outside of her calves. She'd scrubbed the bloodstains from the front of her dress as best she could in the stream they'd followed, but it wouldn't fully come out, so she'd smeared some dirt and mud into the stained spots to make it look like she was caked in filth instead of a man's life blood. Her hair was a wild tangle of snagged and knotted curls that hid most of her face. What could be seen was a mess of matted fur and dirt.

For his part, Rael had to hide his clothes a bit more carefully; though his clothes were the same simple, practical garb he always wore, anyone looking closely enough would still be able to tell the quality and cut of his clothes were far above anything a peasant would wear. He hid this as well as he could by further tearing and fraying at his clothes, making them appear more worn and aged than they were, and caking dirt and mud into the fabric. Over this he pulled his old traveling cloak, which was suitably beaten and worn out that, with a few minor rips and tears added, made for a convincing beggar's garb.

"It's no good," Silmaria had told him. She'd regarded him critically at dawn that morning while they prepared to enter the city. She'd said little the past day, and most of their communication had been about matters of survival and their plan of action as they continued to flee toward the Capitol. 

Neither spoke of that night in the forest.

"Why not?" Rael asked as he carefully examined his battered and ragged clothing. He seemed a fit enough pauper, he thought. Even his hair and beard looked suitably scraggly and unkempt, and he'd rubbed enough mud into both to hide the distinct burnished copper tint.

"You look the part just fine. But there's no hiding those," she motioned meaningfully toward his eyes. "They're a dead giveaway. I've never seen eyes like yours, never even heard of them. I know I'm not much of a world traveler, but something tells me no one else has, either."

She was right of course. Anyone who took one look at his eyes would mark him as unique and memorable. If their hunters questioned anyone who took note of him, or worse, if they had agents among the guards... 

With these fears in mind, Rael had mulled it over at length and finally devised a plan he thought was viable. His hood was dragged low over his head, and he'd tied a strip of cloth cut from his cloak over his eyes. He could see out the bottom just enough to keep some perspective of his surroundings, but for anyone looking at him, it appeared his eyes were obscured.

He came up behind Silmaria, one hand on her shoulder to give the impression she was leading him. With his vision so severely limited, she very nearly was. Rael was still nervous about putting Silmaria so prominently in potential harm's way, even capable as she was. He was hopeful none of his hunters was aware of her presence, but he couldn't be certain. He was gambling both of their safety on the odds that she'd escaped notice enough that they weren't searching for her as well. It was a fool's bet. But what choice did he really have?

Rael did not like uncertainty or chance, but he knew the precariousness of their situation. He had to get inside the city to seek help, and answers. He no longer trusted to the pull of his name, nor the strength of his sword arm to keep him safe. There was no way of knowing just how extensive the assassin's network was, nor to what lengths they would go to put him in the ground. Until he found a way to take the fight to them, he would take every precaution a hunted man could.

"We're next," Silmaria said over her shoulder as they shuffled forward toward one of several pairs of guards overseeing the people heading in and out of Trelling's Rest. The pig herder from earlier was in front of them, arguing with the guards about his charges and whether or not they were controlled and tended adequately enough to be allowed on the city streets. The herder seemed to be taking it as a personal affront that the guards didn't believe he had his swine's in hand. The guards seemed to take his personal affront as a personal affront.

"Remember," Rael advised her, leaning in under pretense of resting his weight on her shoulder so that he could speak into her ear, "We're beggars. As far as the guards are concerned, we have no rights."

In perfect case in point, the guards appeared to tire of the pig herder's arguments. One of the men took a short, solid cudgel from where it hung from his belt, and delivered a swift, stout clubbing to the man's head. The argumentative man fell into the muddy snow, out cold, and his pigs nosed at his clothes for some hint of something to eat. One of the vendors behind them in line gave a short bark of laughter.

"I see what you mean," Silmaria muttered. The guards dragged the man off to the side. Most of his pigs followed and nosed through the mud around his limp body, while some of them wandered into the crowd, never to be seen alive again.

"Who are ya and what's yer business?" the guard with the cudgel asked them as he checked his bludgeon for blood, quite bored.

"Come for work if it please ye, sir," Silmaria answered in her best lowborn tones. Rael gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze, trying to lend her any strength he could.

"Ain't no work in there that ain't out here," the guard replied dismissively.

"If it please ye, sir, there're more customers for work like mine in the city. A handful o' farmers ain't bringin' me 'nough coin to keep me fed, and the livestock ain't buyin' what I'm sellin'."

The guard looked at her more closely now, his dark eyes appraising her. "Well, come on, let's have a look, then."

"Sir?" Silmaria asked uncertainly.

"What, ya think I'm gonna let just any country whore in? And a Gnari, on top of all else? Yer already dirty as the guttersnipe's inside. If I'm gonna let ya whore in our streets, ya better have somethin' worth offerin'! So let's see, then!"

By then the guard's partner had stepped over and was watching with an amused expression on his face. Rael had to will himself not to dig his fingers into Silmaria's shoulder. It was all he could do not to lay both men out for their insolence.

Silmaria, however, seemed to have none of his problem. Without a word, she quickly and efficiently unlaced the top of her bodice and pulled it down, spilling her ample, firm tits into the open air. Her nipples were instantly stiff from the cool air. The guards laughed and grinned like boys as they ogled the Gnari's lush breasts. The one with the cudgel reached out and tweaked her nipple, giving the thick nub a wicked little pinch.

She let him toy with her nipple for a moment, ignoring the tingle it sent racing through her nerve endings. She hardly cared at this point about her own exposure and humiliation; the only pair of eyes that she cared one way or another about seeing her nudity were behind her and covered with a blindfold. Finally, she ended the guard's enthusiastic pinching by giving his hand a firm slap. He pulled his hand away in surprise.

"Now, sir, if ye're wanting more than a sample, ye'll have to give me my coin. Whore's are hungry too, ye know. And I been in line an awful long time."

The guard stared at her, and for a moment, Silmaria wondered if she'd gone too far. 

Then the man laughed uproariously, and nodded to her in approval. "Smart lass! I may have to be comin' for some servicin' someday! Go on in."

"Thank ye kindly, sir," Silmaria replied with a saucy grin as she tucked her breasts back into her dress and laced up the front of her bodice. I'll consider givin' ye a discount. A small discount, mind."

The guardsman laughed again and motioned her through the Maw. Silmaria felt a rush of relief. 

Which was promptly stamped out as the other guardsman stuck his hand out to block her progress.

"Hold on, then. Who's this with you?"

Damn, Silmaria cursed inwardly. Her heart beat wildly and for a bare moment she stood there, her clever smile frozen on her face.

Rael could sense Silmaria's panic like a palpable thing, and he knew in a moment, the guards would too. He squeezed her shoulder, hard, trying to shock her out of her moment. She could do this, he knew she could, if she'd just say something before the men saw the crack in her confident, bold demeanor.

"This is my Uncle," Silmaria replied. Rael blessed her silently; she went on without a hitch or hesitation in her voice. "He was a soldier in the war, with my Da. Blind now. Uncle lost his eyes, and Da lost his life."

Keeping his head bowed toward the ground, standing sightless and meek while the guards hovering nearby sized him up, was one of the hardest things Rael had done in some time. 

"Better hope yer goods get the both of ya plenty o' coin," the guard with the cudgel said at last. "Cripples don't last long in this city."

"My goods'll do well enough," Silmaria replied. The guards stepped aside, and they walked through the Bear's Maw and into Trelling's Rest.

Some time had passed since Silmaria's last visit to the DarkFyre Capital, but little had changed. It was still a cold, hard city with cold, hard people. The buildings were clustered around small, narrow streets, squat, wide stone edifices that crowded together like people huddled for warmth. Though there were some buildings made for elegance an aesthetic appeal, most of them housed the Nobles who dwelled in the Palace district. The rest of the city was built for function and practicality. Hearty walls of roughhewn stone held up study wood roofs, made strong and sloped sharply to withstand the weight of accumulating snow and send as much of it as possible sliding off to the roads below. 

They walked about a block away from the Bear's Maw before Rael finally straightened and pulled his hood up enough to look around. Silmaria took a deep, shaky breath, her heart pounding frantically as she finally let her nerves show. Rael looked down at her closely.

"You okay?"

She ran her dirty fingers through her equally dirty hair, trying to undo a few of the snags there. After she regained her composure, she nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. What now?"

"Now we make our way toward the waterfront district," Rael told her, and they cut down an alley away from the main streets. They made their way down the many interlocking, narrow back streets and pathways between the buildings. 

"Why the waterfront?" Silmaria asked.

"Because the docks and waterfront areas are the least commonly patrolled by the guards, the easiest place for us to blend in disguised as we are, and the people there are the least likely to ask the wrong kind of questions."

They stepped past, around, and in some cases, over several people resting in the back streets, huddled in piles of rags and refuse. Here and there a small area had been cleared in the muck and snow for a fire to be lit, and the poor folk of the city huddled around these fires for warmth.

"There's so many people here," Silmaria murmured to Rael. "Are the poor sections of the city always so crowded?"

"It's worse in the winter," he told her quietly. "Serfs and other poor commoners from the countryside flood the towns and cities of the Dale during the winter. It's warmer here and less exposed than the countryside, even if they live in the gutters. It's easier to find work and food, too."

"They're starving," she observed, looking at the sunk and hollow-eyed faces staring listlessly at them. 

Rael grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, and they moved through the alleys more quickly. "We will be, too, if we aren't lucky and careful."

A few more turns down the maze of backstreets and they came out into a small but busy market square. 

The merchants were taking advantage of the fair weather and the square was packed with stalls of all kinds. Being close to the harbor, fish stalls were the predominant vendors with their assortment of freshwater fish from Lake Glasswater, but there were many other wares to be seen. Fruits and vegetables imported from the milder Southern climes and tailors selling clothes of varying qualities, from the simple rough spun tunics and breeches of peasant folk, to finer, luxurious cut doublets and dresses of silk and cashmere and lace. There was a SkyRacer man, a rare sight indeed, whose grand, majestic wings were artistically dyed, his feathers an alternating pattern of white and indigo and pale greens that matched his clothes. He was selling various baubles and jewels and ornate jewelry. Silmaria was pretty sure he'd do better business set closer to the Palace district, but he seemed content with the small bit of traffic his stall received.

Rael led them slowly through the crowd in the square until he found a shop that struck his fancy. He instructed Silmaria not to wander from his sight, and began conducting business with a short, burly Dwarven smith running the small weapons shop and smithy in one of the larger stalls ringing the market square. 

Silmaria looked around, listless and tired and longing for home. She'd accepted that it was gone, or come as close to acceptance as was possible, but still she missed it nonetheless. She hadn't thought about her lost home much since that night in the forest, nor her friends. It was easier that way, simpler just to be and not think on it. Too much thinking sent a lance of pain through her heart, and she truly couldn't afford that now. 

Her attention was caught by a nearby stall where an older man with the clear coloring and features of a Daleman was selling strips of freshly roasted meat, probably beef or pork or one of the mountain yaks common to the region. The meat was heavily spiced and steaming, dripping with grease and smelled so good that Silmaria had to swallow the saliva pooling in her mouth. Her stomach was growling so loud she wondered that the entire market couldn't hear.

Just as Silmaria was about to go see if the man would accept indentured servitude in exchange for a section of meat, Rael returned with a small purse of coin jangling in his hand. 

"Where'd those come from?" Silmaria asked with raised brows.

"I sold the crossbow. It was a very unusual model. I'd never seen that design before. It was light and the hand crank worked almost effortlessly, and whatever spring mechanism was used put a lot of power behind the shot. It was probably worth even more than I got, but this was probably our best bet for getting some extra coin without drawing too much attention."

Silmaria's stomach growled again; she could still smell the cooking meat. "In that case, can we get some of that?" She asked, pointing to the vendor.




DarkFyre Ch. 11



Rael chuckled softly and gave a thin smile. "I'm hungry, too. But no. We need to get out of the streets and hidden away. We'll find an inn on the docks and hide out. They'll have plenty of food there."

Silmaria gave one last wistful, disappointed look toward the sizzling meats, but swallowed her protests and followed as Rael led them out of the square and down the streets leading west toward the waterfront district.

"How do you know your way around here so well?" Silmaria asked him as she became ever more lost in the twists and turns and intersecting backstreets and side alleys they took.

"I spent most of my childhood in Trelling's Rest, remember?" he answered. The streets all had a downgrade now as the land sloped downward toward the Lake, the buildings standing in rowed tiers as they got closer to the docks. 

"You were a squire in the Knighthood. I didn't think they let you run free in the city."

"They didn't," Rael said, and Silmaria was surprised to see the Nobleman actually smirking. "I wasn't always very good at doing what I was told."

"That's a surprise," she returned as she stepped gingerly over a ragged old man sprawled out across the alley they were cutting through.

Rael waited at the alley mouth for her to catch up, then they continued down one of the more heavily trafficked roads. They could see the blue expanse of the lake here, its waters as crystalline and clear as its namesake, its surface dotted liberally with small fishing boats.

"Why's that?" He asked.

Silmaria shrugged under her torn, unkempt cloak. "I don't know. You just seemed such a serious boy. I never once saw you smile. I can't picture you running off on your own, wandering all around the city with the Knight Brothers chasing you down to drag you back to task. You didn't seem like the sort."

Rael shook his head and smiled lightly at her words. "Even serious boys need a bit of adventure once in awhile."

They arrived at the Lake docks. The docks were a busy, bustling place, full of fishermen and workers and boat crafters and traders and the closest thing the North had to sailors. The largest boats at the piers were small two mast vessels that were just large enough to carry a respectable haul of netted fish. The men at the docks were a noise some, cheerful lot that shouted greetings and laughed freely. The docks smelled of fish and sweat and the cool crisp freshness of Lake Glasswater.

The inn Rael selected, on the other hand, kept all the smells of fish and sweat from the docks, and traded the freshness of Glasswater for stale beer.

The Siren of The Lake was a dilapidated little hole-in-the-wall. If it had ever seen better days, it was probably before Silmaria was even born. It was a two story, wide building with a big common room clustered with tables and chairs, a stone hearth in the far wall, and a few windows that would have commanded a nice view of the waters if they weren't tightly shuttered. The common room was stuffy and dark, with the only light for the big room coming from the hearth and a few lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls. 

The innkeep was standing behind the long, weathered bar running the length of the right side of the common room. He was a lanky, lean Elven man who somehow, despite being an Elf, managed to look old. He wore a rough spun tunic in shades of brown and mustard, and his flaxen hair hung across his brow where it escaped the tail it was tied back in. It was strange to see an Elf with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the creases at the corners of his mouth were from the constant frowns of the long-suffering.

When his wife came out from the kitchens, it became apparent what had aged the poor man who should have been ageless. A great rotund Human woman, she had streaks of gray in her short brunet locks, sharp hazel eyes, and a wide mouth that seemed to be perpetually in motion. Rael and Silmaria hadn't been in the room but a few moments, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light, and already the henpecked Innkeep had been berated by his dear loving wife for half a dozen things big and small. The small cluster of regular customers, deep in their cups even in the early afternoon, were apparently so used to the woman's griping and berating that they paid no attention whatsoever. 

For his part, the Innkeep didn't bat an eye as she laid into him, replying with a simple 'Yes, dear," once the woman had finally said her rather large fill and gone stomping off to the kitchen once more.

Rael cleared his throat. Twice. The Elven man looked up at last, blinked at him, then frowned and held his hands up in a dismissive manner.

"Sorry, we don't have no work, and we don't have no handouts. Out with you, no begging in here, I have respectable patrons trying to enjoy their afternoon in peace!"

Rael pulled the pouch of coins from his belt and tossed it onto the lacquered, much scratched bar. The Elf looked down at the pouch dubiously, then back up to Rael.

"No begging here," Rael said firmly. "You can take my coin and render services, or I can take my coin elsewhere. Choice is yours."

"Take the bleedin' coin!" The Innkeep's wife screeched from the kitchen. Silmaria flinched and shook her head slowly. How in the world had the woman heard their conversation from all the way back there? She decided then and there she was going to stay as far away from the woman as possible.

Rael, having arrived at the same conclusion, arched a dusty brow. "Well?"

"Of course, Sir, my mistake, my mistake," the Innkeep nodded and offered an uncomfortable smile. "What do you and the Missus be needin'?"

"I'm not his..." Silmaria began to say, then bit her words short as Rael helpfully stepped on her foot. 

"A room. The cleanest bed you have. We'll also be needing three servings of whatever is hot and fresh, and a tub brought up to our room for bathing."

The Innkeep scratched at his long, slim nose. "The tub'll be extra. We only have one and it's usually reserved for nobles. It's gonna cost quite a bit for me to lend it to common folk."

Rael gave him a hard look and motioned around the room with one hand. "Do you see any Nobles here clamoring to use it before us?"

"Might be one comes in while you and the Missus are using it. What then?"

"Let's be plain, goodman," Rael said, leaning forward and bracing his hands on the bar, causing the Innkeep to step back a pace as he realized anew just how big his new patron was. 

"We both know you haven't had a Noble set foot through those doors all winter. Hell, probably the entire year. And it's like to be just as long from now before one finally does. So why not just give me a reasonable price for use of your tub, and then your tub will help you collect some coin instead of just collecting dust."

"Take the man's bleeding coin!" The Elf's wife screamed once more from the kitchen.

Rael stood there, waiting, and after just a moment of embarrassed hesitation, the Innkeep bobbed a nod and the two men got down to bargaining a fair prices.

***

A deep groan of satisfied appreciation pulled itself from Silmaria's throat as she sank into the steaming hot water in the surprisingly spacious brass tub. The water was just shy of scalding, but she didn't even care. It felt too blissfully wonderful, even mildly uncomfortable as it was, to finally wash away the grime and filth that had accumulated on her body during their desperate flight. She sank lower into the water, submerged up to her neck, letting herself go limp and relaxed and simply drift for a moment in the delicious warmth.

"Whatever you paid for this, it was worth it," she said as she shut her eyes. 

Rael sat on the edge of the bed, his broad back turned to her, stripped to the waist to try not to dirty the bed covers too badly. He was eating the last of his meal of roast mutton chop and potato soup, and very pointedly staring at the wall. Right now, Silmaria could have cared less if he'd blatantly ogled her from the side of the tub. She was in hot, fresh, clean water, and she had a sliver of soap that didn't look like it had been much used by anyone else, and she could feel the dirt coming off her already.

"It wasn't too much, really. I think the man was so worried that his wife would take it out of his hide if he didn't take my coin instead of waiting for some non-existent Noble to walk through the door, he wasn't much worried about cheating me anymore."

"She seemed the type to do just that," Silmaria smiled, and then gave an uncharacteristic giggle. "If only he realized he really did rent his tub out to a Noble."

"If he realized he'd done that, I would be paying three times what I'm paying for it now, and we don't have that kind of coin to throw around."

"Yes, yes," Silmaria sighed. Damn the man for ruining her happy moment with reminders of their present situation. "How much do we have left, anyway?"

"Enough," Rael shrugged. "We can stay in this inn for the better part of a week and still have enough left over to buy supplies. Food. Clean clothes."

"Are we going to be staying here for a week, then?" Silmaria asked as she straightened a bit. She glanced over at him, her eyes studying the corded knots of muscle in his back, shifting under the grime and dirt still covering his fair skin. His hair fell down his back, the bright, burnished copper barely hidden by the dirt and mud they'd rubbed into it. It was tangled and snarled, nothing like the usual glinting, beautiful locks he kept so neatly bound in a warrior's braid. 

She swallowed softly, quickly grabbed up her soap, and began to scrub the filth from her short, smooth pelt.

"I don't know," Rael admitted. "I'm not sure what comes next. Most of my thoughts were wrapped up in getting someplace safe."

"This is someplace safe?" she scoffed.

"It's someplace unexpected. Someplace they wouldn't think to look. That makes it safe. For now."

"It's not going to stay safe forever," she observed.

"No, it's not," he sighed, and shook his head. "But it doesn't have to be. It just has to be safe until I find us someplace better. Someplace we will have allies, and power."

"Any ideas on that, then?"

Rael sucked briefly on the bone left from his mutton chop. "I don't have many options. I'm going to have to pay a visit to my Commander. Knight Commander Dern of House Mireon."

"House Mireon...I know that name," Silmaria mused as she soaped her breasts and then ran her soapy hands along her flat stomach.

"You should. Our houses are linked. My Cousin, Iri, was married to Commander Dern's brother, Jessop Mireon, years ago before my Uncle Ferin died of the Gray Plague."

"That's right! I remember now. I met Iri once. She was so quiet and soft. She wore a cream colored dress with lilac lacing and a little choker of pearls. She seemed a Lady born, even as a girl."

"Yes. She was all that. And she had a hell of a right hook, too," Rael smirked.

"No!" Silmaria gasped, and then laughed.

"Seriously. Bloodied my nose more than once when we were barely knee high."

"Oh, that's rich," Silmaria grinned to herself and stuck a long, shapely leg up to brace her foot on the edge of the tub and scrub the dirt from her firm calves. "So if you've family ties to your Commander, why didn't you go to him with all this to begin with?"

Rael rubbed slowly at his scraggly beard. "It's complicated. The short end of it is...Commander Dern doesn't care for me."

Silmaria stared at the man's back hard enough to bore holes into it. "He doesn't care for you?"

"He doesn't care for me," Rael repeated.

"Seriously? What are you two, ten?"

"You'd think," Rael grumbled. "Commander Dern believes that joining House Mireon with House IronWing was a bad move, politically. He's of the opinion that House IronWing isn't high enough in the Court standings to be worth marrying his brother and the second in line to inherit to Iri, who isn't even in line of succession. He's been holding to that grudge as long as I can remember. He was loath to grant me a Captain's station, and only did so because I worked too hard and accomplished too much for him to find a justifiable reason to deny me. 

"Dern has never done anything directly malicious against me," Rael explained, "But I know quite well that he has no love for me. So I am very reluctant to go to him for any kind of aid. I only do so now because I've no real choice. He may be the only person who can protect us and keep us safe while I search for answers."

"Great. So our best hope at this point is a Nobleman with too many swords at his command and too long a stick up his ass," Silmaria sighed.

Rael gave a sudden burst of laughter. Silmaria, caught off guard, stared at him and had to struggle to keep a foolish smile from her face, and then wondered why she was bothering at all since he wasn't even looking at her.

"That about sums the situation up, yes," he nodded. Then he stood and stretched, groaning softly as his back popped. He pulled his dirty tunic back on and then wrapped his much battered cloak around his shoulders. 

"Where are you going?" she asked. She scooted to the edge of the tub and propped her arms across the rim, her breasts pressed to the warm side. "It's okay, you can look."

Rael turned just enough to glimpse her as he stood by the door. "We need supplies. Dried food and travel rations, just in case we end up having to bolt unexpectedly. Clean clothes and blankets. Anything we may end up wanting if we have to take to the streets for awhile."

Silmaria tilted her head slightly as she watched him. "You're not expecting this to go well, are you?"

"I'm trying not to expect anything, while expecting everything," he returned.

She nodded slowly, caught a wiff of her hair, and swore as soon as he left she was going to scrub it until it smelled fresh as a rose or it all fell out. "That makes sense."

"Stay in here while I'm gone. Bolt the door and don't answer to anyone. Even if they sound like me. If it's me, I'll knock three times, and when you ask who it is, I'll answer, 'Rael, Son of Edwin'."

Silmaria swallowed softly and then nodded. "Okay. But I'm getting hungry again."

"I won't be long," Rael assured her. "I'll bring some more food from the common room when I return."

"Okay. How come you got two portions, anyway?" She asked, and tried her best to feign petulance.

Rael, evidently, was not buying it. "Because I'm bigger." 

He grinned, pulled his hood up, and slipped from the room.

***

Thank you all who bore with me through the shock of the previous chapter. I know it was hard going for some of you. It'll be worth reading through, promise ;)

As always, please send any and all questions, comments, and feedback. 

***



DarkFyre Ch. 12



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

The next morning was mild, if not as clear and sunny as the day before. Clouds hung in a haze over the sky, drab and dreary and promising cold and snow to come, but all in all it was a favorable day for the middle of a Dale winter. 

Rael was sitting against a wall in an alley mouth, studying the grand building across the street. He was on the opposite end of Trelling's Rest, right in the heart of the Palace District, watching the Hall of Valor, home and seat of power for the Knight Brotherhood of DarkFyre Dale. He knew the hall well, had spent near his whole adolescence in those sweeping halls, making his home beside the bravest men in the kingdom. He had trained, studied, learned, grown, and become a man in the Hall, and finally taken his vows as a Knight and protector of the realm. He hadn't seen the Hall in a number of years, hadn't even visited it upon his return Home. Seeing it never failed to stir memories, sweet and bitter alike.

He wouldn't chance walking into the Hall openly as Lord IronWing. There could be eyes, even here. But he knew other ways into the Hall, secret ways he'd discovered as a boy. He'd try the great tree around the eastern side of the compound. It's strong, gnarled branches overhung the tall and sturdy iron fence surrounding the Hall. That yard was rarely patrolled and he could easily slip into the Hall from there. Once inside, he would make his way to the Lord Commander's office. If anyone happened upon him along the way...well, he would deal with it, somehow.

The Nobleman stood, rested one hand on the short sword he had concealed under his cloak, and made his way slowly across the road in a meandering, lackadaisical fashion, as if he were just another beggar on the street wandering no place in particular.

As he was about half way to the Hall, the guards opened the front gate to let a rider through and out onto the street. The older man sat his horse well, tall and proud of bearing. Rael looked at him from under his low-pulled hood, and gave a start of recognition when he saw the Knight's raiment of red on gray, the colors of house Cador.

"Galin?" he said as loud as he dared.

His old friend pulled up short upon hearing his name. His horse danced restlessly as Galin stared down at him, his eyes narrowed at what he probably thought was some common back alley rat all bundled in rags and grime.

"What are you doing here? I thought I ordered you to stay at camp and command until I returned!" Rael hissed.

Galin's eyes went wide with recognition. He sputtered half a dozen curses under his breath before finally growling, "What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You fool! You stupid, stupid boy!"

Rael hesitated, giving his friend a perplexed look. He'd expected Galin to be surprised, yes, and the Knight was always sour when met with surprises. But this felt different. Wrong. Galin had an air of frustrated panic about him. It wasn't like the old veteran at all.

"I came to speak with Commander Dern. Some terrible things have happened, and I need his help."

"His help?" Galin gaped incredulously. He leaned forward in his saddle so that he was face to face with Rael, and said through his grimace, "You're an even bigger fool than I thought. We can't talk here or they're going to have your head on a pike, and mine too! Forget Dern. Come to my holdings here in town, at sundown. Come through the back, and don't be seen!"

Before Rael could ask him what this was all about, Galin raised his voice to shout in clear, carrying tones, "No, I've not got bread nor alms for you, you sodding mangy cur!"

He pulled his boot from his stirrup, and kicked Rael forcefully in the chest. Rael stumbled almost to the ground, stunned, and Galin turned in his saddle to shout to the guards, "Get this trash back into the gutter where it belongs!"

Galin rode off, kicking his horse hard and sending it surging down the road. Rael looked up to see the guards at the gate walking toward him at a pace that suggested they'd rather do just about anything but go chasing after a beggar. Rael levered himself to his feet and went stumbling off back into the alleyways in a respectable impersonation of a drunken hobble. 

Once out of sight, Rael cursed softly and made his way back toward the Siren of The Lake. He didn't understand what was going on. Why was Galin back in Trelling's Rest, and why was he acting so strangely? And what had he meant, 'they' would have their heads on pikes? Did he mean his hunters? And if so, how did he know about them in the first place?

The thought even flickered through his mind that Galin could be leading him into some kind of trap. But he dismissed it; he'd known Galin too long, too well. The old Knight had been his friend and mentor through his entire adolescence, and close friends with his father before that. No. Galin was gruff and surly and crass. He drank too much, went whoring too often, and had a love for slaying an enemy that at times bordered on reckless and unhealthy. But he held firm to his own sense of honor, and his loyalty was above question.

Wasn't it?

***

Silmaria was bored. Even though she recognized, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Lord Rael was right to be cautious and careful, the rest of her felt smothered and trapped and stifled by his overprotectiveness. She felt pretty certain that the murderous group coming after them knew nothing about her. And she was capable and competent. She could go out, or at the very least down into the common room, and she'd be fine. She could take care of herself.

So why, she asked herself not for the first time as she sprawled across the room's only spacious bed, did she do as he bid? What was stopping her? 

Fear. As much as she felt confident that she wasn't being searched for, even the possibility was enough to give her pause. Her last encounter with the assassins had been enough to convince her she didn't want to encounter the men again, ever, and certainly not without Lord Rael's sword arm near at hand. But for all that, more than fear of the murderers tracking them kept her cooped up in the small room.

It was hard for her to admit, but Silmaria was obeying Rael because not obeying him was a fearful notion as well. Oh, she didn't think he would hurt her, but she knew he would be angry with her if she defied him. And, somehow, that notion didn't set well with her. She was uncomfortable with the thought of him being angry with her, and it was even worse because she was sure if he were to become angry, she'd respond in kind. And then she'd say something stupid and thoughtless in the heat of the moment, like she always did.

And then he'd start hating her. She was sure of it. She'd already pushed her luck and his patience far enough with her spectacular little meltdown in the forest a few nights ago. She'd known, even as all the hurt and pain and anguish spilled like so much venom from her lips, that she was going too far. The Nobleman could decide at any moment she wasn't worth all this grief and difficulty. How easy it would have been just then for the man to turn his back on her, withdraw all his help and protection, and leave her stranded and scared out in the middle of the woods, hunted and hungry and alone! She knew it, even as she accused and blamed him and cursed him and beat on him, and he had taken all of it and not said a word.

They hadn't spoken about her behavior. Part of her was relieved; he hadn't seemed changed one bit toward her. Indeed, if anything he was speaking with her more than ever. She fervently hoped with all she was that he had attributed the whole thing to an overwrought woman too full of grief to think straight.

Yet, for all that, the incident weighed on her heavily, and she dreaded what would happen if she pushed his tolerance too far.

The stubborn, willful part of her interjected, then. So what? So what if she pissed him off? What she had said hadn't been entirely without merit, and even if he became enraged and tossed her aside in his anger, so what? She was capable, and she could take care of herself. It would be hard and ugly, but if she were on her own, she would survive. 

Silmaria rolled over onto her side, tangling the sheets around her. Yes, she would survive. Alone. And that more than anything, that notion of being alone, terrified her. Not because she couldn't take care of herself. But because she was already so much more alone than she'd ever been before. All her life, Silmaria had imagined herself alone. Isolated and shunned by many of those around her, because no one understood her. Because she was a Gnari, a Demi-Human. Because she was different. But that hadn't been 'alone'. She'd still had friends, people who cared about her, no matter what she was, no matter if she were different. She saw so clearly now just how much she had taken those people for granted. 

And now they were gone.

Rael was all she had left. He was the only remnant of her life, now lost. It had been a good life, really. And Lord Rael was all that remained of it that hadn't been snatched away. Despite all, despite how she struggled with conflicting feelings about him and even now found it almost impossible to understand him, she could at least admit he was a good man. And he was trying his best, for both of them. She couldn't take that for granted, not now.

The Gnari woman reached out and grabbed one of the pillows and clutched it to her chest as she fought off feelings of fear and loss and loneliness. She buried her face into the pillow and took a deep breath, and was startled to find she keenly recognized Rael's scent. Her sensitive nose took the smell of him in, earthy tones of sweat and leather and steel and a mild, pleasant masculine musk.

The smell recalled distinct memories of lying beside him last night. He'd tried being a gentleman and sleeping on the floor, but Silmaria's stubbornness had won out. She insisted on the impracticality of him sleeping uncomfortably on the floor, arguing how much he needed to rest well for once during these dangerous days. Her final insistence that if he didn't come sleep up in the bed, neither would she at last brought the man, grumbling but relenting, to lay down in the bed where he promptly and soundly fell into a sleep the dead would envy.

Sleep had been more elusive for her. Lying beside him, Silmaria had watched the dark, large shape of him in the night beside her, her sensitive eyes able to pick the details of him out in the night. His face was relaxed in sleep, some of the lines of care and worry smoothed on his face so he looked young and almost at peace. She lay there just so, not-quite touching him, with the warmth of his body heat chasing away the night chill and the scent of him surrounding her comfortingly. She felt just as she had that night in the forest. Raw, exposed, yet protected and safe. 

Silmaria pressed her face into the pillow and inhaled Lord Rael's scent once more, and remembered the warmth and strength of his powerful arms around her as she cried into his chest.

Before she was even fully conscious of it, the Gnari woman was pressing her firm thighs together, her hips tilting and wiggling as she clenched her muscles tight. The heated pressure in her loins came unannounced and quickly took on the desperate, almost painful ache of the Stirring. 

"Not now," Silmaria groaned softly, biting her thick lower lip as she squeezed her thighs together again, feeling her sex becoming wet and heated already. Her mind flitted to the sight of Lord Rael, bared from the waist up, the taut, strong muscle that corded his shoulders and chest, his toned and powerful arms. The traceries of scars and the huge, jagged one crossing along the fair white flesh of his chest and abdominals...

The memory did nothing but send her wanton desires soaring. Part of Silmaria hated herself for the lurid thoughts centering on the Knight, and she wasn't sure why. She'd certainly never had qualms with her avid and wicked imagination in the past, no matter who it chose to wander with. 

The stirring took hold of her and she trembled as the overwhelming need made every inch of her flesh long to be touched, to be tasted, bitten, scratched, pinched, slapped, anything to stimulate her raw never endings. 

Silmaria quickly shimmied out of her dress and ran her hands along her body, letting her own slender fingers trace along the lush curves of her flesh. Her touch played along her flat belly and up to the ripe swell of her breasts. She cupped them, hard, her fingers playing along the sensitive, heavy orbs. She bit back a soft moan as she found her nipples already stiff and thick and demanding attention. Gladly, she gave it, rolling the pink nubs between her fingers before giving them a firm pinch.

Gods, please... let this be enough, she silently prayed.

As one hand remained at her heaving, generous breasts, pulling and plucking and twisting her nipples roughly, her other hand slinked its way sensually down her body. When she cupped her puffy cunt, her sticky arousal was already flowing in a thick and liberal dribble of juices. She let her knowing fingers glide along her slit, teasing at the pink, glossy flesh between her engorged lips for a few moments before firmly plunging two into her desperately clenching hole. Silmaria moaned, her hips immediately bucking and thrusting upward to take her fingers in deeper. Her pussy squeezed tight and wet around those thrusting, tunneling digits. 

It wasn't long before Silmaria was bucking and gyrating, grunting and groaning in concentration as she fingered her slippery sex, her fingers working in as deeply as she could. Her other hand was between her widely splayed thighs as well, working her clit hard as her tits bounced with the swaying of her lithe, curving body. Her ears laid flat atop her head and her tail lashed about as she energetically pleasured herself, building a light sweat beading along her short, velvety pelt. 

The Gnari girl rolled onto her belly, her back arched, ass raised with her bosom crushed into the bed. She jammed a third finger into her yearning cunthole while she pinched and pulled at her clit. Her sticky, thick juices glistened and ran down her trembling inner thighs while her fingers plunged in and out of her clutching tunnel.

Her first orgasm shook her to the core, her whole body going taut as she came. Silmaria buried her face into the pillow, screaming into it as her cunt exploded and all the nerves in her body came alive with white hot fire. She pinched her clit, hard, and the pain lanced into her belly in a way that made the orgasm that much more intense and fulfilling. In that moment, no matter how hard she tried not to, in her head Lord Rael was behind her, fucking her, using her like the wicked whore she was.

The very thought made her sob into her pillow. This is how it would be. He would fuck her just like this, behind her with her head shoved into a pillow as he treated her like his own personal fucktoy, because that's exactly what she was. She loved it, and it filled her with a shame she couldn't explain and didn't understand. She loathed that feeling even as she fucking loved it, too, and that twisted duality made her launch uncontrollably into a second even more intense orgasm.

An uncertain number of orgasms later and it still wasn't enough. Silmaria needed more. In a moment of desperation, she tugged her sticky, wet fingers from her sodden, dribbling pussy and slid them between the round, meaty cheeks of her deliciously toned ass. 

She pressed two fingers against her tight, pink asshole and quickly, roughly worked the slippery digits past her twitching pucker and into the gripping heat of her bowels. She shrieked into her pillow as she pumped her asshole fast and hard. She was already in too much of a frenzy to be patient, and the pain of the rough penetration only added to her wicked pleasure anyway. With her free hand rubbing and pressing at her clit, Silmaria fingered her ass quickly and relentlessly until just a few moments later her body began to spasm and quiver in a powerful orgasm. Her head swam, light and fuzzy as her whole body jolted and writhed in orgasmic bliss.

The trick, which she sometimes turned to when especially desperate, was fruitless. Her need was if anything, even greater. After another anal orgasm got her no further, Silmaria reluctantly pulled her fingers from her asshole, leaving the muscles there wonderfully sore and aching. She had half a mind to abuse it further, because it did feel so very wonderful and carnally pleasurable, but it just was not getting the maddening itch of her Stirring under control.

As Silmaria began to miserably consider having to descend down to the common room in search of someone to tend her needs, her eyes fell on the bundle of her belongings placed neatly in the corner. Her gaze found the dagger Lord Rael had given her, still in its leather sheath, the hilt a simple crossguard at the foot of a long, smooth, hard iron grip with a heavy, polished, round iron pommel.

Silmaria didn't even hesitate. She snatched up the dagger, flipped onto her back, and splayed her athletic legs wide open. 

"Oh, fuck," she whimpered as she pressed that hard, heavy knob of the dagger's pommel to her drooling slit. It was cold and unforgiving and she didn't care. She gripped the dagger firmly and pressed inward, spreading her hot slit wide around that round iron head and then shoving forward, working the dagger hilt into her desperately stretching sex. She was so wet it slid in with little trouble, and after giving herself just a moment to enjoy the fullness, the unyielding hardness and cold bite of the iron hilt, Silmaria began to drive and thrust the dagger hilt deeply in and out of her quivering, gripping sex.

The dagger was uncomfortable and rigid and rough inside her tender sex, and exactly what she needed. Silmaria yelped and squealed and screamed, turning her head to press it into the pillow once more, inhaling Rael's scent and envisioning him over her, pinning her down to the bed and pounding into her as hard and vigorous as the iron shaft of the dagger. She bucked and swayed, her hips arching up off the bed as she fucked herself, reveling in her wickedness and shame. 

"Yes...yes, fuck yes! Gods, please...please...!" she cried into her pillow, and with one last, desperate thrust of the dagger deep into her widely stretched sex, she violently orgasmed, her back bowing up off the bed. Her belly clenched until it hurt, a deep, throbbing, vibrating ache coming from her core. Her limbs shook and her toes curled, and she was nothing but a twitching, out of control thing, her body playing out its own viciously beautiful release while she became just a passenger along for the intense and painfully pleasurable ride.

Silmaria had no idea how long she lay there, panting and dazed and hardly even connected to her body, floating along on a haze of bliss and endorphins. All she knew was, one moment she was gone, dead to the world, and the next there came three firm knocks on the door.

And she was laying naked and covered in sweat with the hilt of a dagger stuck up her greedy little cunt.

"Who is it?" Silmaria shouted, her voice breaking on her panic. 

"Rael, son of Edwin."

The dagger went spinning carelessly across the room, hurled away like it was about to burn her. Silmaria paid no mind where it landed as she scrambled up from the bed, got tangled in the sheets, and went sprawling ass first to the floor. 




DarkFyre Ch. 12



"Shit, shit, shit balls!" The Gnari girl cursed quietly as she struggled with the sheets twined around her ankles, all her usual grace and poise gone as her cheeks burned with raging heat. "Hang on!"

When she answered the door, she was panting, flushed, covered in sweat, her hair a mused, disheveled wreck, and her new dress he'd just bought yesterday was a wrinkled up not-so-new looking mess. Lord Rael looked down at her with an utterly perplexed look.

"I didn't think you were going to be back so soon," she said by way of explanation, then realized not only did that not explain anything, but he hadn't even asked a question, and it sounded about as utterly suspicious as she could get.

Rael stepped into the room, hung up his cloak on the peg by the door, and sat on the corner of the bed. "Plans changed."

"Oh?" Silmaria asked, trying to sound nonchalant and turning away from him to fidget with some of their supplies on the room's solitary tiny table, arranging them even though they were already perfectly fine, then putting everything back in their original places again. She didn't care; any excuse to keep him from seeing her face while she struggled to compose herself seemed a fine idea at this point.

"I never made it in to see Commander Dern," Rael explained. "I ran into an old friend. Galin Cador, second son of his house, though he's pretty much given up all right of inheritance to his nephew."

Silmaria took a deep breath, then another. She turned to face him at last, and it was all she could do to keep her face neutrally interested as she wrestled with the potent mix of lingering arousal and shame. Her eyes wanted to roam along the Nobleman, to drink him in as a parched man drinks in fresh water. It took an immense force of will to keep her eyes on his face, and even that only helped so much. 

"So is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"I'm not sure," Rael shrugged, and he seemed blessedly too lost in thought to notice her fidgeting and awkward posture. "Ordinarily, I'd say it's a good thing. I trust him, and he's a loyal ally and friend. But he's behaving...oddly. Not like himself at all. And he shouldn't be in the city."

"Why wouldn't he be?" she asked.

He turned his eyes to her, and for a moment she was utterly pinned by the strange beauty of them. "Because I left him in command at the FrostFall war camp when I left."

"Oh," Silmaria said, and to her relief as she warmed to the conversation, her nerves started to settle somewhat. "What is he doing back in the city, then?"

"I didn't get a chance to find out. He called me a fool, warned me away from Commander Dern, and told me to meet him at his holdings here in the city before riding off like all the minions of the underworld were on his heels."

"That's just a bit cryptic, don't you think?" she asked as she fidgeted with her hair to try and get it back into some semblance of neatness.

"It is, especially for him. He's not a man for skirting around issues or ambiguous messages," Rael agreed. Then, as if noting all over again her disheveled appearance, asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she hastily replied, adding, "Do you think you can trust him?"

"I'm much more inclined to trust him than Dern," Rael replied, effectively distracted. "And if he's warning me away from the man, I'm inclined to listen, even if his behavior is strange."

"Wasn't he one of your subordinates?" She asked with an arch of her brow.

"Yes."

"And you trust him more than the Lord Knight Commander?"

Rael chuckled softly and shook his head. "I see where it seems backwards. But experience has told me, Dern isn't overly fond of me, while Galin has proven himself loyal time and again in the past. So yes. Given the choice, I'd take my chances with Galin over Dern any day."

Silmaria perched on the edge of the bed, smoothed out her skirts, and gave a thoughtful frown. "I don't like it. Something feels wrong in all this."

Rael nodded slowly. "I know. I don't like it, either. But I don't see where I have much choice. I have to go talk to him and see where the cards lie. There's things in motion I don't understand, and it seems that he has some answers."

"I don't understand any of this, really," she pointed out irritably. Her conflicting emotions at last took a back seat to something that had been rubbing her wrong for quite a while. "I think it's past time you told me what the hell it is I've gotten involved in. I've been hunted, attacked, killed someone to save my life, had my home and my friends taken away from me, and been chased through the countryside. And I have no idea what for. Tell me, Lord Rael. What the hells are you mixed up in? What am I mixed up?"

Rael's silver gaze studied her, and for an uncomfortable moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he reached up and slowly stroked his coppery beard as he said, "I owe you that much. I'm afraid I have more questions than answers right now. But...what I know, I'll tell you. It's the least I can do after all this."

"Thank you," Silmaria nodded, and pulled her legs up to sit cross legged across from him on the bed, her hands folded in her lap as she waited, listening.

"The long and short of it is, in the middle of a battle with the Haruke, at the warfront, someone tried to assassinate me."

"Someone from the Haruke?" she asked in confusion.

"No," he shook his head. "It wasn't the Haruke. The Haruke have no real concept of assassins. An assassin would be far too indirect and dishonorable to them. There's no glory, no battle, no proving, and those things are the heart and soul of Haruke warriors. No. This was an assassination attempt from some other faction. I still haven't found out who the assassins are, or who they work for.

"In any case, they botched it. The whole thing was brought to my attention by one of my subordinates. The means taken were unusual, disturbing, and quite serious. Like none I'd seen before. The circumstances around the attempt were unique enough for me to take notice and believe that the assassins would try again, and wouldn't relent until I was buried."

"I don't understand. What did they do that was so strange?"

Rael explained the circumstances around the arrow, and the strange spell ensorcelled to it. 

"That's why you've been doing all this research into magic and spell work," Silmaria mused softly.

"Exactly," Rael nodded. "It's one of the main reasons I decided to return home. I knew if I stayed in the war camp, they'd just wait for their chance to strike again. It would be easy; they knew exactly where I'd be. 

"So I left, as quietly as I could, and came back home in the hopes they wouldn't discover where I'd gone until I found more information," he explained. "All I had to go on was the arrow and that spell. I'd hoped, unique and strange as the spell was, if I could find some information on it I could use that lead to discover who the assassins were and then deal with them. I've had no luck. And the rest...well. You know what came after that."

"So we know nothing about them, then," Silmaria said somberly.

"No," Rael admitted, clenching his jaw in what she recognized as a subtle tell of frustration. "But one way or the other, I'm going to find out."

"How many of them could there be?" she wondered aloud as she wrung her hands distractedly. "We've already killed...what? A dozen? More? I've never heard of men like them. Especially working in a group like they are. How can this kind of thing be happening?"

"There are many evils in the world," Rael replied, and that was all the explanation he could offer.

"There has to be some information on that spell. Surely someone somewhere knows of it, or something in the writings you've gone through through makes some mention of it," Silmaria insisted.

"Nothing I've read has spoken of the spell. There's few enough mentions of dark arts and black magic sorcery made in most tomes on magic to begin with, and nothing about that spell in particular," Rael replied. 

"I did find someone who seemed to know something. An old sorcerer, or so he claimed. He ran a shop of... magical oddities. I showed him the arrow. He definitely recognized the runes, and when he did, he became terrified and wouldn't say another word to me. After they attacked the Manor the first time, I went back to press the man for more information. He was gone when I arrived."

"Gone? Gone like dead?"

"Gone like vanished," Rael clarified. "Every sign of him and his shop was erased. Like they'd never been."

Her ears flicked as she looked thoughtful. "Do you think he ran away?"

"I don't know," Rael shrugged his broad shoulders. "But I suspect something more sinister at work."

"You don't think... the assassins..."

"Normally, I'd say there's no way the two could be linked," he said in a rumbling voice. "I don't see how the assassins could know about my visit. But, now? I don't know anymore. I've no idea what they're capable of... and at this point I'm more inclined to lean on the side of caution and say they're capable of anything."

Silmaria let out a soft sigh. Her tail lashed out to the front of her body, wrapping around her waist. She reached down and distractedly smoothed the sleek fur along it. "What do we do now?"

"Now, I go meet with Galin to see what news he has for me, and we go from there."

Silmaria turned her eyes up to him, bright, vivid greens the color of fresh leaves startling against her slitted feline pupils. Some emotion flickered there, hiding behind her tough exterior. "You better not get yourself killed while you're off trying to find your answers," she said at last in a no-nonsense tone. "If you leave me all alone in this place, I'll never forgive you."

Rael met her eyes and nodded, his face somber and grave. "I'll come back for you. I promise."

"Good," Silmaria nodded, and seemed to relax somewhat. She even ventured a smile at him. "Now can we go eat? I'm starved. So much that I should get the double portion this time."

The Nobleman laughed, and they left to see what the common room had to offer.

***

"What the hell is going on?" Rael asked brusquely.

"Well a fine evenin' to you, too, and don't you look well tonight?" Galin said with a glare as he stepped aside and allowed his Captain to enter his home.

Rael stepped through the back door and into the small, empty kitchens at the back of Galin's modest estate. The old Knight's holding in the city wasn't half the size of IronWing Manor, but then House Caldor was a minor House of even lower standings than his own, and this wasn't even the House's main estate, but rather Galin's own private little Manor. Galin would say it was given to him so the family didn't have to bother with him, but Rael suspected it was rather the other way around.

The kitchen was dimly lit by a single torch in the wall and the glowing coals that remained of the cooking fire in the little kitchen's lone brick oven. In truth, Rael was a bit surprised to find Galin himself answering his knock instead of a servant, but Galin had few enough servants left here to tend the upkeep of the diminutive Manor. Now, as Galin sat down at the small, battered kitchen table and it became evident that he intended for them to have their meeting here instead of a sitting room or some other more comfortable room, Rael's surprise turned to annoyance.

"Drop the sarcasm and bluster, old man. I've no time for either. I've far too many questions and not nearly enough answers, so out with it. What's going on? Why are you here?"

"Sit down already, and stop giving me that look," Galin grumbled as he waved toward the empty cedar wood chair sitting opposite his own. "And you may as well give up on any of the usual 'my Lord' or 'Sir' garbage. If you've no time for levity, I've no time for pomp or circumstance."

"Just as well with me," Rael returned. He reluctantly took his seat, and shifted his chair so he kept the door in his peripheral vision. His hand rested on the hilt of the short sword at his waist. If Galin noticed, he made no comment.

"Why here?" Rael asked.

"Because it's quieter and less likely to have bloody ears nearby than my sitting room or study. I have few enough servants, but those I have I wouldn't trust with the knife to shave my whiskers."

"You never shave your whiskers," Rael pointed out with an arched brow.

"Who's playin' at sarcasm now?" Galin snapped irritably.

Rael leaned back in his chair and regarded the grizzled soldier closely. "Tell me what you know."

Galin made a face and slowly shook his head. "Damned little enough. I know you're a wanted man, for one. The price on your head would be enough to make the King himself wince."

Rael shook his head slowly. His jaw clenched and his face turned grim. "And what have I done to earn this dubious little honor?"

"What haven't you done would be the better question," Galin returned. "Arson, theft, destruction of property, murder, abandonment of duty, treason against the Crown...the list got too sodding long for me to follow. Basically, they're saying you turned traitor when you left the camp, and the mess over at your estates was all your own doing."

Rael's face twisted harshly as he cursed for a brief moment, before reining his temper in and saying simply, "Lies, the lot of it."

"Course it is," Galin scoffed, as if the very notion were laughable. "But speaking out otherwise is a quick way to a short life at this point. I no more than began to express an inkling of doubt, and now I've been suspended from duty and taken from the front. Indefinitely."

"That's ridiculous! What in the name of the gods is going on?" Rael growled.

"I was counting on you answering that bloody question," Galin said as he scratched absently at the scar creasing his face. "Seems you've done something to royally piss Dern off."

"Dern?" Rael asked, surprised. "What's Dern got to do with all this?"

"Near as I can tell, all the accusations and orders about needing your head on a pike is coming directly from him," Galin explained. "And it was him ordered me put on leave. Bastard refused to meet with me this morning, and his man said if I left my estate before they sent for me again, I'd be investigated for treason my ownself."

"Gods be damned," Rael cursed as he ran his fingers through his thick, tangled copper hair in frustration. 

"You mind telling me just what in the name of Ceradi's holy tits you've managed to get yourself into?"

Rael stared at the weathered, scarred face that he knew so well, searching for any sign of duplicity. "The more you know, the worse it will be for you if they turn their attention your way."

"I'm already fucked if they look at me twice as it is. Out with it. Now."

Rael folded his heavy hands on the table between them, took a deep breath, and told him.

"Damn all," Galin swore quietly. He leaned back in his seat, his hands folded across his middle as he rocked gently in his chair, thinking. "And this Gnari girl...this Silmaria. You think she can be trusted?"

"She was probably closer to my father than I ever was," Rael asserted. "And she's had all she's ever known stripped away. She has more reason than I to hate these men. I trust her."

"Well. Might be it's a moot point, anyway," Galin harrumphed.

"Why do you say that?" 

Galin leaned in closer and rubbed his hands together in a gesture Rael recognized as nervousness. "You've got to leave, Rael."

"Leave? Leave how, exactly?" Rael asked with the rising feeling that he wasn't going to like this.

"Leave Trelling's Rest. Leave the Dale. Hell, leave the North entirely," Galin stated, then quickly held his hands up to ward off Rael's protests as he plowed on, "Think about it, lad. You're a hunted man. In more ways than one. Might be these assassins of yours are in league with Dern, or be controlling him, or be him who bought them to begin with. And might be the two have nothing at all to do with one another. Does it even matter? The assassins are hunting you, the Knighthood is hunting you, and the guard, and it damn well might as well be everyone in the Kingdom! You can't stay here. Your disguises and skulking about are only going to keep you under their notice for so long. You stay anywhere in the North, you're going to get yourself found sooner than later, and someone'll have your head on a pike, mark me."

Rael listened with a mix of impatience and begrudging agreement. As much as he was loath to admit it, Galin was right.

"I can't just run," he said angrily, clinging to the last of his stubbornness. "What kind of life is that? And what of justice for all those that have suffered and died of these madmen? For me? I cannot let these murderers go unpunished."

"And neither should you," Galin agreed, gruffly, "But you won't be punishing anyone unless you figure out who these bastards are in the first place, and you won't find any answers here in the Dale that don't come at the end of a blade."

Rael lean back in his chair with a pensive look, his eyes turned to the dying coals. Galin, for once, was silent, letting the young Noble think. When Rael at last spoke, his voice was calm and level once again. "Where would you go?"

Galin thought long before replying, "You're familiar with the Ondarian Federation, yes?"

"I am," Rael nodded. "They're a group of allied city-states to the south. They're spread across The Weeping Lands, situated between the Johake Grasslands to the northwest, the Reach to the east, and the Ashlands to the far south. What of them?"

"There's a place in the Federation. A great hall of learning called the Kahrthen Library. It's vast, and many scholars, sages, scribes and other men of learning congregate there to pursue ancient mysteries, secret lost knowledge... and whatever other pile of complete horse shit those types go jabbering on about."

"The name is familiar, vaguely," Rael said thoughtfully. "You think I can find answers there?"

Galin shrugged. "Could be. Could not be. But the Ondarian Federation's neutral ground. They keep themselves removed from the politics and power games of their neighbors, and we all leave them alone because the Federation is pretty much smack dab in the middle of the continent, so they're about the most vital trading hub there is. The Kahrthen Library is known throughout the land for its stores of knowledge, and best of all, no one there's likely to want to kill you. It's the best thought I've got."

"It's a good plan. But dangerous," Rael mused. He rose to his feet and began to pace as he thought aloud. "It'll be a long journey. South and out of Dale lands. Then looping southeast to skirt around the Johake Grasslands, following the edge of the Reach to avoid the Haruke. Then on to The Weeping Lands and the Ondarian Federation. It's a long way."

"Good," Galin returned. "The farther away from here you are, the better, at least until you've figured out what all this is about."

Rael looked at his friend closely. "Come with me."

"Pah! Not bloody likely," Galin said with a wry grin. "There'll be no tromping off on a grand adventure for this old soldier. I don't have that many leagues and miles left in me. Besides, supposing I were to up and disappear, it wouldn't take long for someone to get wind of it and put two and two together. They're pretty convinced you're in Trelling's Rest, hiding out somewhere. Let them keep thinking that for as long as possible, and you'll have that much more of a lead on any pursuit. If I went with you, that lead would be blown. Besides, here I can keep my eyes and ears open for changes while I do some digging of my own. Not to mention I can keep an eye on that Gnari friend of yours."

Rael frozen with an expression of confusion. "What do you mean?"

Galin gave him a withering look. "Don't be stupid, lad. The girl can't go with you. She can't possibly make that kind of journey. On the road trailing after your heels is no place for a woman. She'll slow you down and get herself killed, more than like. Best you leave her here. I can look after her and keep her safe."




DarkFyre Ch. 12



He was right, of course. 

Only why then did it feel so wrong, to even think of leaving Silmaria behind? She would be safer, yes. The journey would be arduous and full of danger and hardship. He could spare her all of that. He recognized the wisdom and kindness in Galin's offer. Even though very idea left a sour taste in his mouth and a hard lump in his gut, he had to do right by her. In an otherwise impossible situation, this might be his one chance.

"You're right," he relented at last.

"Good man," Galin replied. He rose and took the nearby torch from the wall, and nodded to him. "Come on, then, let's see what supplies and provisions we can get for you. You'll be needing them for the long road ahead, and thanks to our arse faced 'Lord Commander', I won't be leaving the sodding house anytime soon."

***

"Who is it?"

"Rael, son of Edwin."

Silmaria opened the door to let him in, glaring at him as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. It was the middle of the night, and she'd fallen asleep almost an hour ago, waiting for him to return. "You're an ass. My Lord. I was worried sick."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. Silmaria blinked and looked at him again. Something was off about him. Something different. There was a palpable air of sullenness about him. 

"What happened? Why were you gone so long?" she asked, unnerved by his reserved demeanor. Her annoyance was quickly being replaced by uncertainty.

"Galin and I discussed many things," he explained, stepping deeper into the room. He stood there, staring down at her, his eyes glinting silver pools in the dim light of a few low burning candles. His face was set, determined, but clearly unhappy. "He insisted it's not safe to stay in the city. In all of the Dale, really. And, after thinking about it and talking it over, I agree with him."

Silmaria swallowed softly, suddenly full of nervousness. "So what does that mean?"

"It means," Rael scrubbed an agitated hand through his thick copper locks. "That I have to leave here. I'm traveling south, away from DarkFyre Dale, to a place far out of the assassins reach. Somewhere I can knowledge I seek. Somewhere someone or something can tell me who these people are, so I can bring them to justice. I don't have any other sensible choice at this point."

Silmaria listened with a growing queasy, aching feeling in the pit of her stomach. "'We', you mean. 'We' are leaving. Right?"

Rael stared down at her for a long moment. He had a heavy pack slung on his back, full of supplies. He was serious. But then, he so often was. 

The Nobleman stepped forward and reached down to take her delicate hands into his much larger ones. She could feel callouses on his fingers and palms, built from years of gripping the sword. It was only the second time he'd ever taken her hand in his. It felt good, but she didn't want this, didn't want to hear what she knew he would say. She pulled her hands away.

"I can't take you," he said softly, and she could see the reluctance and the pain in his eyes and that only made it worse. "It's going to be a long journey. A very dangerous, very hard one. I can't put you through that."

She vehemently shook her head. There were tears in her eyes, then they were spilling down her face. Damn him! Damn him for doing this to her! 

"I'll be okay. I'm strong. I can make it. I won't slow you down, I promise I won't," she said, immediately hating the pathetic pleading sound of her own voice, but completely unable to stop it.

"It's not about slowing me down," Rael told her. "It's just too dangerous. Traveling across the Dale in the winter and braving the passes will be bad enough. But then the wilds along the rest of the journey, too? And I may very well be hunted every step of the way. I can't put you through that. I won't. I'll leave you with Galin. He's a good man, if a bit rough around the edges. He'll make sure you're well cared for. He gave me his word."

"I don't care about his word!" Silmaria protested heatedly. She stared up at him, her face caught between a look of desperate pleading and a biting glare. Damn him all over again for being so tall, that she had to crane her head back so, just to meet his eyes! "I want to go with you. We've gotten this far together. I can keep up! I can help!"

"Silmaria... I can't," he said, and his voice was heavy indeed. "I'm responsible for all of this. For the House burning, and putting you through all this danger. For all of your friends and family dying. All those good people...it's all my fault. You were right about that. It's too much, Silmaria. I won't let you be yet more blood on my hands."

Silmaria glared up at him, her hands balled into fists as she seethed with defiance until she was physically shaking with it. Then all at once, her resolve and anger crumbled, and her shakes became barely restrained sobs. Her lower lip trembled. She leapt forward unexpectedly and pressed herself against him, her small hands gripping the front of his wool shirt as she pressed her face into his chest. 

"I don't care about what happened before! I don't blame you. Not anymore. Don't you understand? You're all I have left! All I have left of him! Of my life. Of anything that makes any sense! Please. Do whatever you must, go wherever you must, only take me with you," she cried. "Don't leave me behind. You promised! Please...please don't leave me alone. You promised."

Rael stared at her as she sobbed quietly against him, utterly torn. Every scrap of logic in him said he must leave her. He had no choice. She would be in more danger than he could imagine if she stayed with him. With Galin, she would be safe, stable, well cared for and be able to start moving on with her life. It was the best thing, for both of them, to part ways now. He knew that!

Yet, as he stared down at her, pressed in close, her tear streaked face pressed to his broad chest...

The Nobleman wrapped the small girl in his arms, pulling her in closer to squeeze her tight as he muttered crossly into her ear, "Damn you, and all stubborn, thick skulled, iron willed women everywhere."

***

"Message for you, my Lord," Said Galin's Manservant, Leon, in a voice that spoke of boredom, resigned patience and quite-a-lot-of-better-things-to-do, thank you.

Galin looked up from the old tome he'd been pouring over. Or, at least appeared to be pouring over. It was a collection of old customs and rituals practiced by followers of the old gods in ages gone by, the closest thing he had in his study to writings on magic. It had been a gift from Edwin many years ago, back when his dear departed friend had gone through that all too brief phase of trying to encourage Galin to become learned, or educated, or some such sodding nonsense. 

He was keenly reminded, now, why he'd never bothered trying to read it in the first place.

"Hand it over, then," Galin grumbled. He slammed the book shut, not bothering to mark his page since he honestly couldn't remember the last five to seven pages he'd read in the first place. 

The folded up message was a sheet of low quality parchment folded up and held shut with a dollop of blue wax with no seal or insignia to speak of. He flicked the paper open and glanced inside.

In Rael's neat, tight hand, was the simple message: The Cat is with me. She wouldn't stop mewling when I tried to go.

Galin sighed, crumbled the note into a ball, and tossed it into the nearby fire. 

"Well, bollocks."

***

Bollocks, indeed.

Please send all questions, comments, and critiques via the CONTACT tab on my profile. 



DarkFyre Ch. 13



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

The mild weather snuck away in the night, setting the stage for their departure, to be a much more bitterly cold and uncomfortable affair. After sundown the temperature dropped until snow fell in a scintillating curtain of white, crystal-soft flakes. They danced along the wind, dazzling and fleeting in the moonlight as they did summersaults and dizzying spiral dives before collecting in a graceless mass grave all along the docks, their frantic, joyful celebration of cold and movement and life meeting the inevitable earthbound end that all snowflakes meet, except perhaps the extra special ones.

Rael's breath curled up in puffing tendrils of fog, barely visible in the dim light cast by the half-moon and the lanterns spaced intermittently along the piers. He and Silmaria were both bundled up thickly, their old shambles of worn and ragged clothes discarded in favor of new garbs well suited to the harsh North climate. He had a new heavy cloak, thick and insulated with soft wolf fur. The black cloak he'd stolen from the assassin, just a few short nights ago but already feeling like a lifetime gone by, was snugged away in one of several packs he had slung across his broad shoulders, along with a sturdy ash longbow, a quiver full of arrows, and a steel greatsword he'd taken from Galin's personal armory. Between the supplies Galin had given him and those they'd bought on their own, they were well provisioned for the days ahead. 

The Knight glanced back at Silmaria. Even bundled thickly in winter wear, a heavy cloak, and weighed down with a few packs of her own, the girl looked small as she huddled in on herself. She stood close behind him to let his larger form block most of the bitterly cold wind as it whipped the snow about. She'd abandoned her dresses in favor of the practicality of thick, loose cotton breeches and a warm long sleeved tunic, both in shades of simple browns and dark greens, with a small hole cut in the back to let her tail through to move freely instead of keeping it uncomfortably trapped. Despite the masculine cut of her clothing, the mere shape of the Gnari girl's body left no mistake of her gender. She glanced up at him, and nodded, but remained silent.

They stepped slowly away from The Siren of The Lake and walked slowly along the largely empty docks. The fishermen and traders and sailors would be mulling around the docks early, even in the worsening weather, but dawn was still hours away yet. The only people about were the beggars and paupers who preferred the waterfront district to the crowded press of the more tightly clustered poor quarters, and the drunkards who had been tossed out of the bars and taverns along the docks to sleep off their stupor in the cold. Of the few guards who should have been patrolling the piers and waterfront buildings in a resigned, lackluster fashion, there was no sign.

Rael was on edge, and no mistake; Galin told him the guard would be taken care of and their departure would go smoothly, but Galin said a lot of things, and no less than half of it tended to be bluster and false bravado. He trusted the old warrior, but he couldn't help but feel anxious and on guard. He did his best not to let it show, for Silmaria's sake; the last thing he needed was to make her any more edgy and tense than she already was. But his hand rested on the curved short sword strapped to his hip. He would have preferred his greatsword, but it was bundled with the rest of their packs and wrapped up tight. The Nobleman didn't want to be any more inconspicuous than necessary, and there wouldn't be much way to subtly wear the greatsword with its distinctive hilt sticking up from his back. 

The harbor was clogged with boats; nearly all the lake's fishing vessels were docked and secured for the night. They cast eerie shadows along the piers as they bobbed gently along Lake Glasswater's smooth, calm surface. Even in the middle of the night, the distinctive smells of the docks surrounded them, comprised mostly of fresh water, falling snow, and many, many fish.

Despite Rael's misgivings, the pair reached their destination without happenstance. The Cutter was a weathered old single mast boat, built for mobility and speed. She was a practical sort of boat with no flash or pretense, but the lines were clean and the sail was of good, thick canvas. When they reached her, the Cutter had clearly been prepped, and her Captain was impatiently tapping his boot on the gangplank.

Captain Emil Jemmings was Captain of no one but his fine little vessel, being that she was a one-man craft and he had nothing resembling a crew or underling of any kind. He was the Northern, freshwater version of a salty old seadog, which made him a lakedog, he often joked. He swaggered with an exaggerated sway in his stride, as if he'd been on the rocking and turbulently rolling deck of a proper seafaring vessel instead of the relaxed bobbing of his faithful fishing boat on Glasswater's tranquil waters. He had the swarthiest, darkest tan of anyone working the port, remnants of days gone by sailing the Jade Sea during his younger years, back when he'd been a true sailor and not a mockery of one like the rest of the poor sods at the docks, or so Captain Jemmings insisted.

He did have a brown chin-beard that he oiled to a point, and a certain ruddiness to his cheeks. He also, impressively, only had one gap in his smile, and that won in a memorable brawl in a less memorable whore house in Stillwater Bay. He'd lost the first knuckles worth of his middle finger on his right hand, and the pinky finger on the same hand was gone entirely. The middle finger was the victim of an unfortunate sailing accident that was brought on by a younger, stupider Emil Jemmings' carelessness and an alarmingly large jug of spiced rum. The pinky was taken as punishment for being caught at smuggling in his home port of Cordain's Rock. Not quite satisfied with his pinky, the port authorities exiled him on top of it.

Which was, of course, why Rael and Silmaria were involved with Captain Jemmings in the first place; though he plied his trade on a smaller scale, he was a smuggler still. Galin had vouched for the man's trustworthiness and insisted Jemmings was capable. With the security at the gates increasing by the day, slipping out via the lake had been the least risky option available. Galin paid the smuggler well and put enough coin into enough guard's pockets to convince the men not to pay too much attention tonight. How the surly old Knight had managed this without even leaving his home, Rael didn't know, but Galin was nothing if not resourceful, and he'd done enough dabbling in the wrong places to make the right friends.

Captain Jemmings stood a bit straighter when they approached. He looked over Rael first, then Silmaria, his eyes lingering much longer on the Gnari girl in a way that immediately grated on Rael's nerves. The smuggler spat, fished a smoking pipe out of his pocket and clenched it in his teeth. He struck a match, the flame a blossom of brilliance before he put the small fire to his pipe. 

When he regarded them again, he flashed a haughty grin and said, "Either someone forgot how to count, or I drank more tonight than I realized. Coulda sworn I agreed to one package, not two."

"Plans changed," Rael explained simply. He tossed the man a pouch jangling with coin.

Jemmings caught the purse, weighed it in his hand, and grinned again. "Seems a touch light to me."

"It's the same fee you were already paid. Double the fee for double the cargo," Rael reasoned.

"Ah, that's true. But see, you've not taken into the extra fees and charges for inconvenience, increased risk, space and storage...not to mention how terribly unlucky it is to let a woman on your ship..."

Rael set his jaw hard and fished out a few extra silver, and tossed them to Jemmings, who caught it with a nod.

"Ass," Silmaria said clearly, with no attempt to keep her words from the smugglers ears.

Captain Jemmings stared at her for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter.

"I think we'll get on just fine," Jemmings said. He blew a few puffing smoke rings into the dark, snowy sky overhead, then stepped aside from the gangplank, dipping into an exaggerated bow as he motioned toward his ship with his glowing pipe. "Welcome aboard the Cutter." 

Once they were settled into the stern of the GlassCutter, Captain Jemmings paid them little mind, setting about his business of getting underway. Even after they cast off and slid silently out onto the lake, Rael didn't relax. He split his attention between watching the smuggler suspiciously and casting his gaze back toward Trelling's Rest to watch for any sign of pursuit. Only once the lights of the city began to recede into the horizon did he relax his grip on the sword at his hip, yet even then, he remained vigilant. 

Night crept on, slow and ponderous and deliberate. The Cutter sliced through the lake waters, quiet and steady and strong. The mist rose off the lake to mingle with the falling snow to form a hazy sort of shroud around them. Jemmings lit a single lamp on the bow of the ship, its soft glow the only light to guide them aside from the dim filtered silver of the crescent moon overhead. Before long, the sailor was whistling a jaunty little tune. His lackadaisical attitude had Rael close to lashing out.

He likely would have, had his attention not been drawn to Silmaria. The Gnari girl had been strangely quiet since they boarded the boat, and skittish, constantly fidgeting with restlessness. She looked all about, eyes darting as she gripped the narrow bench she was perched on. Rael noticed her breathing coming in slow, shallow little pants and caught the reflection of the moonlight in her slitted green eyes, which were wider and darker than usual.

"Are you seasick?" the Nobleman asked her quietly. Silmaria started at his sudden words, then looked up at him, blinking.

"Seasick? Um. No," she replied, then gave a shaky, bashful smile. "I'm fucking terrified, actually."

"Terrified? Of him?" Rael asked with confusion, glancing at Captain Jemmings, who seemed to have decided to treat his 'cargo' as legitimate cargo, and completely block them out. 

"No. He's greedy, but I'm not scared of him," Silmaria replied. "I'm scared of the lake. I hate water."

Rael took on a look of confusion. "You didn't seem to mind it at all when you were in the tub the other day," he protested.

Silmaria looked at him incredulously. For a very intelligent and capable man, he Noble could be awful dense at times. Was he really going to make her spell it out? 

"I mean large bodies of water. I can't swim," she admitted, struggling not to let her embarrassment show.

"I see," Rael said with a cringe, feeling foolish. "I probably should have asked about that before we went through all this."

"We were in a hurry," Silmaria shrugged, "And this was the best way. I'll get through it."

"Can I help?" He asked.

"Aside from making sure I don't go pitching off the side? Sure. Keep me talking. It's easier than sitting here thinking about how big and deep this lake is."

Rael smiled lightly and leaned forward a bit. He pulled his dagger from his belt and began to trim his nails. "You should see the sea. GlassWater is a sizable lake, it's true, but the sea makes it seem nothing. We'll reach the other side of GlassWater by midday more than like. You can sail on the sea for days and weeks at a time and never find the other side."

Silmaria listened and drew her knees up to her chest. Breeches were still a bit strange to her; she'd worn pants before, sure, but so rarely that it was still unfamiliar to go without skirts draped around her legs. "You've been to the sea, then?"

"Briefly," Rael nodded. "When I was a lad, still a squire, really. The Knights took me on trips to other Kingdoms and Lands outside the Dale. Said I needed to know that there was a world outside the North or I'd never understand anyone who came to, or threatened, our lands. We went on a short sea voyage. I spent most of it seasick and miserable."

"Really? Why aren't you seasick now?" Silmaria asked, mustering half a smile.

Rael grinned softly. "GlassWater has some of the smoothest sailing you'll ever find. It's nowhere near the pitching and rocking you experience at sea. And you get used to it, after a while. Still, I'm sure I'd be green in the face if we were on the sea now."

"Landling," Captain Jemmings said to no-one-in-particular.

"I think if we had to go onto the open sea, I would die," Silmaria said, ignoring the smuggler. 

"You'd make it. It would be hard, I'm sure, but you would," Rael nodded firmly, smiling at her. "You're tough."

"So's a rock. And a rock sinks quick," Silmaria said stubbornly. Rael laughed. So did Jemmings.

"Tell me about your mother," Silmaria said.

Rael looked at her strangely, caught off guard. Not unkindly, he said, "Why do you ask?"

"Because Master Edwin wouldn't speak of her. And we're going to be traveling together for a long time, so I figured I may as well know more about you," Silmaria reasoned. She rocked slightly on her bench, and her ears flicked forward curiously.

Rael leaned back, bracing his hands just behind him on his seat as he stared up at the stars and the still steadily dropping snowflakes. "She died when I was a baby. Barely even crawling. 

"All I remember of her are moments. Pictures in my mind, little snips of frozen clarity. She was...vivid. Alive. I remember her best, in my father's chair in a sunbeam in the sitting room. Her hair was the richest red I've ever seen, like the world saw the color of it and said, 'yes, this then, is red, and no mistake'. The sun made it glow around her. She saw me and smiled warm and wide and that was the first smile I knew, of all smiles. It was a hard smile for everyone who came after to follow," he said wistfully, lost in memory. "She was slender, and tall, like a graceful willow, all supple strength. The gown she wore for my father was simple but fine all at once. But anything would have looked fine on her. She looked like a proper lady, regal and proud, but her eyes spoke of a wild thing that no finery could tame. And I remember her smell. She smelled like fire."

Silmaria studied the Nobleman's face as he spoke, watching the distant, fuzzy-yet-distinct memory play out across his face highlighted in the moonlight. She shivered, felt a tug in her heart at the emotions she saw there. He was distant from it all, of course. He'd spent near his entire life without the woman, knew practically nothing of her. Yet she saw the longing there, as well, that all too brief little shift in his gaze that told her in some small, tucked away spot inside, he wanted to know, he wanted it to be so very different. She knew it, felt it in her own tucked away corner of longing for the never-was.

"She sounds like an amazing woman," she said at last, because she didn't know what else to say, and because it was true.

Rael's smile was a barely-there turning at the corners of his lips, at once poignant and sincere. Silmaria's breath hitched briefly, that smile unexpectedly affecting her in a way she couldn't quite identify. For a moment, she wasn't afraid at all, too thoroughly distracted by him.

"What about your parents?" he asked.

She didn't want to answer him. She wasn't sure what would come through her voice, or what play of emotion or memory would cross her face, and she didn't want to let him see. But she'd drudged the memories up in him, and he didn't flinch from them. She couldn't help but do the same.

"My father died when I was younger than you. I don't remember him, at all," Silmaria said with a soft sigh as she rested her chin on her knees and curled her tail around her feet. "My Mother said he was a hunter and a warrior and a follower of Gnari Shamanic traditions, back when they were young and still lived with their people. When they came to live with the Humans, father traded the animals he killed and sold pelts and leathers, and made trinkets and decorations made from claw and horn and bone.

"After my father died, Mother worked for a while as a dancer and performer, then did serving work in taverns and inns before Master Edwin found us and took us in. I hardly remember the years we were traveling and wandering. By the time I was old enough to really hold on to memories, we were living at the Manor and my Mother was working as a kitchen maid."

"What was she like?" Rael asked quietly.

"Scared," Silmaria said thoughtfully. "She was sure that something would go wrong, and we would be on our own again, no home and no roof and no food. She was frightened of the other servants. People don't always tolerate us under the best of times. That she was husbandless with a little brat like me hiding in her skirts, well. Everyone thought the worst of her, and me by extension.

"But for all her fear she was... determined. She seemed to make it her personal vow to make our life at House IronWing work. She always told me we had to work very hard to repay Master Edwin for his kindness. She was graceful, and she was patient. She said Humans hated us because we frightened them. Because we were different. It wasn't their fault, and we should try to be patient with them, and kind."

"She must have had a good heart," Rael offered.

"Yes. Well. Her good, tolerant heart got her stabbed by one of her scared Humans."

Rael stared at her in the darkness. She could see the surprise and sympathy wrote on his handsome face. She was glad his eyes weren't as sensitive as hers; she didn't want him to be able to read her as plainly as she did him right now. 

"I'm sorry," he said at last, because it was all he could really say.

Silmaria shrugged. "Master Edwin had the man executed. My mother had her justice, at least. Master Edwin swore he would keep me safe after that. It's probably the biggest reason I'm still alive now."

"You must hate us," Rael mused.

She reached up and pushed her hair back, then pulled her cloak close around her body. "I used to. I guess I still do, here and there, or at least sometimes I try. I don't trust a lot of humans. Experience has made me cautious of them until. Really, experience has made me cautious of everyone, not just Humans. But caution and hatred are different things. I don't think I have it in me to hate that much."

Rael smiled that same small, wistful smile. "I'm glad that, if you took nothing else from your mother in your brief time together, you learned how to have her good heart."

Silmaria swallowed on whatever feelings it set off inside. She reminded herself of the deep, choking, smothering water under them, of how very cold it would be as it pressed down on her from above, heavier than all the world, and she let some fear creep back inside. Good. Fear was easier than the rest of her disjointed, muck of emotions. Simpler, cleaner, and less dangerous.

For a time, the only sounds were GlassWater gently lapping against Cutter's hull, the soft rushing of wind occasionally rising into the crescendo of a quietly mournful howl. The creek of the lines holding the sail unfurled, the canvas straining against the blowing wind. There was occasionally the small little splash off to the side of the ship where a large fish broke the lake surface, in and out, in and out. The smuggler puffed at his pipe and his cargo quietly chewed on old memories whose flavor had faded with age, and gave them no fullness or satisfaction.




DarkFyre Ch. 13



When dawn broke over the horizon, the snow had relented, but it was just as cold. Rael and Silmaria sat, huddled deep in their heavy cloaks and thick, warm clothes, and took some of the travel rations they'd brought with them, and broke their fast. They passed strips of salted elk and beef, thick, tough carrots, and handfuls of toasted nuts that Silmaria actually found very pleasant. They watched as the sky over the distant SkySpear Mountains to the west blossomed with light and pigments. The heavy clouds still overcasting the sky were aglow with lush purple like a deep, colorful bruise, then brightened, bleeding into a stunning orange, then pink. Red emerged, vibrant and deep and powerful, filtering into the rest of the colors, until the whole sky was a great blend of otherworldly shades, dancing together in blots and smears of color in the clouds. 

The sunrise was a marvel, unique in all the world, and destined to fade after all too brief a moment of fiery glory, much like the snowflakes in the night.

"Beautiful," Silmaria murmured softly, her breakfast forgotten for a time as her eyes followed the heavens.

"The gods are painting with a mighty fine brush this morning," Captain Jemmings agreed.

Jemmings joined them for the meal, then, and surprised them both with a large loaf of good bread, and a fresh block of cheese, both of which he broke into chunks and shared. They gave him some of their beef and nuts, and the strange trio ate in almost amiable silence.

"So, you're the poor sod they've got the city locked down for, eh?" Jemmings said when they'd finished, and wiped the crumbles of bread from his beard.

Both of them froze. Silmaria looked, wide eyed, from Rael, then to Jemmings, and back to the Nobleman again. Rael said nothing, just stared into the smuggler's eyes, hard, with his hand once again at the hilt of his short sword.

Jemmings met Rael's icy gaze for a moment, then gave a snort and waved his hand dismissively. "Leave off that. What, you think I'm going to betray you? Bit late for that. If I were going to turn you over to the guard, it would've been before we shoved off, not after. And I'm not going to be taking you down myself. I'm no fighter, and even if I were, I hear tell you're not one to be taken down by less than about half an army. No. You're secrets safe with me, no fear."

Silmaria let out the breath she'd been about to choke on, and relaxed. 

Rael didn't. His glare was unwavering.

Jemmings didn't seem particularly phased. He tugged at his beard slowly and leaned forward, watching Rael intently with his sly, critical eyes. "Them things they say you did, to your folks and all that. You did it?"

"No."

Jemmings studied the Nobleman, searching his flinty silver stare for something, a lie, a tell, a sign of remorse or hint of satisfaction, something.

At last, apparently satisfied by what he did or did not find, Jemmings nodded and smirked mirthlessly. "Fine enough. I've smuggled blackhearts as much as good folk. But I like good folk better."

"Just get us to the other side of the lake," Rael said through gritted teeth.

"Aye, Cap'n," Captain Jemmings said with a mock salute, and returned to the wheel.

For the rest of the voyage, Rael's mood was black.

***

When the Cutter butted up to shore on the western bank of Lake Glasswater it was mid noon. The clouds had, if anything, clustered even more densely, choking the sky and blocking the sun from all view. Snow had begun to fall once more, but more lazily now, a light little flecking that wouldn't do much to add to the thick, airy powder already packed thickly onto the ground and dusting the tall pines and ferns dotting the shoreline.

Rael had calmed somewhat, but he was still clearly on edge, and his eyes followed Jemmings, always. Silmaria wisely kept silent and out of his way, sensing he was wound tight as a spring and wanting no chance that she would set him off. He'd never been unkind to her, but tension such as his did strange things to a man.

Captain Jemmings looped a line around one of the smaller trees nearby, then hopped ashore. Rael and Silmaria grabbed their packs and followed. Silmaria leapt off the side of the small boat, landed on the shore, and promptly crumpled in a heap to press herself to the ground, snow and all.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! Gods, I promise to never take something as beautiful and perfect as solid ground for granted ever again!"

Rael smiled briefly as his companion, but quickly sobered. He rearranged his packs, and made no effort to hide his greatsword now, purposefully strapping the frightening length of killing steel to his back, along with the full quiver of arrows and his longbow. His cloak was pushed back, and the short sword at his hip was in full view.

Many deep, gulping breaths later, Silmaria stood and took in her surroundings. There were clusters of trees at the shoreline, and spread out farther west, but for the most part the Dale opened up before them; sweeping plains covered in thick, shin deep snow, pure and untouched save the occasional tracks of deer or mountain yaks or other wild creatures. Here and there, large stones broke up the bleak, empty spaces of the plains, their rough, rocky faces wearing the white of falling snow like winter coats.

"Well, here we are then," Captain Jemmings said with a toothsome grin. "Safely arrived, and before the day's out, as promised."

Rael regarded the man closely, his sharp silver gaze boring into the jovial smuggler's face. Then, at last, he held out one huge hand. "Thank you. For your service. For getting us safely free."

Jemmings threw his head back in a short bark of laughter, then shook Rael's hand energetically. "I like you, Lord IronWing. You're a mite serious for my taste, but you're a good sort. For a Noble. Now, if you'll humor me, there's one last thing, and then I'll be back on the Glass, and you can be on your way to...wherever it is you're off to."

Rael, still wary, replied, "Go on."

"Our good friend Galin told me you have a peculiar dagger. Show me, if you please? He was very insistent I see it."

Rael stared at the man hard for a moment, then pulled his dagger from his belt. 

It was, indeed, a peculiar sort of dagger. It had been his father's, and his father's father before him. The blade was straight and double edged, with a wicked, fine point. It was Leftin steel of the sort forged by the great Empire's finest Dwarven smiths, and enchanted by their Elven weapon masters to make the edge keener than any common steel in the world. The blade had a strange bluish tint to it, and the IronWing family crest had been emblazoned into the fine, curving crossguard, and the Dragon of the house crest sported tiny twin eyes of twinkling sapphire. 

Captain Jemmings whistled softly as he held the blade, reverent and careful, running his eyes over it with obvious appreciation. "I'm no man of arms, but this...this is amazing, truly. A blade fit for a king, I've no doubt."

The smuggler looked up at the Knight, and there was almost an apology in his dark eyes. "I'm sorry to do this. I know how important this blade must be to you. But Galin has a plan. A plan that requires your dagger as proof of your recent death."

Rael stared at the man incredulously. "What? What the hells can he be thinking? Why wouldn't he have spoken of this before we left?"

"Because he knew you'd argue with him. He said you'd have argued and fought and balked and talked until he went mad with it and changed his mind just to shut you up."

Silmaria, listening closely to the exchange, covered her mouth with one hand and pointedly glanced over to some very interesting snow pit-pattering its way down a nearby tree's low hanging boughs.

Rael scowled and shook his head. "Damn that old bastard anyway."

"I know you don't want to be parted with it. But if all this weren't pretty grievous serious, I don't think you'd have gone this far out of your way in the first place, yes? So perhaps it's best to give our friend's plan a chance. It may make a difference in your necks being saved. Literally."

Rael took a deep breath and, begrudgingly, nodded. "Very well. Give it here," He growled, and held his hand out for the dagger's return.

Captain Jemmings looked confused, but did as the Nobleman asked.

Rael gripped the dagger and, without a word, ran the devastatingly sharp blade along the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Silmaria gasped as she swiveled around just in time to catch Rael's bold act.

"The dagger alone won't be enough," Rael said, grimacing slightly. He gripped the dagger's hilt with his bloodied hand, smearing it, and then tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt and bound his bleeding palm tight. "It's true that anyone could recognize this as being mine...but if they are as serious about the price on my head as I'm sure they are, they will want something more convincing."

"Mages," Captain Jemmings said, understanding lighting his face.

"Exactly," Rael nodded. "Only a bare handful of the sorcerers and mages in the realm have the power and knowledge of blood magic sufficient to identify this as my blood, but the people after my head seem to be desperate for it, so I wouldn't doubt if they hunt one down to do it. This isn't definitive proof; nothing short of my head would be beyond question. But it may just be enough."

He handed the blade back to Jemmings, who took it gingerly, trying not to touch the blood, or cut himself, in the process. 

"You're a crafty man, Lord IronWing. Well then, I do believe our business is concluded. I wish you safe, quiet, hidden travels. May our little sham be accepted and bring you reprieve from whoever hunts you."

"Thank you, Captain Jemmings," Rael nodded. "But it's more than a reprieve I want from them, and it's more than a reprieve I shall have."

"Mm. Well, gods speed, in any case," Jemmings nodded, then turned his mirthful smile onto Silmaria. 

"Well, little miss, I thank you kindly for not capsizing my boat, as women onboard are wont to do. Mayhap one day you can learn to swim a bit. You might even enjoy it! I've heard cats like fish very well."

Silmaria poked the man in the chest with one clawed finger, hard enough to nearly draw blood. "You're an ass. Worse, you're an ass that smells like fish, and not in a way that even a cat would enjoy. But thank you for getting us safely just the same. If the boat had gone under and I drowned, I'd haunt you to your dying."

Jemmings laughed heartily, and hopped away and back onto the Cutter. He began to undo the line keeping his small vessel docked, calling, "Why, little miss, if the boat had capsized, I would have downed myself! Don't you know? Most sailors can't swim for shit, and me no better than any!"

Silmaria looked at the sailor turned smuggler turned potential savior with a mix of amusement, perplexity, and annoyance.

They watched the Cutter slide off, gliding over the tranquil surface of Lake GlassWater. 

"If they find out he helped us, he could be killed for it, couldn't he?" Silmaria asked.

"Absolutely," Rael nodded. "It's safe to say anyone who helps us, or is even passingly linked to us, could be killed at this point."

"He's taking a lot of risk, for total strangers," she observed as she shouldered her pack.

"He is," Rael agreed. "But I think he's used to risk taking. Galin chose wisely after all; he knew, I suppose, what he was getting tangled up in. And it doesn't seem he much minds."

"Sailors," Silmaria said by way of explanation. "Anyone who would willingly go scooting around on a glorified block of wood over any body of water bigger than a duck pond has a deathwish to begin with."

***

Thank you to all my supportive readers for patiently waiting for this chapter. Work and training and family matters got away from me a bit these past few weeks and slowed my progress a bit. I hope to finish the next chapter much sooner, but if it does take me awhile, know that it is still most certainly coming.

As always, comments, questions and critiques are welcome.



DarkFyre Ch. 14



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

The wilds of DarkFyre Dale were a raw, wretched place, and never more so than in the grip of winter.

For the first few days they traveled mostly through the open, sweeping meadows and plains of the western highlands. During the all too brief summer months the highlands were an entirely different place characterized by tall, lush green grasses swaying in the cool wind, speckled with notes of color from wildflowers. They teamed with small, secret life. Bees buzzing, drone-like and purposeful, and field mice scurried about in the abundant shelter of the dark grasses. Roaming herds of wild horses grazed over the grass with long, strong legs silhouetted, rising up to powerful haunches as they bent graceful necks down to sample the tasty greens.

In winter, it was different. The flatlands were abandoned and covered over with the unchanging, beautifully dreary snow. The airy powder suffocated the lush green grasses, froze out the flowers, sending the field mice into their burrows to hibernate away the cold. It hung heavy on the sparse, scattered trees and dusted the great boulders that rose like lonely, forgotten sentinels. They were scattered about in groups, cast aside and forgotten by ancient giants that forsook the Northlands long ago in favor of someplace blessedly fucking warm. 

Growing up in the Dale, Silmaria thought she understood what cold was. Oh, she'd had a good idea, true. But nothing of her experience of DarkFyre winters had prepared her for the travails of traveling through the wilds. Always before, when she was exposed to the bitter, biting cold, she'd had walls and a roof and shelter to retire to at the end of the day. Even the scant nights traveling to Trelling's Rest after House IronWing burned didn't fully prepare her for what they faced. 

Now, there was no escaping the cruel grip of the torturous freeze. When they bedded down for the night, they were lucky if they managed to find a stone large enough to offer some cover from the wind that came whipping dagger-like to knife cold down to the bone. Though Rael was reluctant to set up fires, worried that if they were, indeed, being followed the flames would act as a beacon, the cold left them with no choice; it was construct a fire, or freeze to death.

Even sleeping as closely as they dared to the fire, the nights were brutally cold. Rael and Silmaria had quickly set all propriety aside and slept rolled up together with all their combined blankets and cloaks bundled around them as they huddled together for warmth. Silmaria was eternally grateful for the Nobleman during those nights. He cast off an enormous amount of body heat, more than any man she'd ever known, as if he was deeply warmed from within. If not for his body's warmth, the Gnari girl would have frozen for sure, even with all their blankets and cloaks and clothes. The cold was a constant oppression, and the only reason Silmaria was able to sleep through the misery of their conditions was due to how utterly exhausted she was at the end of the day's march.

The days weren't much of an improvement. They walked, endlessly walked, on and on in an unforgiving trudge through snow that sometimes piled up around the bottoms of her thighs. Rael was relentless. He hardly ever tired, and he refused to let her rest or fall behind. Silmaria had complained once or twice, but he hardly slowed his pace at all, reminding her gently but firmly that she'd wanted to come, and he'd warned her. Then he would tilt his head in that way of his, half curious, half cocky, and ask her if she would be okay. Silmaria heard the unspoken challenge in his voice: Can you keep up?

It made her seethe every time, and every time she went trudging along faster, cursing all Nobles and Warriors and stupidly stubborn Knights, sometimes under her breath, sometimes not.

When they weren't marching on and on until her poor cold feet blistered in her boots, Rael was at work in other areas. When they stopped for a rest, Rael scouted around, usually looking for some kind of vantage to get a measure of their surroundings. A tall, sturdy rock, or a hill overlooking the otherwise flat land. A few times he even made his way up a tree when he found one that grew tall and strong. He surveyed the land around them, took his bearings, and adjusted their course as needed.

Their food was rationed carefully. They both grew leaner during those days of forced marches and less nourishment. Rael did everything he could to bolster their food supplies, stringing up snares for snow rabbits and other small game when they made camp, and ranging for small deer and mountain elk with his bow.

And so their days went. It was near a week before the wide flatlands of the Western Plains began to change, turning into the gently rolling hills of IceMarch Rise. They trudged gradually upward, and trees and woodlands became more common. Tall pines and thick, old evergreens gathered in small, secretive groves on the rocky hills climbing in ever-swelling humps toward the Frostfall Mountains. The days seemed to stretch longer with each dawn, harder and more grueling than the last. 

The journey changed Rael, it seemed. Already serious and intense, he became even more focused during their travels, as if all his being were tuned to taking them deeper into the wild and escaping from the Dale at all costs. He made it quite obvious early on that he was to be obeyed implicitly and unwaveringly. He was not cruel, not even unkind, really. He continued to treat her with the same quiet kindness and respect he always did. But there was a hardness to him now, a sternness and demanding quality that would brook no argument and give no rest or reprieve to the pace he demanded until the day was over and he was satisfied they'd covered enough ground. His temper was even and patient as she balked and struggled to adapt to his pace. But he was unyielding, and he smiled less. 

Silmaria tried. Truly she did. She put her all into meeting his demands. She rose to the relentless challenge he set forth, putting her heart and soul into keeping up with his pace. She stubbornly pressed ahead. Her will was born of the desire to prove to him she could do it, both as an act of defiance, and also to gain his approval. She couldn't say which was her true motivation from one moment to the next, but she was determined to do it all the same.

Still, all the determination in the world didn't make the journey a single step shorter or one bit less demanding. As much as she was loathe to admit it, Silmaria was wearing thin.

"This is a lot harder than I thought it was going to be," Silmaria admitted quietly one night. They camped high on a hillock, just under the edge of a copse of trees. The canopy of branches would have been great shelter for the fat, falling snowflakes that had been following them the last two days. Only tonight, the sky was empty and clear, the unforgivingly thick blanket of clouds finally giving way to a captivating view of the cool winter sky with its distinctively gleaming stars spread by the thousands like diamond dust cast into the void. The Gnari girl sat, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring up into the sparkling darkness while Rael sat across the serenely crackling fire, running a whetstone along the blade of his greatsword.

"I warned you," he reminded her, not unkindly.

"I know," Silmaria sighed. She reached up to idly toy with her hair, running her fingers through the long, dark locks of it to try to work some of the tangles free. "And I believed you. I didn't understand how...big...everything is. The world is a lot wider than I thought, I guess. I never knew I could hate something so simple as walking so passionately."

It was true; if Silmaria spent the rest of her life off her feet, she'd die happy. Silmaria had always considered herself to be fit and strong, but after the countless miles they'd covered, her body ached everywhere. Her hips hurt. Her thighs and calves and the soles of her feet hurt, and her back and shoulders from lugging her packs around, too. She wasn't doing anything especially strenuous, but it was so constant, endless. If they weren't sleeping, and they weren't eating, then they were walking, and sometimes they were walking when they did that, too, or at least it certainly felt like it. And walking hadn't gotten one bit more enjoyable once they started heading up hill, oh no!

Silmaria turned her eyes to him, and caught him with a faint but definitive smirk on his lips. The bastard was smirking at her! 

"It will get worse," he said grimly.

"How?" she demanded flatly.

"IceMarch Pass will be hard going," Rael explained. "It will take us high into the mountains, where it will be colder. The pass will be steep and treacherous, and this time of year there will be harsh winter storms that will make the weather down here seem mild and enjoyable. Surviving that part of the journey will be very difficult."

Silmaria felt her stomach go sour at his words. She looked down at her dinner, a bowl of thick stew they'd made from rabbit meat and the last of the venison, and several tubers of roots they had found earlier that morning. All in all, it wasn't a bad dinner, but now she'd lost her taste for it. 

She forced herself to eat for several bites, then in a sudden burst of temper, she tossed her bowl violently into the snow, spattering the soft white with chunks of rabbit and deer. Caught between fear and despair, tears threatening to spill at any moment, Silmaria fought off the impending sobs by leveling a fierce glare at her companion.

"That's great. That's just fucking great! I'm already struggling just to get through without falling behind. Now you're telling me this is the easy part? How the hell do I survive all that! I'm barely keeping up as it is!"

Rael looked up at her then, though his hands never slowed at their work. The firelight caught in his coppery hair, making it shine all the more brilliant, accentuating the wild, untamed locks and the fierceness that his growing beard lent to his face. The flame traced ragged, shining lines up the killing edge of his blade, and his gaze was just as sharp, a flash of silver fire, threatening to burn her if she got too close. 

She shivered, and not from the cold.

"Lower your voice. We don't know what is in these hills with us," he warned her calmly. She hadn't even realized she was yelling until he said it. Flushing with embarrassment, she balled her hands into fists, angry, and opened her mouth to shout a retort.

"Be quiet!" Rael commanded, and this time there was steel in his voice. The fire in his eyes blazed bright, and his progress with the whetstone stilled. Silmaria's breath caught in her throat, and though she couldn't help but continue to glower at him, neither could she help but obey him.

The whetstone began to move once again, and his gaze returned to his work. "This is hard. I know. It is hard for me, too, and I'm more used to these things. But understand this. You will persevere. You will drive on, because you have no choice. Because there is no other way. We move, and we hunt, and we keep warm, and we make our way to journey's end, or we die. Simple as that."

"I can't do this," Silmaria said softly with real fear in her voice. She was afraid, angry and afraid, and now tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. This made her even angrier, because she didn't want Rael to see her cry, and even more afraid, because if she started, she didn't think she could stop.

"You can, and you will," Rael replied firmly. His whetstone slid over the edge of his blade, an almost hypnotic undertone to his words. "You are a strong woman, Silmaria. The only woman I would ever take with me on this journey. I wouldn't have brought you along just so you could die, you know. I knew before we left that you could do this. And I still know that now."

Silmaria huddled into herself, rocking gently back and forth. Her eyes turned to the fire now, watching the flames shift and sway in their sensual, deliberate way, a dance as old and primal and unknowable and familiar as the world itself. The girl, feeling very small, soaked up Lord Rael's words as he spoke them in tones of sureness and finality. She hated him then, as she sometimes did, and like usual she wasn't really sure what for. She hated him for being so hard. She hated him for being so kind. She hated him for being so sure when she felt so lost and confused and hopeless. She hated him for having so much faith in her. For putting his confidence in her and forcing her to be stronger than she thought she was capable of being, just to live up to his expectations. 

Most of all she hated him because, somehow, she couldn't stomach the thought of letting him down.

***

"Teach me to hunt," she said. 

So he did.

The most difficult part for Silmaria was the bow. The longbow Rael used was designed for a man taller than her, and with a much stronger arm; it took all her strength to draw the string and nock an arrow back. A few hours of hunting with half a dozen arrows loosed left her back and shoulders on fire from the strain. 

Despite the difficulty, the Gnari proved a natural hunter. After a bare handful of days, she was hunting almost as frequently as Rael himself. Once the Nobleman taught her how to handle the bow, how to identify game sign and how to quietly stalk a kill, Silmaria's instincts and natural ability took over. Her heightened senses and quickness on her feet helped her to shadow prey with natural grace and poise.

When she stalked her quarry and moved in position to take down her kill, all the rest of the world, the hardships and the struggle, the pain of her lost friends and home, the perils of their journey...all of it faded from her mind. Her heart wasn't squeezed quite so tightly, and all she lived for was the moment. The hunt. The kill. It was a peaceful, violent sort of exhilaration. She reveled in the thrill of the hunt, and was deeply gratified to be doing something truly useful and necessary to their survival. The pressure of the bowstring drawn taut under her fingers, the arrow knocked back. The solid wood of the ash bow, thrumming with tension and potential. It spoke to her, a promise of food, of value and purpose and power. It was a heady thing, and she savored it.

Soon, Rael had to depend on Silmaria's tracking skills entirely to hunt; as they made their way deeper and deeper into the hilly country and up to the mountains themselves, game became scarce and hunting was made no easier by the ever-worsening weather. They'd salted and smoked as much extra meat as they could. Rael held those supplies back, staring at the unfriendly sky and seeing nothing but bleak, lean days ahead.

The pair reached the FrostFall Mountains after just over two weeks in the wild.

Silmaria craned her head back to stare up at the massive peaks towering up in a long, jagged row, and felt truly small. She'd never been so close to a mountain before. The steep cliffs were dotted and peppered with the green of scraggly trees clinging to the rocky slopes, their small, powerful, stubborn roots resiliently digging their way into any crack or purchase they could find. Snow capped the upward jutting tips of the mountains, which wore cloaks of snow and thick cloud cover like mysterious, faceless conspirators come for some clandestine meeting at the edge of the world.

"They're huge... how are we supposed to go on? I don't think I can climb this," Silmaria said doubtfully as she eyed the giants arrayed before her.

Rael, standing beside her, gave a thin, amused smile. "You haven't tried yet. You seem to be doing a lot of things you didn't think you could. But it doesn't matter; we'll be taking IceMarch Pass. It's a long way through the mountains, and treacherous at winter. But it will carry us through sure and sound, if we're careful."

If Silmaria thought traveling the hills had been hard, now she knew better. IceMarch Pass was a narrow slip of a path worn into the mountains. It was just wide enough for a single cart to navigate, if the driver were exceptionally brave, or exceptionally stupid, or exceptionally well loved by all the collective gods named and unnamed. The pass alternated between steep rises and long, stretching gradual climbs, sudden blind turns and serpentine windings in an ever increasing climb. The way was slow, and grueling, and the path was heaped with snow and, as they went higher, treacherous ice. Rael led them at a cautious, calculating pace, giving no window for disaster to catch them unawares.

They followed the pass deep into the mountains. The great stone giants surrounded them, beautiful and terrible. The path opened on one side to drop off into nothingness, a deep ravine gouged into the mountain chain far below, mist hanging in specter-threads over open and empty space, calling.

The craggy faces of the mountains soared, reaching with all their might to the sky, as if the land collected itself in a great surge to reach the sky and kiss the sun before falling back to earth, still and lifeless and complete. The bones of the world were arrayed around them, white-capped and cold and lonely. Silmaria was filled with a sense of something old and powerful beyond knowing in those strange and wonderfully treacherous mountains, and that was comforting and alarming all at once.

After a time, Silmaria decided she would have rather liked the mountains, if it weren't for the storms. By their second day trekking along IceMarch Pass, the storms had slowed them to a snails crawl. The wind was constant and howling and so powerful it made her ache just to be buffeted by it. They were both wrapped with every bit of winter clothes and heavy cloaks they possessed, but even then the wind cut straight through to chill them to the marrow. 

Rael led the way blocking the worst of the elements. Wind, snow, ice and freezing rain whipped all about him, driven by mighty blowing gusts. Silmaria had never been more grateful for the man as she was then; she knew if it hadn't been for him absorbing the brunt of the storm she would have froze, or been blown right off the mountainside. As it was, she buried her hands under her arms to keep them warm, her teeth chattered violently, and she trudged on through knee deep snow, her head bent as she stubbornly pushed forward.

And so they made their way, forward and upward, as the storm battered at them viciously. Rael pushed on for there was no place to rest, and if they stopped moving, they'd never move again. The snow and ice born on merciless winds felt like razors when they touched any exposed skin. Rael had his hood drawn down and his face swathed in thick clothe, but he was of course unable to cover himself entirely. He squinted out into the blizzard raging around them, eyes narrowed nearly shut and his brows crusted with ice. 

He glanced back at Silmaria, small and shaking with the cold as she marched miserably in his wake. His heart went out to her, but they had no time to rest. "You can do this! Keep going!" he shouted to her, and his words were all but swallowed by the storm.

She said nothing in reply, but kept moving, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, just as he did.

Only then, he didn't. Rael's foot shot forward, sliding along a wickedly slippery patch of ice. He shifted, trying to regain his balance, but when he adjusted his weight to the other leg it too went skidding out from under him. The big Noble went tumbling forward, fell onto his backside and slipped, uncontrolled, along the path toward the ledge opening into the yawning emptiness dropping to the earth below. Rael cursed and cursed again. He twisted and turned belly down, his hands grabbing at the slick snow and ice and finding no purchase as he hurtled to the edge, his clothes wet and clinging and heavy.




DarkFyre Ch. 14



Then there was nothing beneath him, and for half a sickening, stomach lurching moment, he was weightless, floating as airy as the snow swirling around him. 

The moment passed, and as all flightless creatures inevitably must, he fell.

In the very last, desperate moment, his frantically grasping hands found hope in the form of the thick, gnarled roots of an old fallen tree still stubbornly stuck in the mountain just below the edge of the path. He gripped the sturdy roots as if his life depended on them, which it surely did, and held fast. Rael's body came swinging forward, smashing into the mountainside and knocking the wind from him, but he refused to lose his hold.

The wind snatched at his heavy wet cloak, pulling and tugging and swirling it about to tangle around his dangling legs. Rael held on, unable to move, hardly able to breathe as blood seeped from his nose and a cut on his chin where the stone of the cliff had gouged him. He felt immensely heavy, all the weight of his impressive body, plus his sodden clothes and cloak, and the packs strapped to his back, all pulling him down to that exhilarating and all too deadly fall. It took all his strength, all his power to hold to the roots, panting in a cold sweat.

Small, hard fingers gripped his arms with surprising strength. Rael looked up to see Silmaria crouched down at the edge of the cliff, her hood fallen away and her black hair whipping about in fierce tendrils and curls.

Silmaria grit her teeth. She strained to pull him up, and her emerald eyes were wild. "Don't you dare! You promised you wouldn't leave me! Now get your heavy ass up here! Pull, damn you!"

Rael set his jaw, gathered his strength, and heaved. The thick muscles in his arms and shoulders strained and bulged and rippled. Silmaria yanked and tugged and pulled, putting all her strength into hauling the Nobleman from the abyss.

It took all their combined effort, but Rael came clawing up from the fatal fall, and at last rolled back onto the path. They both collapsed into a heap, gasping and shaking from the near disaster. 

"Let's not do that again, please? I'm pretty sure I just gave up at least a good five years of my life," Silmaria shouted as she pushed up from him. 

Rael stared up at her from where he sprawled on his back, and despite the terrifying incident, grinned a bloody grin, and then laughed. "Agreed. No more mucking about on the edge of cliffs."

"It's not funny!" Silmaria glared, and punched him in the chest.

"It's not. Only, right now I'm alive, and anything is funny," Rael replied. 

When he got his mirth under control, Rael wiped the blood from his leaking nose and split lip. He dabbed at the small gash in his chin and they rose to continue their way along the deadly pass, their footsteps even more cautious than before.

***

In spite of their brush with disaster or perhaps because of it, like some balancing of fortune and fate, luck was with them just as night fell and it became too dark to see the treacherous path ahead. They happened upon an outcropping of stone jutting overhead above the path. The ledge was low, forcing Rael to bend over nearly double, but it pressed out over the pass far enough to offer almost complete shelter from the blowing ice and snow of the ever worsening storm. 

"We'll stop here for the night. There's no point trying to push on with night falling," Rael nodded as they scanned the little alcove under the overhang, finding it mostly dry and free of snow.

"Thank the gods," Silmaria groaned, and let her packs fall gratefully to the hard packed dirt underfoot. 

Rael stood at the edge of the overhang, looking out at the rapidly darkening sky and the heavy, low clouds covering any hint of moon or stars. "If this storm doesn't let up soon, we're going have a time of it."

Silmaria sat on the floor, pulling her cloak in tight and rubbing her hands briskly up and down her arms. "What do we do?"

"Take it as it comes," Rael replied, shrugging his broad shoulders. "We can't tarry long. But if we have to wait a day or two for the storm to die down, this is as good a place as any. The worst of the ice and snow is kept at bay. We may even be able to make a small fire, I think. It looks like the smoke should be able to escape well enough that we won't suffocate."

"Well that's reassuring," Silmaria returned dryly. She shifted her packs onto a drier spot, and began to pull out blankets and her sleeping roll, as well as some of the dried meat, roots, and berries they'd scavenged a few days ago before the storm had barreled down on them and they'd started up the pass. "Do you think we'll find any good hunting up here?"

"There's some," Rael nodded slowly. "Mountain goats, mostly, and some smaller game. We might get lucky and be able to take down some hawks as well. But we won't be able to hunt a thing until this storm relents. Nothing worth going out there for, that's for sure."

Silmaria frowned softly as she contemplated their supplies. "This isn't going to last us much longer."

"We'll make it last," Rael said firmly. 

He slipped back under the overhang, crouched low. Despite the grimness of their situation, Silmaria couldn't help a frozen smile at the sight.

Rael noticed her smile and shot her a perplexed look. "What is it?"

"You look ridiculous."

Rael contemplated that for a moment, and then gave a wry chuckle. "I suppose this isn't my most dignified moment, is it?"

"No, not at all," Silmaria laughed.

"Being tall isn't always the wonderful thing people make it out to be," Rael smirked as he sat down beside her. He pulled off his packs, placing them beside hers, and propped his greatsword and longbow up against the cliff wall. 

"Oh yeah, I'm sure it's awful," Silmaria rolled her feline eyes. "I bet your head gets cold at such a high altitude and everything. It probably gets hard to breath with the air so thin up there, too."

Rael gave her a blank stare. For a moment, Silmaria thought maybe she'd truly offended him. Then he smiled. It was a crooked smirk, mirthful and teasing. Silmaria rather liked it. 

"You've got a wicked tongue, you know," Rael observed.

"You don't even know," Silmaria muttered.

"What?" He asked.

Silmaria realized what she'd just said, and flushed. She was glad of her pelt; if she'd been human, she probably would have been horribly red, all the way down to her toes. "Nothing. You said we can have a fire. Can we have a fire?"

Rael gave her a confused look, but nodded.

As the Nobleman worked with his flint and tinder, Silmaria pulled a blanket around her shoulders and huddled deep into it, trying to keep warm. The temperature was, if anything, dropping as night fell. She began praying that they would make it through the night; and with that, she realized there was a real possibility they would not, and then she started to shake all over again, and not just from the cold this time.

Just as she was about to ask him what was taking so long, Rael sat back and rested his elbows on his knees, scowling. "I can't see a thing."

Silmaria gave a start, and she realized just how dark it was. He was right; between night falling completely, the storm obscuring the sky, and the overhang above them, the darkness was so deep there was no way a Human would be able to make anything out. Even with her heightened night eyes, her vision was iffy.

"Here, let me do it," she offered, and took his hands. He relented and gave her the tools. After a few false starts, a small, precious flame blossomed, licking at the dry wood and illuminating their small little shelter. Rael leaned in and blew on the flame. Slowly gaining confidence, the tendrils of fire spiraled higher, growing and spreading over the wood as small, hot roots of orange and red took stubborn, fierce hold. The wood cracked and crackled, and just like that, the flames were alive.

Silmaria sat back, satisfied with her little fire beyond measure. She held frozen fingers out to the pirouetting flames and gazed into the cycling kaleidoscope of orange and yellow and red, all blending and flaring, spinning in a dizzying array of fascination. 

"I've always thought fire is so beautiful. I think this is the most beautiful fire I've ever seen," Silmaria said.

"It's a fine fire," Rael said as he took some of the cured meat and placed it on a flat rock that he placed at the edge of the fire to give it a bit of warmth. "And right now, it's the most welcome sight I've seen in a long time."

"Sometimes I feel like it's calling me," Silmaria continued as she stared. She wasn't sure why she was telling him this, only she was starting to relax for the first time in days, warmed by the swelling heat of the fire. Her bones were finally beginning to thaw, and as usual, the nearness of the fire had her mesmerized. Lulled. "Like it's calling me to dance with it. Let it embrace me and spin me in its arms. I know that's stupid. I know I would burn up and turn to ash. Everything that feels fire's touch does. But that doesn't mean the call is any less promising."

Rael listened quietly. He sat beside her, staring into the flames with her. At last, he said, "Fire is power. Like power, it's comfortable. Warm. Inviting. Beautiful. And like power, in the end, it will consume you until there's nothing left. Ashes and black bones and burnt up promises."

Silmaria had no words for that.

They ate in silence neither uncomfortable nor wholly companionable. Now that they had settled in for the night, they simply had no energy left for conversation. Instead, they ate slowly and thoroughly, savoring every bit of the meager meal, knowing their next may be even smaller, and the one after that miniscule indeed.

After the meal, they laid out their sleeping rolls and laid down for the night. Once again they huddled in close, sharing blankets and warmth to ward off the freezing cold.

Silmaria pressed in close against Rael, and his thick, powerful arms wrapped her up. She was still amazed as ever by the incredible heat of the man; with the blankets insulating them and the heat coming off the Knight, she was actually comfortably warm in a freezing snowstorm. She'd been pressed against plenty of men before, and never had she experienced a man that radiated the raw body heat Rael did. The Gnari girl curled up against his broad chest, rested her head on his solid shoulder, and let out a soft sigh as she relaxed fully. She was warm here, comfortable. Safe. Silmaria knew that, curled in Rael's arms, she would make it through another day, even frightful and dangerous as they'd become.

Rael was already close to sleep, holding her close in his warm embrace, one big hand resting on the small of her back as she curled to his side. His breathing was slowing into the relaxed rhythm of rest. Silmaria soaked in his warmth, drawn and lulled by it the same way she was drawn and lulled by the warmth of the fire. She began to drift, secure against Rael's solid, reassuring form.

A hair's breadth from sleep, the Stirring overcame her. It lanced through her like an arrow, sharp and startling and painfully penetrating. Her breath hitched, and she shuddered roughly, muscles twitching as her senses came alive, snatching her from the precipice of slumber and giving her a violent, lecherous shake. All at once, she felt the hard, defined muscles of Rael's defined shoulders and chest, the strength of his big arms, like corded steel wrapping her up. 

Every inch of Silmaria's body quivered, hot. She could feel the pulsing hunger racing through her, spreading and expanding, and every bit of it hot lined to the insatiable, slick ache between her legs. 

A whimper tore from her lips, a lame, injured sound of need, a pleading to make the suffering agony end, please gods, make it stop. Hardly aware of her own actions, Silmaria pressed to him, molding her body to his, heedless of the unflattering, uncomfortable bulk of their clothing. She wrapped her legs around the thick solidness of his thigh, hitching her weeping core against his leg. Even fleeting and scant as it was, the friction there was delicious and wonderful. She bit her lip, sleepily cursing in her mind, cursing her hunger, her need, her endless wanton, unrelenting desire that under most circumstances she would have reveled in. But tonight, like this, with him, it was nothing but purest torment. She cursed and railed, and squirmed about, her hips shimmying and undulating despite her very best efforts to be still. The burning in her loins was overwhelming, maddening, a heated need in her cunt that even the raging blizzard outside their meager shelter wouldn't cool.

"Silmaria. What are you doing?" Rael asked.

She almost moaned aloud; his tone was thick with sleep and low, gravelly. His words ran down her spine and a violently lustful shiver chased down after them. Silmaria couldn't recall ever being so close to coming undone by such simple, innocent words.

And then those words registered, penetrating the fog of her mind addled by her Stirring. Silmaria came fully aware, and realized while she had been so distracted by the demands of the Stirring and her heated internal conflict, her hand had, quite independent of any conscious decision on her part, made its way into Rael's trousers. Her fingers were wrapped around the length of him, gripping tenderly and eagerly, and his flesh was growing and thickening and lengthening so absolutely perfectly, just like she wanted, and it was warm and solid and oh so very thick and alive.

She looked up at the Nobleman, staring up into his eyes of quicksilver. He was still a bit hazy, woken so strangely after just drifting off. She expected to see disapproval, outrage, and disgust. She'd hoped, and silently prayed even as she vehemently railed against herself, that she would see lust and desire in his gaze. What she found instead, was an expression of puzzlement, uncertainty, and, heartbreakingly, tender concern.

The look on Rael's face undid her completely, in a way she'd never experienced before. Somehow, that look of concern and compassion did what no look of contempt or judgment or scorn had ever managed; it made Silmaria so deeply ashamed and disgusted with herself and her traitorous, uncontrollable body that she was near physically sick with it.

The tears came hot on her cheeks. She hated him for making her cry, again! But he wasn't making her cry, was he? She didn't know if she hated him, or herself, or just the damnable fucking tears and whatever cruel gods had cursed her with a life ruled from between her legs. 

She was sobbing so violently now that she was jerking in his arms. And still, through it all, she didn't release her hold on his flesh until he gently disentangled her fingers. That just made her sob even harder. His parting his flesh from hers was the gentlest, most tender slap in the face she'd ever received, and it felt like a knife in her breast. 

Gods, she was so tired of falling apart!

How could this, of all ridiculous and meaningless things, send her into such a profound spiral? After the Manor. All her friends dying. The terror and panic of being hunted. The hardship of braving the elements on this journey. How could she have so many tears left? And how could she have any for this? It was sex, and it was meaningless. She'd fucked and been fucked, and it was never pretty, and often downright cruel, and she was absolutely no stranger to being used and then scorned, or outright cast aside. And it had never, not once, cut her this deeply. Why? Why now?

Because, for all the callousness she'd been treated with, she'd never before been rejected.

And because, for the first time since Master Edwin, it wasn't meaningless.

The thought of him was another dagger to her heart, and just when she thought the tears would slow, they fell hot and heavy as ever.

Silmaria was lost in her pain so long, she didn't know how long she cried. She cried until the tears were gone, until her body had no more to give, and even then she was a pitiful, shaking, keening thing for more than a few moments. When at last some awareness returned, she found she was wrapped more firmly than ever in Rael's powerful arms. He held her close, and her tears had soaked his shirt just as they did that night in the forest seemingly a lifetime ago. One hand rubbed in slow, soothing strokes along the small of her back, and the other was working at the tense muscles of her shoulders and upper back with strong, capable, patient fingers. He kept her head tucked just beneath his chin, and he was making soft, soothing wordless sounds in his throat. He didn't try to talk to her. He didn't rush her. And he didn't move away.

Slowly, as if fearing what she would find, the Gnari girl peeked up at the Nobleman. His eyes were on her, that intense, focused gaze. There was sympathy there, and she hated the thought that he pitied her. But the upwelling of shame was calmed by the compassion in his bright, sharp eyes, even as it broke her heart all over again.

His eyes never left hers as he slowly reached up and brushed the tears from her slick cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Tell me," he said softly, and here was no judgment or scorn in his voice. Only a desire to know.

"Tell me your pain," he said, in gentle command.

So she did.

***

Please send all questions, comments, and critiques to me.



DarkFyre Ch. 15



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

The next day was lost to the blizzard. They spent the better part of it huddled together in their blankets, pressed in close, as near to their small fire as they dared. The stone cliff was a forbidding face of rock and ice, and even with the nearby fire, the ice held strong, glittering with stubborn beauty in the firelight.

The blizzard outside was a wild, angry thing. The winds were a deep, soulful wail echoing through the canyons of the mountains. Very briefly, Rael had stepped out of their shelter to see if he could ascertain anything in their snowed over surroundings. By the time he had given up just moments later, the ice and snow had already formed a brittle, frozen crust on his clothes and in his beard. The sky was blotted out by swollen clouds hanging low. They pressing in around the peaks of the FrostFall Mountains like a glorious and hostile cloak in a constant state of decay and renewal, expanding and ebbing as they hemorrhaged snow in great white bleeding gouts.

"It's frightening," Silmaria told Rael, speaking of the storms. They sat, hip to hip, eating a meager breakfast and doing their best to ignore the incessant gnaw of hunger the slim meal did nothing to abate. "My whole life lived in the dale, and I've never seen anything like this."

It was true; blizzards and harsh winter storms were a regular occurrence in DarkFyre Dale, but the storms in the pass were different. Even with their shelter and fire and bundling up so heavily in thick winter clothes and cloaks and furs and blankets, not to mention sharing body heat, the cold crept through, insidious and patient and unstoppable. The temperature made their blood sluggish in their veins, and the gale blew violent enough that had they been walking the pass, exposed, it probably could have ripped them right off the side of the mountain.

Well, ripped her off, anyway.

"They say the storms in IceMarch Pass are an old god," Rael said to her.

His arms were around her, holding her close to the heat of his body as he sat behind her, with the Gnari girl's head on his chest, practically sitting in his lap. Silmaria drank in the warmth of his body as much as the warmth of the fire. She stared into the fire, studying the shift and flicker of the flames, and listened.

"Legend says several hundred years ago there was a holy place, a monastery whose monks followed the old gods. The focus of their faith and contemplation was the guardian spirit-god of the FrostFall Mountains. They praised and worshipped the god, and the monastery prospered and grew.

"It didn't last," Rael went on. "One year, during an especially mild and gentle summer, a tribe of raiders who wandered the flatlands came up into the mountains after hearing of the monastery's prosperity. The monks welcomed the wild, half-starved men into their sanctuary, bid them be comfortable and at home, and help themselves to whatever food and sustenance they required. The raiders returned their hospitality with bloodshed, and cut the monks down to the man. They raided the holy temple, stole all the supplies and goods they could carry from the monastery, and set it ablaze.

"Upon discovering the travesty at the monastery, the god became enraged. Once, the god had been the gentle serenity of the Mountains the monks had enjoyed. After the monks were slain, he became a spirit of vengeance, taking the guise of a terrible, powerful storm, and smiting the Mountains with his wrath. In a blizzard of unheard of intensity and suddenness, the flames of the monastery were extinguished and the raiders were swallowed up and slain, all in the span of moments."

"If that's true, why is the old god still an angry storm?" Silmaria asked.

"Who can say what motivates a god? Assuming it's a god at all, and not simply a very nasty, very un-divine storm. Because his followers are lost, I suppose," Rael shrugged. "No one ever returned to the monastery. No one has taken the monks place and worshiped the old god of the mountain again. Even now, the storms rage in the Pass so frequently that hardly anyone uses IceMarch Pass except during the summer months when the blizzards aren't so deadly. Maybe the old god is angry that no one looks to him with praise anymore. Maybe he is lonely. Or maybe he just cannot forgive what was done."

"I don't understand the gods, really," Silmaria said, and stifled a yawn before curling in closer to Rael's warmth, sitting on his lap in full now, and feeling rather content about it. 

"My mother didn't believe in the new gods. She said they were vain, and that gods didn't wear faces. And The Highest Holy is too pious and self-righteous. She said The Devout would sooner spit on us than give a care, and that said nothing good about their Holy One. The old gods... well. Mother said that father died for the old gods. So she had nothing good to say about them."

"Died for the old gods how?" Rael asked gently. 

His hands rubbed slowly along her arms. Silmaria wondered if he was aware he was even doing it. She doubted it. 

"She wouldn't say. She never talked about how he died. I have no idea how he would have died for the old gods. Part of me is curious. And part of me thinks I'd rather never know something like that."

"There's something to be said for closure," Rael said. 

His hands rested on her shoulders. They were so distracting, those hands; the feel of them touching her flesh even in such a casual way nearly derailed her train of thought. She thought about telling him as much, but then he might take them away, and she didn't want to so much as chance that.

"Yes. But closure with a ghost is probably not quite so satisfying," she returned. "All I have of him is stories and half-imagined memories. That's not so much to need a lot of closure with. He died before I knew him enough to care."

"Perhaps," Rael said doubtfully. But he let any argument on the matter go, and that was the end of that.

Silmaria let out a quiet sigh, shut her eyes, and relaxed against his solid form. She'd spilled her guts last night in a vast outpouring of grief and shame and pain. She told him about the Stirring, and how she was helpless in the face of it. She told him about giving in to it, again and again, unable to endure the agony of the cravings and demands of the flesh burning at her insides until she satisfied her need. Silmaria confessed her passionate love affair with Master Edwin. She felt oddly comfortable sharing that with the man's son, and knew on some level that he would understand. 

She was much more ashamed to admit to her nights of depravity and senseless rutting with men she cared nothing for. She told him everything, the most horrid, hurtful details, feeling in turns embarrassed, vindicated, and worthless, and she wanted so badly to just stop, knowing he would surely be disgusted now that he knew what a wicked little whore she was, but the words flowed out of her as unstoppable as her tears.

Only, Lord Rael wasn't disgusted with her at all. He listened to her as the sin poured out of her, and he never swayed, never flinched. He listened silent and unjudging, and his hands rested at the small of her back. He never let her out of the comfort and security of his arms. Not when he learned of her relationship with his father. Not when she told him the times she'd gone to the guard barracks in utter desperation, and stayed until they were satisfied to the man. Not when she sobbingly confessed her quiet and quite real fear, that if the Stirring grew strong enough, she didn't think there was anything she wouldn't do to satisfy the unyielding need. Rael held her through it all, and his beautiful eyes held no judgment, only compassion, as she told him everything.

Well. Not quite everything. One thing, one tiny little nuance of detail among the outpour of her scarred and frightened soul, Silmaria kept for herself. She was too confused, too lost, and too scared to tell him how deeply she was coming to care for him. She'd already been rejected once. Even if Rael had done it out of concern instead of cruelty, Silmaria didn't think her heart could take another just now.

At last, it was all out, the great jumble of words and emotion and rawness Silmaria had kept buried deep inside, and once it was out, she was at a loss. Rael reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks, not for the first time, before cupping her chin and lifting her glossy green eyes up to his. 

Silmaria stared into those intense silver eyes.

Lost.

"You are beautiful, Silmaria. Truly. As you are. What you are. Who you are. You don't see it. Other people do. They see your beauty, and they try to shame it and sully it, because your beauty is from within as well as without. You have a good, kind, giving heart that has been bruised and mistreated, and is still good in spite of that. 

"Most people go through less," Rael continued, in that low, smooth, soft voice that made Silmaria shiver. "And they're still ugly for it. Because they aren't as strong as you. People cannot stand to see that. It's like a mirror, showing them all that they are not and can never be. So they judge you, and shame you, and hurt you, because it's easier than having to look at that mirror and see their lack staring back at them.

"I see you, Silmaria," he said, and the sincerity of his words and his eyes made her heart quiver. "And I see nothing shameful or ugly. I see your passion, your kindness, your tenacious spirit, and all the carnal lusts and needs and deeds in the world won't change those things about you. I see you. Not what you've done. Or what you will do. Just you."

She wept, again. Hot tears soaking his already soaked shirt. Tears of relief, this time. She wanted to tell him. She wanted him to understand the healing he'd just offered, if only she were brave enough to take it. She wanted to tell him, but she'd run out of words.

Rael knew. His hands were in her hair, pale, strong hands running through the soft and yielding blackness of her curls, and his touch spoke understanding in ways words never could. 

He knew.

***

The next day the storm was gone suddenly and completely, like the dark vengeance of an old god's fury, spent and restive until it gathered itself once more. As soon as the pair found the storm had waned they hastily broke camp, gathered their supplies, and set out onto the path once more to cover as much ground as possible before the storm began anew. 

Dawn broke over the mountains sluggish and weak, as if the sun hadn't fully mustered its strength after the thrashing of the storm. The Pass was wrapped in clouds and clumps and reaching tendrils of an eerie and beautiful fog in shades of indigo and azure. The sun was obscured behind and backlighting the mist and vapors hanging in great blue veils all around them, fitting to the mountainsides like filmy gauze. The valleys and canyons were covered by a blanket of sapphire fog, and little ribbons of murky cobalt shifted on the snow caking the path ahead, swirling into airy nothingness around their trodding feet.

It was cold, but not the unbearable deathly cold it had been. Rael and Silmaria moved briskly along, bundled heavily, and allowed themselves to enjoy what now felt, compared to just last night, like entirely mild and fair weather. 

Or Silmaria enjoyed it, at least. Rael appreciated the gentleness of the day, but the Nobleman was too preoccupied to truly enjoy it. He was worried. Chiefly, about their supplies; they still had some dried goods and smoked meat left, and the last of the nuts they'd gathered before heading into the pass, but it was a meager supply and rapidly dwindling. It would last them three, perhaps four days tops, and that only if they stretched the food so thin that it would barely keep them on their feet. He'd been hoping to spot some game, a mountain goat or squirrel or hare or hawk or, well, anything, but the storm had driven whatever hunting was to be had deep into hiding. 

Rael feared the very real possibility that by the time anything became brave enough to venture into the open, the storms would be on them again.

Which was yet another concern. They'd been very lucky to find shelter under that rocky overhang. He hadn't even recalled it from his previous trip through the Pass years ago. If they were unable to find another such spot before the storms overtook them... It was only about three days before they came out the south side of the Pass. But if the storms caught them, they could end up losing who knows how many days waiting it out. Their food was likely to run out, but truly that would be the least of their problems. If they were exposed out in the open when another blizzard found them, every scrap of clothing and body heat and firewood wouldn't save them from freezing to death. 

"Something bad is going to happen," Silmaria said softly, startling him from his thoughts.

Rael glanced down at her. Her shorter legs had to work twice as hard to keep up with him and walk at his side, but the Gnari girl didn't complain. 

"Why do you think that?" He asked slowly. 

Silmaria craned her head back to look at him, her hood falling away to show the darkness of her hair. There was a smudge of dirt across one of her cheeks, drawing attention to the dark slash of the black stripe set against her orange and white coloring, accentuating her cheekbone. 

Not for the first time, Rael was caught unexpectedly by her unique, exotic beauty.

"I see it in your face," was her simple reply.

That, he hadn't expected. He swore silently; he'd been trying to hide how grim their situation was. Now that she'd seen it, though, there was no point in lying to her.

"I was thinking about the days ahead. If we don't find some food, or some shelter, we're going to be in some very serious trouble."

The girl shrugged and kept step with him, stepping around an especially thick drift of snow up against the cliff face. "We've been in trouble a long time. This whole journey is about us being in trouble. We've managed so far. We'll manage again."

She made it seem so simple. It wasn't. But then again, it was. Rael took heart from her brave toughness; there was nothing he could do about the future now, in this moment. "Save your energy for the things you can control by letting go of the things you can't," he mused, reciting words his father spoke often.

"He was fond of saying that," Silmaria said, then gave self-depreciating smile. "Good thing, I guess. I needed to hear it an awful lot."

Rael chuckled softly to himself as they came around a bend where the path curved around the mountain. "I tried to control and order things too much when I was a lad. I felt like I had to. That was what a Lord did, what a man who would one day lead did. I wanted to fit everything into little boxes that were neat and orderly and sensible. It's a nice thought. But not practical at all. And makes for a horribly unadaptable leader. Hell, a horribly unadaptable person in general."

"I wanted to control people," Silmaria told him. "I wanted to make everyone stop hating me and judging me. I wanted everyone to stop staring at me with that look. The one that says I'm less than I should be, just because I'm...me. Didn't work, obviously. Definitely a waste of good energy."

Rael stopped, his bright eyes scanning the fog out across the empty space to their right where the Pass opened into great, gaping emptiness. He squinted briefly, then nodded as he pointed, "There."

The Gnari girl followed his gaze and stared out into the fog. She probably saw through the haze better than he with her acute vision, but it took her a moment because she didn't know what she was looking for. Then it became all too obvious.

It was massive. A great, sprawling structure hewn into the rocky mountainside across the gorge. It was a wonder of craftsmanship, engineering, and bravery. The compound boasted a great central hub, rounded in shape and rising into a proud roof of fine, sturdy clay tiles. Their once vibrantly painted red was now flecking and peeling, the color of fresh rust. The walls were a faded old green and the huge timbers were rotted and warping from the toll of the elements. 

The central temple, for there was no mistaking it as otherwise, was set in the mountain face itself, on a cliff that had seemingly been carved out specifically to cradle the house of worship. The temple branched off to both sides with walkways leading to towers flanking the temple on either end, above and below. The towers were likewise settled into the side of the mountain, and they rose high and slender into the air in spindly points, except the topmost tower in the east, where the top was sheared off and crumbling.

"The monastery in the stories," Silmaria breathed, taking in the sad splendor.

"So many believe," Rael nodded. "Some people think there was once a way to reach it from this side of the Pass. A bridge or crossing of some kind. It's long gone now, if it ever was. The Monastery has stood isolated for as long as any can remember. Hundreds of years, certainly."

"I can understand why the old god is angry still," Silmaria said softly. "Something so special shouldn't have to be so lonely."

Rael nodded, and for a brief time, the pair stood there on the lip of the Pass, staring through the slowly dissipating haze of blue fog at the decaying monastery. The ruins were dying a slow but unavoidable death. Each winter, each storm, each outburst of an angry god tore away just a bit more of the temple, made one of the towers that much weaker. What the fire had not accomplished all at once, the storms would, in time. One day, the compound would crumble to rock and rubble and broken timber. Isolated. Alone. Then it would be nothing but a tale. A legend.

Lost to the ages.

Silmaria leaned against Rael's solid form so she woudn't feel quite so tragically alone.

***

The break in the storm didn't last, just as they'd known it wouldn't. By midafternoon the next day it was upon them, the gentle snowfall of the morning shattered by a fierce and punishing storm that bore down on them from seemingly nowhere. A fierce gale wind blasted them against the mountainside and threatened to send them tumbling out into the abyss ever-looming beside the path, and the snow and ice whisked around so thick that they could hardly see two feet in front of them.

"Keep going!" Rael screamed over the harsh, jagged whistle of the wind. He gripped Silmaria's upper arm and practically dragged her along. His fingers dug into her with bruising strength. She hardly noticed at all, so intent was she on keeping one foot in front of the other while she endured the battering of the elements. She had to bow her head against the cruel wind, and simply followed the tracks of Rael's huge boots, letting his grip guide her and trusting in his strength and wisdom.

One foot and then the other. That was all she could manage, then.

It was close. Rael knew it. It had to be close. It had to be! He'd thought they would have reached it by now, before the storm even began. But his memory was hazy, and it was difficult to judge their exact position on the mountain when the weather or the condition of the trail slowed them so often. They had to find it, or they were lost. Much longer and they'd start to lose fingers and toes, ears and nose to frostbite. 

Soon after that, it wouldn't matter, because they'd be dead.

Rael plowed forward, refusing to give in to panic or despair. Even as the blizzard sapped his strength he drove on, gripping Silmaria's arm with one hand and raising the other to shield his eyes from the whipping wind and stinging ice and snow. His gloved hand was crusted over with a thick film of frozen white. His fingers were numb. He didn't care; he would press on, dragging or carrying the Gnari if he had to until they were safe, or until the cold drained every last bit of strength and life from his body, and he laid down to sleep one last time. He had to get Silmaria out of this, if nothing else. That she should die this way for following him, was unthinkable. Worse, because he'd allowed it, was intolerable. He couldn't let it happen.




DarkFyre Ch. 15



There. Thank all known gods, named and unnamed. Rael stumbled toward it with a surge of renewed energy and hope. Silmaria could do naught but follow or be dragged. 

Long knives of ice hung down like translucent, frigid teeth at the mouth of the cave. It yawned open in the darkness, invitingly gluttonous. The snow blew right in, littering the floor at the cave entrance in big pillowing piles of freezing white fluff, deceptively innocent. Rael scrabbled his way into the cave, his hand guiding them in deeper until they were past the spray of snow. 

Finding a spot that was almost dry, in a rather soggy and slick sort of way, Rael sagged to the stone floor with a deep, shuddering sigh. 

Silmaria was so frozen and numb that it took her some time to even register they weren't marching out in the snow anymore. At last she realized she was a miserable and wretched kind of cold, as opposed to near death kind of cold. Rael had gathered her up in his arms, sitting her in his lap to press as close as possible while his hands rubbed briskly up and down her arms and back to try and rub something resembling circulation back into her frozen veins.

"I didn't think we'd make it," Rael said hoarsely into her ear. "I remembered seeing this cave, but that was during the summer months years ago, and I couldn't be sure how far out it was. Or if it would even be here. Cave-ins are known to happen from time to time. We're lucky. Another hour and we would be done."

"Th-Thank you," Silmaria said through chattering teeth as she pressed up against him hard. "For d-dragging me."

"I only dragged you a little," Rael chuckled. "I'm just glad I didn't have to carry you. You don't weight much of a thing, but I feel like my boots are made of stone as it is."

"I never want to do that again," she sighed, burying her face into the Nobleman's shoulder.

Once she was recovered somewhat, Silmaria glanced around the cave. They'd stepped in deep enough to get away from the snow and ice blowing through the cave's mouth. It was a spacious, vast cavern of a cave, an impressive hollow in the mountain leading deep into the core of the peak the Pass was winding around. It was still cold within; the rocky walls glinted with a thin layer of frost from where water ran in drip-drops and rivulets and sheets down the rock face to freeze into dazzling glittering formations. Huge stalactites hung from the high cave ceiling. They were beautiful and strange rocky spires. The wet, drippy fingertips of the mountain, ever searching, always reaching. Smoothly iridescent icicles hung between and alongside their bigger, denser stone cousins. Further back, the cave floor sloped down and away, leading deeper into the heart of the mountain where it was undoubtedly warmer, yet even the thought of moving down, down and deep made Silmaria uncomfortably claustrophobic.

Some places, she instinctively knew, were not meant to be tread.

Rael released her after a while and unslung his packs from his strong shoulders to rummage around inside.

"I can't see a damn thing," he muttered, and pulled out a mostly dry length of wood. He tore a small strip off one of his heavy cloaks and wrapped it around the wood to make a torch. Silmaria made herself comfortable as well, unbundling her things and letting out a tired sigh as the Knight brought out flint and tinder.

"Our food will be gone soon," she said.

"I know," Rael replied.

"What are we going to do?"

A spark caught, and a soft glow came up from the torch. Rael nurtured the budding flame, blowing on it gently, shielding it with his hands and coaxing it into greater life. The flames flickered, swayed, nearly gutted, then at last found a grip on the cloth and wood of the torch, finding enough of a hold to live and then, slowly, grow. 

There was a metaphor there, some poetic analogy to their situation, she was sure. But she was too exhausted to grasp at the fleeting thought.

"I don't know," Rael replied. "Not yet. We're safe from the storm for now. That's better than we were half an hour ago. The rest of the answers and way forward will follow as they may. We just have to keep our eyes open and keep pressing forward when the opportunity presents itself."

Despite the wisdom of his words, his relaxed position in such dire circumstances was beginning to grate on Silmaria's nerves. "That's all well and good," she said crossly, "But what if no opportunity comes up before we really do run out of food and starve? A plan would be nice. Some sort of..."

"Shh!" Rael hissed, cutting her off with a sharp motion of his hand. Silmaria obeyed without even thinking. Rael sat stock still, tightness and apprehension writ in every line of his posture. He stared into the gloom of the cave, holding up his torch, the only movement the play of shadows cast by his torch undulating across his strained face.

For the whisper of a moment, a flitter of thought, she had no idea what caused him to go so tense. 

Then came the deep, primal, animal rumbling from the back of a cave, all gruff and sleepy and irate. The sound of two handfuls of gravel being scrubbed together. The sort of sound that could freeze anything with a pulse in its tracks, paralyzed and instinctively hopeful that whatever happened, they would escape notice. Let me be lucky, was the prayer in minds small and big alike. Let me be unseen. Pass me over, don't notice me.

Go away. Go away. Please go away.

She said that prayer, too, and she was certain Rael was silently saying it right along with her. 

Too late, it seemed. Out from the back of the cavern it loped on lumbering, padded paws, fearsome, rending claws clicking on the wet stones underfoot. Silmaria had never seen one, of course, save once, an old drawing in one of Master Edwin's dusty old encyclopedias. It was bigger than the tome had hinted. A thing more substantial and complete than any book or turn of phrase could do justice. 

It took up the whole cave. It took up the entire world. Its head alone seemed bigger than her whole body, surely. Thick, shaggy fur bristled, making it seem even larger if that were conceivably possible. The thick belt covered more raw muscle and mass than any creature ought to have possessed. Claws and teeth like nature's most cunning and cruel swords were arrayed with more deadly promise than any battle-ready battalion. 

The bear snuffed at their scent, and that terrifying maw opened, slavering.

"Get back," Rael told her in a voice of calm deathly and desperation. He was moving slowly, ever so gradually, doing everything not to spook the monstrous beast before them as it shuffled back and forth and trying to decide just what it wanted to do about these two annoyances. The Knight held the torch extended between the bear and themselves, and his free hand slowly edged toward his greatsword.

Silmaria couldn't even begin to dare to think of moving, so great was her fear.

The bear's eyes were not happy. It was very obviously irate over having its den disturbed. Worse, it had the look of an apex predator in need of a good mid-winter meal. It exuded hunger in the way only a wild, unstoppable force could, that palpable sense that at any moment, the precarious balance would tip and it would decide that yes indeed, they were worth the effort of breaking in half to be its next meal. 

The moment came. The balance tipped.

With a roar that shook the roots of the mountain, the bear charged. 

Rael and Silmaria scattered. Rael let out a shout of his own, a battle cry of challenge as he rolled to the side and out of the bear's path. He circled frantically, waving the torch before him with one hand as the other clutched his greatsword, trying to wrest it from its sheath. The flames danced, weaving back and forth. 

The mountain bear roared and growled and huffed, slapping at the fire with a bruiser of a paw. Rael jabbed the torch into the huge paw. The bear let out a scream from a wide, vicious maw, teeth bared in a rictus of death. It swiped again, knocking the torch from Rael's hand and sending it spinning along the floor.

Silmaria huddled against the wall, horrified, as Rael squared off with the bear. He leaped back, circling as he went, always facing the angry mass of killing flesh that was the bear. At last the Nobleman got his greatsword free, and the steel flashed in the flickering light of the torch. The bear came forward again, a charging mountain of claw and teeth and predatory muscle. Rael lunged to the side and brought his greatsword up in a cut across the bear's shoulder. The animal bellowed out a cry of pain and rage and followed, swatting at the Knight. Rael rolled beneath the enormous paw, claws raking through the air just above his head, and came to his feet at a run, the bear already circling and chasing.

The Nobleman spun, his greatsword whipping out in a slash that would have cut a man in two. The blade caught the bear across its chest as it reared on its hind legs, and though it bit deep, the blow didn't stop the beast. Rael leaped aside as the bear came crashing down to crush him beneath its fearsome weight.

So it went, back and forth, Rael straining desperately to stay one step ahead of the beast as it charged and reared and did its best to eviscerate him. He cut the bear, again and again, and each cut seemed to only make the beast more determined to kill. Blood lust and rage and madness danced in those small black eyes, and blood flecked the foam dripping from its toothsome maw.

Rael lunged in to rake a cut across the bear's leg, and before he could leap aside, the bear struck, smashing a glancing blow into his right hip. The Nobleman was lucky; the bear's claws found no purchase in him, but the swat was powerful enough to send him tumbling back hard. The back of his head cracked resoundingly on the stone ground. 

Rael's vision went hazy, blurring violently. The world gave a sickening sideways lurch as his equilibrium struggled to adjust. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He was moving slowly, far too slowly. He was struggled up to shaky feet, trying to shake the cobwebs, but the bear was already closing for the kill. 

Rael saw his death, and breathed despair.

The twang of the bow. The firm, meaty thunk of an arrow burying deep.

Silmaria stared the bear down. Rael gazed at her, stunned. She wasn't stupid, or foolish; fear was naked and screaming unashamedly in her wide green eyes. The bear reared on its hind legs, and let out that mountain-shaking roar. Silmaria didn't flinch. She armored her fear in desperate, stubborn courage and stood her ground. She drew back another arrow, the fletched feathers brushing the short velvet pelt of her cheek, and loosed it. It blasted into the bear's ribs, the shot as clean and sure as the first that scored its shoulder. The monstrous animal went mad with pain and killing rage.

Before it could charge her, Rael exploded into motion, slashing again and again then rolling under the bear's deadly swiping paw. His hip and right leg were numb. He didn't let it slow him. The Nobleman's face was drawn into a snarl, his teeth clenched and bared, and his silvered eyes reflected the feral, wild bloodlust in the bear's. He was frightening to behold as he lashed out, his greatsword working fiercely and tirelessly.

The bear was slowing. Rael had cut it in a dozen places. None of them were deep enough to bring the beast down, but its blood was flowing and seeping away, taking its terrible strength with the warm red rivers spattering the chilled cave floor.

Silmaria put another arrow into the huge predator, catching it in one of its rear legs this time. 

The bear had enough.

With a great huff it turned away from Rael to charge the small, determined Gnari. Rael saw the bear's focus shift. He screamed a curse and lunged into the bear's path with his blade leading the way.

Rael's greatsword plunged deep into the bear's chest, sliding through meat and muscle with all the warrior's strength and the momentum of the bear's charge behind it. The terrible animal's roar was a wet gurgle and blood spilled from its gaping maw. The steel had at last punctured one immense lung. The blow was mortal.

But not immediate.

Even with its strength fading by the moment, such was the bear's power that when it struck out and caught Rael in his left side, it still sent him tumbling back. This was no glancing blow as it had been before; the brutal hit caught Rael full in the side. The force was immense, and the claws raked him full, slashing across his side and ribs and gouging him down his belly. With a strangled cry, Rael went bouncing along the ground. His sword slipped from unfeeling fingers.

"No," Silmaria breathed. The bear shuffled forward on heavy paws toward the bleeding and broken man. The Gnari pulled the bow taut, and held it for the barest moment. Her breath release, and she let the arrow follow. 

The shaft snapped through the air. It slammed into the beast's left eye, buried deep into its brain, and the bear at last slumped to the floor, quite dead. The pile it collapsed into was no less intimidating than it had been in life.

Silmaria dropped the bow and quiver and scrambled to Rael's side. The Knight was sprawled in a heap, face down and unmoving. Silmaria felt sick. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking as she struggled to turn him over. Gods, he was so heavy, how could he have gone flying, weightless and airy, cartwheeling and spinning like a doll with its strings cut, when he was so damnably heavy?

At last she got him rolled onto his back. Silmaria was surprised to find him still conscious, barely. He stared up at her as she cradled his head in her lap. His silver eyes were hazy and hollowed. Blood smeared his face from an impressive cut at his hairline. She wiped the blood away as best she could and pushed the tangle of his burnished copper hair where it stuck to his face. Though he was fair skinned to begin with, now his skin looked drained of all color entirely, taking on a sallow and sickly appearance. 

"Gods...oh gods, no," Silmaria whimpered. Blood was already spreading, soaking into the thick layers of his heavy tunic, an ever expanding stain of life and death, one and the same and so very different. His breathing was labored and he was sweating profusely. 

She put her trembling hands to his chest, trying to stem the tide of his blood. "No, no no no! Don't go Rael. Please don't go! Don't leave me alone in this awful place! You promised!"

"Know...promised," Rael gasped softly. "Meant...promise."

"Don't talk. Don't talk, it's okay. It's okay! Just hush now, hush, you're going to be okay," Silmaria told him, trying to convince him, praying she could convince herself.

"Sick soon," Rael murmured, his words a thin whisper now as his strength faded. Every word was a struggle, but try as she might to quiet him, he wouldn't stop stubbornly getting them out. "After... hurt... sick. Crazed. Not... self. Hurt. Don't... let... hurt."

"I won't. I won't let you hurt," Silmaria said through her tears. They ran down her face unchecked, falling warm on his upturned face and mixing with the blood there. For once, she didn't care that he saw her cry.

Rael's head shook, barely.

Silmaria cradled his head and rocked him softly. She repeated a litany of comfort, telling them both that he was going to be okay, over and over, again and again, an empty, shaky promise and prayer made of weakness and strength and bleakest hope.

Rael's strange, ethereal silver eyes fluttered, sagged shut, and he was gone.

***

So a brief little note. I've received some feedback in the past that my chapters are shorter than some readers would enjoy. I'm sure this will be the case for this chapter, for those particular readers. I hear you. I understand. I read each and every piece of feedback I receive, and reply to most of it. I sympathize with your frustration on that issue, and when possible, do give an honest try toward putting out lengthier chapters.

That being said? I post shorter chapters at times, for various reasons. Sometimes because I want to release a chapter in a semi-timely manner, and I'm already stretching the definition of that with the length of chapter I have. Sometimes, it's because if I were to not end a chapter where I choose to, the chapter would end up being crazy long by the time I reach a stopping point I deem acceptable.

And then there's times like this chapter (which actually happens to also fall into the above categories as well), where I end it at a certain point because it's just too deliciously evil not to.

If you think my chapters are too short, then I understand that. I value your opinion, and your readership, I really do. But sometimes, it's just not feasible for whatever reason for me to write out a longer one this time. 

If it truly brothers you, I suggest letting two, perhaps even three chapters accumulate before you read further. This may take two or three weeks, I realize. But the truth is, if I write out a single chapter of that length, that's going to be about how long it takes me to release that single beefed up chapter. So in the end, it's about the same.

Thank you, sincerely, to everyone who has continued to read my work and support it. Please continue to send me feedback! It motivates me. It makes me better. It shows me that there's enough interest in this yarn to make it worth spinning the whole thing out. And it keeps me honest.

On to the next!



DarkFyre Ch. 16



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

  The darkness of the cave was broken only by the small, flickering flames of Rael's makeshift torch. It had spun off into the corner during the struggle with the bear and there it sat, dying. The flame was weak and feeble, yet it would not go out fully. It swirled, sputtering and pitiful, but it clung stubbornly to the torch and sent a tracery of shadows to sprawl in shapes and flittering figures grand and small along the icy stone walls. The shadows were dramas and tales and romantic battles, the stuff of songs and the fabric of everyday life, playing out in rapid succession, one twisting and twining its way into the other in a great weave that made up the tragic and beautiful flavor of Human and DemiHuman existence. Love and tragedy, joy and loss, triumph and bitter failure. Life and death, always. All spawned by the flame that refused to yield.



Silmaria's sobs quieted quickly, and for a time she simply sat, holding the fallen young Lord whom she'd grown to love with her tears running down her cheeks. For those few moments, she was quite simply overloaded. Grief and fear warred for dominance, and then seemed to decide they were perfectly content to share her in equal measures. Fear from the horrifying encounter with the bear, which had been frightening enough in and of itself to traumatize anyone. Then, to see Rael fall so grievously...

Silmaria studied him closely, watching him, clinging to a ghost of a hope. And a good thing, too; he was still breathing. His breathers were coming shallow and sporadic, but they were there. He was not dead. Not yet.

"Stop panicking, Silmaria," she told herself quietly. 

  Then, "Stop it," more loudly. She physically shook herself, forced herself to move through a haze of despair and fear so deep it dragged at her bones. The Gnari girl reached up and placed her fingertips at the pulse point in Rael's throat. It was there, weak like his breathing, but as steady and unyielding as the man himself.



Swallowing down heartache, Silmaria steeled herself and began to peel away the layers of Rael's clothes where they were shredded by the bear's claws. The wounds were frightening; deep, bloody gouges were raked in Rael's left side from hip to ribs, and the entire area was already turning vivid shades of bruising. Blood seeped from his rent flesh. After examining him, she didn't think any internal organs had been destroyed, so he was lucky in that regard.

Silmaria grabbed the cleanest part of one of Rael's cloak's and applied firm, steady pressure to as much of his wounds as she was able, thinking and planning as she did; he probably wouldn't die outright from these wounds if she could get the bleeding stopped soon. But the chance of infection and the wounds turning putrid were very high. She had no herbs or medicine to fight an infection.

"One thing at a time, Sil," she told herself, holding pressure as the cloak began to blossom with shades of the Nobleman's blood. "No point in worrying about infection if you let the man bleed out."

Silmaria had no idea how long she held pressure on those wicked, fearsome gouges. Moments. Endless, agonizing moments that stretched on forever. As she stared down into Rael's still, lax face, and she felt a surge of determination; she would not let him die. Not while she had the strength to tend him and coax him on toward life. She would keep him going. Somehow.

  At last, the bleeding stopped. The Gnari girl wished she had something to stitch the Nobleman's wounds, but her options were preciously limited. It didn't matter; she would make do with what she had. She walked to the cave mouth where the snow was piled high, gathered a few handfuls of the soft white powder, and brought it to Rael. She let it melt and trickle down to wash his wounds, then carefully wiped the blood away. Twice she had to stem the bleeding as the wounds tried once more to flow, before at last deciding Rael's gouges were as clean as they were going to get.



  Taking her knife to one of her own cloaks, she cut out a series of long strips. She pressed a clean part of Rael's cloak to his wounds and bound the cloth tight with the strips. It was difficult work; moving the huge man, who could do nothing to help her, required all her strength and left her sweating despite the cold of the cave. As she moved the Knight about he would shudder and moan softly, but he barely shifted except for little jerking twitches, and he didn't wake at all.



  By the time Silmaria was satisfied that she'd done all she could do, she was utterly exhausted, her body fatigued to the point of shaking, and she was covered in the Nobleman's blood near up to her elbows. But his wounds were cleaned and dressed and bound, and she had him bundled up in their cloaks and blankets as warmly as could be managed. All Silmaria wanted to do was collapse into an unmoving heap beside him, and sleep.



  Instead, she busied herself doing what must be done. She took stock of their supplies. They had practically no food left. A backward glance at the bear carcass convinced her that wouldn't be much of a problem. Her more immediate concern was fuel. They had precious little firewood left stowed in their packs. She didn't know if she would be able to get safely out into the storm anytime soon to collect more. Though the cave was certainly much warmer and comfortable than trekking through the blizzard, it was still wickedly frigid inside, and the colder Rael got, the worse it would be for his recovery.



  Water wasn't a problem. She took the two wooden bowls they'd brought along to eat from and filled them with snow, then brought them inside to let the snow melt. Once it had, she filled the satchels of water they both carried, and then repeated the process so she would have more ready at hand.



  This done, Silmaria decided to take a chance and used some of their rapidly dwindling wood supply to build a fire. It took her some time to get a small but wonderfully welcome little fire going; she wasn't as adept as Rael at fire starting. Still, she gave thanks that he'd insisted she learn how to start one using his flint and tinder, and after a few false starts a fire crackled quietly as it spread with the ever-present hunger inherent to all flames.



  The Gnari girl checked her Lord again. He was unchanged and unresponsive, but quietly restive. His chest rose and fell and his breathing was less harsh and ragged for now, though he occasionally grimaced in his sleep. She'd made him as comfortable as she was able. Now, rest was the best thing for them both.



  She sat down and huddled into her thick clothes as she held her stiff, frozen fingers out to the fire. She wondered that she didn't have to quiet her mind; normally, her thoughts would be jumbled and frantic, bouncing confusingly one after the other in a wild ruckus of fear, anxiety, and endlessly repeating 'what ifs'. But just then, her frantic thoughts couldn't penetrate the thick haze of mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion.



  The flames swayed, sensual, hypnotic. Patiently restless. Tendrils of heat reached and dipped, twisting as it reached toward the cave roof. The warmth was spreading, moving through the cave and slowly thawing away the biting cold. The heat enfolded her, chasing the lingering chill from her bones, suffusing her with a fuzzy comfort, a sort of happy numbness.



  Silmaria sat, motionless. Rael was just an arm's length away. She stared into the writhing, simple beauty of the flames. As it always did, the fire held her gaze. She was so exhausted, so very tired, and filled with grief. There was still more to do. More tasks she must attend to if she were to be prepared. Her thoughts and feelings were crowding at the periphery of her conscious, amassing, and she knew soon it would be like a dam bursting, and all her sorry and worry and fear would crash down atop her. No one could be numb forever; even as detached as she felt just then, it was only a matter of time. Her emotions and swirling thoughts were already scratching at her threadbare walls. Soon they would be torn apart like so much frail parchment. She should be as productive as possible before the inevitable collapse of her resolve.



  Only, not just yet. She wanted a moment. Just a moment, or two, or however several she could manage, to just sit peaceful and still, and let the fire lull her.



  It was an old comfort. A touch stone, really. The flames were familiar, reliably steady, and ever-changing. The dancing interplay of orange and yellow and red, twining one about the other, contracting to not but an ember before swelling to a rushing burst of heat and energy, an inferno waiting to be released if only it could find more fuel, more substance, more of anything. 



  More, more, more, the fire called. Silmaria swayed, spellbound, the call of hungry flames compelling in her head, a voice as old as time itself.



  Come. Feel the splendor of my embrace. Let me enfold you like a lover, liquid heat spreading over your skin like the warm blanket of creation. I am comfort. I am love. I will swallow all that you are, and never let go.



  You will never be cold again.



  Never be alone.



  Give yourself. I need you. To live. To be alive. To give heat and life and fire to this cold, wretched world. 



  And you need me. You need me, or you will never know the glory we will be together, the wonder you can never experience without my touch burning its way through you, setting you ablaze within and without until I warm your tired soul.



  Yield to me. Surrender yourself. Be more than you are. More than you've ever dreamed. Become part of me. Turn yourself over to the blistering heat of my cruelly tender care. Let me consume you, strip you to bone and crack your marrow open until you turn to ash. I will take all that you give. You will give until the last vestige of yourself, and you will give it all gladly. 



  I will die with you. We will have shared shining moments where we both burned hotter and more brightly than all the suns in the heavens. 



  Come, was the fire's hot whisper of promise on her skin.



  Let us be one spark for a few perfect, precious moments.



  Or an eternity.



  Silmaria work with a start. She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep but it couldn't have been more than an hour or so. The fire was still burning, softly cunning and lovely. Oddly, she was not drowsy, or muddled, or numb. She was stretched on her side, her body curled in a semi-circle around the fire, so close to the flames that if she moved just a scoot closer her clothes would have gone up. She was hot all over, roasted by her nearness to the fire, but she was not uncomfortable. On the contrary, all trace of the sluggish chill in her blood and bones had faded, leaving her feeling loose and lithe and supremely relaxed.



  The low, compelling call in her dreams, the voice of flame and fire and all things comforting and peaceful shifted about in the back of her mind, already fading, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her thoughts. Ungraspable, but warm. She smiled, as if half recalling a long ago conversation with an old friend.



  With a long cat-like stretch, Silmaria sat up. She felt alert and awake as she hadn't in days, weeks even. The expected flood of emotions and darting thoughts and overwhelming tears never came. The Gnari felt calm, relaxed, and focused. Clarity and purpose filled her. 



Silmaria rose and tended to Rael. He was still unconscious, and though she tried to coax him to wakefulness, the man wouldn't so much as open his eyes. She checked the pulse point at his throat and found his heartbeat steady, if somewhat faint. He was warm to the touch, but didn't appear feverish, and his breathing was deep and even.

Gingerly, she peeled off the strips of cloth binding his wounds and pulled the cloak-turned-bandage away. The rends in his side began to seep blood at one spot, but otherwise remained clotted, ragged, and hauntingly painful looking. Silmaria took the cloak she'd been using as a bandage to the bowls of water and, stepping to the cave mouth, washed it as best she could. It would not be totally clean, no, but she didn't feel sure she could risk sacrificing too many more pierces of clothing without leaving one or both of them to the ravages of cold.

After she'd washed and wrung out the cloak several times she set it to dry before the fire while she gathered and melted more snow to wash Rael's wounds. Even warming the water by the fire, it was lukewarm at best. Hot water would have been better, but she worked with what she had available. After the Noble's wounds were clean, she gently lifted his head into her lap and dripped water into his mouth. It was a slow process; if she tried to get too much into his mouth at once it just went dribbling out, wasted. 

  Rael's hair, once a thick and brightly burnished copper, now clung to his skull, damp and tangled and matted. She smoothed it back tenderly and helped him drink until she could get him to swallow no more. She tore a small strip of venison jerky with her teeth, chewed it thoroughly, and pressed tiny bits of it into his mouth at a time, knowing he would need any nourishment at all to strengthen for his recovery. Coaxing him into swallowing the small bits of soft food by rubbing his throat lightly to encourage him was a long and arduous ordeal. With stubborn patience she repeated the process until she was satisfied with his progress, for now.



  By then, the cloak she'd placed by the fire was dry and warm. She checked it over to be sure it was as clean as possible then pressed it to Rael's wounded side. He stirred, moaning quietly, and gave a soft sound of protest before settling. Silmaria bound the cloak-turned-bandage into place, then resettled his clothes and coverings around him until he was well covered and warm.



  Her Lord made as comfortable as was possible, Silmaria strapped her small, deadly dagger to her belt. She slung the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and rose, bow in hand. She steeled herself, jaw set stubbornly, and went to the back of the cave.



  With equal measures apprehension and determination, Silmaria slipped on quiet feet past the corpse of the bear and into the deeper cave. She had an arrow nocked at the ready. Her eyes scanned warily, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall like tumultuous specters. 



  The ground sloped downward at the back of the cave, descending into a hollow of sorts, a cave within a cave that slid its way into the dark recesses of the mountain. Silmaria followed the cave with her pulse drumming out the rapid thud, thud, thud of her racing heart right behind her ears. Her eyes darted this way and that, nervously scanning, and she had to consciously remind herself to relax her fingers and keep her grip on the bow firm, but supple.



  Never fond of enclosed spaces, Silmaria wanted nothing more but to run back into the main cave, which had seemed claustrophobic and closed in before, and drink in the wide open, airy space. But she wasn't able to abide the thought of something else unseen and dangerous and hungry shambling up from the darkness to ambush them again.



  All light from the torch in the cave above faded as the Gnari followed the gentle, ever downward and ever deepening slope. The way wasn't very large; the bear would have taken up most of the space along the cave here. Step by careful, silent step she went, her pelt raised and tingling with apprehension as the silent darkness enfolded her. Even with her night eyes working well enough for her to just barely perceive her surroundings, her imagination conjured all manner of foul death and beastly dangers from the inky blackness of the cave. Bears, mountain lions, slavering, half-starved wolves and all other manner of less mundane beasts lurking deep within the mountain, all impatiently waiting for a meal to wander its way right down to them.



  When the pungent, overpowering scent of decaying flesh and dead things registered to her sensitive nose it did precisely nothing to set her at ease.



  Almost, Silmaria turned back. But memories of being caught so thoroughly unawares, the desperate struggle neither of them had been prepared for, and the disastrous end results steadied her resolve. Perhaps she would find her death here in this wretched pit, but she wouldn't be caught by surprise again. 



  Her fingers twitched on the bowstring, slick with perspiration, and her stomach coiled into wretched knots. She stepped, and stepped again, muscles refusing to relax. She struggled to keep her breathing even, though fear settled into a heavy stone in her gut. The darkness amassed around her, weighing on her shoulders, clinging to her, smothering. 



  When she came upon the end of the cave, Silmaria's breath went out in a rush.



  At last, she laughed. A short, nervous, foolish sort of laugh. The Gnari girl shook her head at all the imagined demons and beastly predators she'd conjured in her mind. She would have been almost disappointed if she weren't so deeply relieved to find the cave held nothing but a hollow where the bear had settled in to hibernate and sleep. Bones littered the floor in piles, some broken where the bear had cracked them with powerful jaws to suck out the marrow. There were a few old carcasses that had the last scraps of meat clinging to the framework of bones and they were putrid with rot. 



  Silmaria didn't give the bones too close an inspection, lest she find something resembling human among them. 



  Sure that the cave housed nothing with a dangerously overdeveloped sense of hunger, she gratefully made her way back to the cavern where Rael waited, still smiling wryly at her own skittishness.



***



  Skinning and butchering the bear was an ordeal. Silmaria had precious little enough experience with dressing the smaller kills she'd made, and the bear was immense. She stubbornly pressed on though, working her sharp, wicked dagger under the pelt and slicing it away to reveal the wealth of meat underneath. She knew there was no way they could eat all of it; the heat from her fires trapped inside the cave was insulated and spreading. Which was wonderful for warming up and not freezing to death, but less so for the viability of the meat. 



  Still, Silmaria cut off enough of it to last them quite a time. She planned to eat enough to replace some of the fat she'd lost through the harsher days of their travels, and to last her through more lean times to come. She knew the prospect of getting Rael to eat was slimmer, but she was determined to get as much of the damned bear into him as possible.



  She spent more of her precious fuel to get the meat cooked, and even took their single small, dented cooking pot and placed it over the fire. She cut up some meat and put it on to boil, and soon had a good deal of broth ready to be consumed.



  She ate some of the bear meat before tending to Rael; once she smelled the cooking meat, her body rather violently reminded her just how hungry she was, reacting to the smell with a wave of hunger and weakness that left her belly gnawing itself into wretched cramps and the rest of her physically shaking. As much as the Gnari wanted to tend to her wounded companion, Silmaria reminded herself firmly that she could do nothing for him if her strength gave out. So she ate, slowly at first and deliberately forcing herself not to gorge on the meat. Every bite was a trial not to stuff more into her starving belly.




DarkFyre Ch. 16



At last, her hunger appeased, Silmaria went to Rael. With tired but capable hands Silmaria lifted his head up to her lap and went through the slow, necessary process of feeding him the broth. He managed this easier than the food she'd given him earlier, but his response was still minimal at best, his body automatically swallowing and consuming rather than any conscious effort on his part.



  With a soft frown she watched him. The Knight was clammy. Sweat beaded his strong brow, and his lips were colorless. As she fed him the broth, Silmaria felt his forehead.



  "Damnation," she muttered worriedly; his forehead was near scalding to the touch, his temperature burning hotter than any she'd ever felt. She forced her hands to be steady as she got as much water into him as she could, then placed everything aside with a rising sense of dread.



  Peeling the layers of clothes back off, Silmaria's stomach lurched at what she revealed.



  He was absolutely feverish, his body burning up and covered in sweat so heavily in ran off his sallow skin in little glistening streams. Worse, his wounds looked awful. They were puffy and swollen and a vibrant, angry, ugly red around the edges.



  "Don't do this to me," Silmaria said aloud as she began to clean his wounds, wiping away blood and sweat and praying she wasn't making a bad situation worse. Infection had been her worst fear, the surest way he would succumb.



  "Come on, my Lord, you have to fight this," she said to him, praying he could hear, fearing not a single word would reach him. She stared down at him as her hands tended his flesh, willing strength into him. Willing strength into them both.



  "Don't you give up. Don't you leave me. You are stronger than this. Do you hear me? You are stronger than anyone I've known. Stronger than these paltry wounds. You are a good, strong man, a Knight of the realm and the finest sword hand I've ever seen. Men couldn't stop you. You faced down a bear without flinching. My warrior Lord wouldn't let himself succumb to some pathetic fever and infection! It's not the end you deserve, and I won't let it happen. I won't!"



  Brave words. Brave, rash words, and Silmaria believed them.



  Almost.



***

"I wonder what the south is like. Mother said she and Father came from the southlands. I'm sure she told me where, but I don't remember. She didn't speak much of our homeland, or our people. But she said they were warm, and green, except where there were badlands and wastelands and deserts, but even those places were warm, and nothing like the Dale. Mother said I was born in the south, but they had already started their journey by then, and I was only a few months old by the time they made their way to DarkFyre. 

  "The Dale is all I remember," Silmaria said. She huddled into the thick bear skin she had draped around her and stared at Rael, and her eyes were far away. "I wonder if I will remember the south when we get there. In some part of me that goes deeper than memory, I mean. Someplace in my heart and my flesh and my bones that remembers the sun's warmth unhampered by the cold of the land, and green grass all year round instead of for a few short months in the summer. Summers without end. Winters that feel like spring. A desert. A skyline without mountains. I've heard of these things. But I don't know them, except maybe in that core deep within, buried and silenced by memories."



  Part of Silmaria wondered if she was going mad. She'd been carrying conversations with Rael all night and day. He'd yet to answer her. Even knowing he wouldn't, she kept on talking with him. She spoke with him about small, inconsequential things, musings and wonderings and maybe's and what-if's until she was jibbering and jabbering about absolutely nothing. 



  Yet still she spoke. Madness or no, she felt certain that in some way, on some level, he could hear her. And if there was even the slightest, smallest chance that something as simple and cheap and precious as words could keep him clinging to life, fighting and persevering, then she would speak until her throat closed and the words became ash on her tongue.



***

"If you could smell yourself, you'd gag, too," Silmaria said with dark humor. It brought up that question of madness again, but she couldn't help but to smile grimly or she'd put all her focus on just how queasy she was becoming.

Rael's wounds were festering, the infection grown much worse. Puss and foul smelling blood oozed, viscous and purulent, from the Noble's ragged flesh. He was not healing well. Not healing at all. By the day, by the hour even, the wounds worsened in one of the most aggressively fast infections she'd ever witnessed.

That very morning in a fit of desperation, Silmaria had ventured out of the cave. The blizzard had relented, but only barely. The storm was still too savage to risk going far. And even if it hadn't been, where would she have gone? Rael said they had about a day's journey through the pass to go yet, and even after that, there was yet more distance before they would find any sort of civilization in the southlands.

  Escape was not her goal anyway; Silmaria searched and foraged, to disappointing results, for any sign of herbs or plants that could help treat his wounds or bring down his fever, anything that would make a difference for him. Her hopes of any good coming of the effort had been slim, and her efforts were ultimately fruitless.



  She was at least able to come upon a felled tree along the path. It was a young tree and just small enough that with near an hour's work and a great wealth of effort, straining, and a plethora of creative curses, she was able to drag it back to their cave. 



  The fire was crackling now, which was a blessing since she'd run out of wood last night and they'd had to spend the night without the flame's comforting warmth. 



  Silmaria wrung the excess water from a much abused scrap of cloth, and wiped Rael's sweating face. He was so hot she could feel the burning inside him radiating from his flesh clear through the rag.



  "How long can a man burn so hotly before he has nothing left?" Silmaria mused, aloud, as she had begun to speak near any thought in her head aloud by this point just to keep talking to him. 



  "How long have you been on fire this way? Two days? Three? A dozen? I can't even remember anymore, my Lord. It's starting to blur. How can I be losing my grip on time when you're the one who's sick? Am I so lost without you, already?"



He didn't have to answer her. She already knew.

***

"I think that this is my fault."

She had cleaned his wounds yet again. They were no better and no worse than before. Any heart she took from seeing no further decline in his condition was sobered by the fact that neither was he getting any better. He seemed to be stuck, unchanging, and while it was better than any further deterioration, how long could he really hang on like that?

His wounds were cleaned and tended, but his fever raged like the most potent fire in the world. He burned like the sun. The infection may be at a standstill, but the fever was going to kill him just as sure.

With little recourse, Silmaria put one of his blankets over him and hauled snow into the cave to pack all around him, mounding the cool powder onto him. This took some time; at first, every time she put new snow onto his covered body, it would immediately melt, so great was his heat. At last, though, she piled more and more onto him, until it was molded to him so thickly its own abundant cold sustained for a time.

She sat close to him and felt his brow. His fever was ebbing somewhat, but he was still warm enough to chase the chill from hands frozen from handling the snow.

"I think that this is my fault, because I started to love you. I don't have good luck with love, you know. The people I love die. Or go away. They never last."

Silmaria sat, hands folded in her lap. She felt like a little girl again, with Master Edwin. Dumping the contents of her head and her heart out to let someone wiser shift through the pile and make some sense of the senseless jumble. Would that she had tried to let Rael do so before now, when he couldn't shift through anything.

"I'm so very afraid of being alone," Silmaria went on, her voice soft, too soft to be heard, but he probably couldn't hear her anyway so it didn't really matter. "I'm afraid that everyone I love, everyone I care about, will be forever doomed to pain and death. It's happened time after time. My mother. Master Rael. All my friends at House IronWing. Now, you. When I love someone, it's the surest sign that eventually they'll be gone, too. 

  "I think that's why I wanted so desperately not to love you, if I'm honest," she went on as she pulled the bearskin closer and clutched at her knees. "Everything I thought about you before I knew you turned out to be wrong. I thought you a selfish, irresponsible, uncaring Noble prick. And I was wrong. So wrong. You're a good man, a Noble in the true sense of the word. You saw a wrong that you'd inadvertently caused, even though you were rightly being brave and valorous serving your duty on the warfront. And even struggling with your own fears about some terrible and unknown force trying to assassinate you, you still did everything you could to turn life around for us at the House. 



  "You didn't have to. Hell, most Nobles couldn't give two loose shits about their servants. But you did it anyway. Because you're honest. And kind. And strong. Like your Father."



  Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and only a precious few of them, because that was all she had left, and all she would allow herself. "Now, I've killed your honesty, and your kindness, and your strength and everything else, because I let myself love all of them and all of you."

***

Rael's fever was unrelenting. He'd seemed to rally for a few short hours earlier that morning. Silmaria had taken heart and her spirits soared. Though his wounds still seeped some puss, it was minor indeed compared to before, and the angry redness at the edges of his gashes was diminished. He breathed and slept easier, and his fever had at last dipped. 

Silmaria kept him clean and dry and covered, and worked hard at anything that could keep her busy. She'd gotten about all the meat she safely could from the bear by that point. Even the meat she'd salted and smoked wouldn't keep much longer without actually going into a salt barrel, but for now, it was edible. She instead ventured out into the storm once more to scrounge for a bit more fire wood, restocked their water satchels, made more broth, fed it to Rael and gave him water, filled their water supplies yet again, and scrubbed out some of the rags and makeshift bandages and whatever other clothing was in bad need of some cleaning, wetting them down in the snow and then scrubbing them on some nearby flat rocks before setting it all in front of the fire to dry. The Gnari had even removed the claws and fangs of the dead bear, thinking they could either be sold once they got back to a town, or at least fit some purpose later on as they made their way through the wilderness.

By evening, or at least what Silmaria figured was evening with the blizzard still raging outside, Rael worsened once more. His fever returned with a vengeance. It burned through Rael until he was hotter than ever, as if all the fires of the hells collected within one man. Holding his hand and wiping his brow was nearly painful.

"Come on," Silmaria said in a voice of resolution. "You were there. You were almost there. You were getting better. Don't let it win now."

Rael thrashed and jerked, moaning. His eyes fluttered and twitched under his eyelids, and he would not be still. His face was a mask of pain, grimacing and scrunching, with deep lines etched into his brow. The Gnari clutched the warrior's hand, squeezing, willing every last ounce of her strength into him. 

  He could take it all, have it all, if only he would live.



  His grip on her hand was fierce, yet it was wavering. His strength was fading, even as he fought that terrible battle.



  "Fight, my love. my warrior Lord," Silmaria said to him. He writhed and bucked and thrashed in an ever-growing frenzy. He came close to ripping his hand from her grasp, but she clung to it stubbornly, refusing to let that contact go.



  "Please, Master. Come back to me."

***

"Aahhh!" Rael screamed, and then screamed again, louder this time. His thrashing grew frantic, his face a red, sweating mask of agony. With a sharp jerk he yanked his hand from the Gnari's grasp. 

  His hands clawed and pulled at his clothes, ripping them, desperately wrenching them aside until his upper body was bare. Silmaria tried to stop him, but he was in a frenzy and even feverish unto death he was just too strong. The Nobleman's huge hands grabbed at his wounds, clutched at nothing in a desperate fit.



"Ah! Ahhh!" Rael screamed, and screamed in unbearable suffering.

"I don't understand, my Lord!" Silmaria gasped in rising panic. "What's wrong? What is going on?"

She lifted a hand to his sweat drenched brow and then jerked it back, the heat of him truly scalding to the touch now. "Gods, what is happening to you?" she said with wide eyes.

A deep, roaring scream came charging from Rael's ragged throat. His back bowed up off the cave floor as every muscle contracted and went rigid.

With a tremendous flare of light and heat that sent Silmaria scooting backward on her ass, a great fire came flaring to life. It surged and swirled as it came from within Rael's body and spread over the length of his wounds in crackling, popping gouts of flame, as if he were hemorrhaging fire instead of blood. The flames were a silvery white light, spreading to cover every inch of damaged tissue along those fearsomely cruel gashes. 

  The flames licked at the ruined gouges, bursting and spouting in rolling fiery waves and crescendo's from every bit of the raw meat that was the Nobleman's flesh as if to cook every last bit of it. The heat of it was so intense she could feel it beating against her even as far back as she'd scooted. The light was resplendently shining, a surge of brilliance that left her eyes dazzled, as if Rael held some silvery sun within his body and its rays had come peeking through.



The man screamed on, wildly, a long, agonized wail as the fire poured from his side. Silmaria squinted against the radiance pouring from him and scrunched her nose, nauseated by the distinct odor of cooking flesh. Rael was suddenly up, leaping to his feet and shaking off the last vestiges of his clothing to stand naked and burning. 

Silmaria's eyes lifted from the gouts of silver flames bursting from his side to his face, which was a fierce mask of agony. And something else. Rage, perhaps. His teeth were bared and clenched, his features drawn into an animalistic snarl. His eyes were full of the pain of the burning. And something else. Something more. Something, or someone very different from the Rael she knew.

As the Gnari girl wondered if the strange, frightening flame was going to spread and swallow him entirely to burn him to ash, they extinguished. Rael stood, panting, his eyes darting around the cave suspiciously. Tendrils of pale smoke rose from his side. Where the grievous wounds had been was now fully formed, thick scar tissue adding to the multitude that already covered his body.

"M-my Lord," Silmaria said shakily, still gazing at him in a sort of shocked awe. She didn't understand what she just witnessed.

At the sound of her voice, Rael's head swiveled quickly to pin her with his eyes. They were feral. Wild and frightening. Silmaria suddenly had the distinct feeling that she was sharing the cave with a predator.

  Rael eyed her, his body still, unwavering, tense. Then he pounced, leaping across the space between them. Silmaria let out a gasp as he dropped atop her, his arms on either side of her, his weight hovering. Gods, he was huge, seemingly every bit as big as the bear in that moment, and every bit as powerfully primal. He pinned her to the floor beneath him, his wild eyes never once leaving her face.



He leaned down, the incredible heat of his body surrounding her. He sniffed her, eyes boring into her as he took in her scent like a beast.

For an agonizing moment, that was all, just his eyes on her as he loomed just above her, pinning her under his muscular bulk. Silmaria swallowed, staring into the fierce silver stare that was and yet was not Rael. Fear laced undeniable fingers through her.

  Despite that, and because of it, Silmaria could feel a deep, quivering heat building in her core as a distinct, demanding slickness spread between her supple thighs.



  "My Lord...what has happened to you? I don't understand, what's... ah!"



  Silmaria's words drew up short in a gasp as Rael's big, capable hands went to her clothes, pulling and yanking at her thick winter garments. He near tore them apart with his insistence, yanking them up and down and aside in whatever way he could until at last she was bared and her generously lush, heavy breasts quivered before his eyes.



  Before Silmaria could even form a thought or reaction, he was upon her. Rael wrapped her up in one powerful, taut arm, the other going to her left breast. He cupped the ripe orb of her tit, squeezing with powerful, warm fingers, groping and fondling her pliant soft flesh as those roughened fingers sank into her, kneading and grasping, drawing another gasp of pain from her.



  Silmaria's nipples were immediately two thick, throbbing pink tips of hardness, aching from the cold and his rough, demanding touch. His head descended and without a word he drew one puffy, swollen nub into his mouth. He sucked, hard, drawing at it, his tongue working over Silmaria's sensitive nipple, lashing again and again. Then he pulled her nipple with his lips, sucking hard, and finally bit into it with his wicked teeth.



  Her body went shock still, her eyes wide and mouth gaping in surprise. Then she squealed, and her back arched sensually, pressing her breasts into his mouth. Gods, oh fuck how blissfully painful that felt! His teeth worried at her fleshy nub and it brought her up on a spear tip of pleasure-pain, sharp and sudden and inescapable. Her cunt exploded, weeping and blossoming as her arousal spiked. 



  Rael slurped at her heaving, pliant tits, one and then the other, groping at them, cupping them with big, heavy hands as she quivered and writhed beneath him. Her gasping, shuddering moans and whimpers seemed to drive his demanding desire higher and higher still. The Nobleman seemed more beast than man, then, and she didn't care, didn't care as long as he kept touching and tasting her. It was everything she wanted and more.



  His hands were no gentler when he jerked her pants down, leaving her completely exposed and vulnerable. She shivered, in cold and anticipation both. Had it not been for the heat of his body surrounding her she would have been frozen to the bone. As it was, she hardly noticed, all her attention focused on him and those cruelly wonderful hands.



  At last Rael let her breasts be, leaving them aching painfully and covered in small bites that made her body tingle and her hips shimmy and wiggle. His big hands gripped her waist and her thighs, sinking his fingers into her firmly muscled, taut thighs. Silmaria moaned once more, sure she would bruise where his fingers claimed her. The Gnari girl stared up into her Lord's face and spread her legs widely for him, a clear, wanton invitation to take whatever he wanted from her, to use her for that which she gave fully and freely.




DarkFyre Ch. 16



He took her hips in a grip of iron and suddenly yanked upward. Silmaria yelped, surprised, helpless to resist and unwilling to protest. Rael tumbled her hips backward until Silmaria was piled up on her back and shoulders, crunched down into an uncomfortable, frightening, thrilling position with her knees pressed down near her face and her ass and cunt tilted straight up into the air.



  Before she could finish being thankful for her inherent limber nature, she let out a howling yelp as Rael's face descended between her spread thighs. He ran a strong, hungry tongue between her thighs. He started at the crack of her ass where he licked upward in a long, firm stroke, licking across her crinkled, sensitive asshole which made her jump and writhe to no avail. Up the full length of her puffy wet slit, splitting her juicy outer labia around his lashing tongue, until he found the throbbing, hypersensitive pearl of her hard little clit. 



  "Oh gods...oh fuck..." Silmaria panted, gasping, her hips shimmying and bucking as Rael licked up and down her slit, sucking firmly, drawing in the plentiful flow of her sticky-sweet arousal. His tongue plunged into her cunt, sliding in and out, swirling inside her in a maddeningly voracious hunt for her slick pussy juice. Rael swirled his tongue inside her, flicking, thrusting, sliding it about her insides as she panted and moaned and practically wept.



  Then, his hands holding her thighs pressed up against her heaving bosom, Rael bit into her cunt. It was a light, grazing bite, his teeth nipping stingingly at her engorged folds and glistening pink inner flesh. It was painful, stinging and sharp and sudden, and it was enough to make Silmaria scream out a white-hot flash of agony as she immediately came. Her core clenched tight and small and then exploded, bursting inside her and radiating out in wave after wave of euphoric, undulating pain-made-ecstasy. 



  Silmaria did weep, then.



  Rael, satisfied with the meal he'd made of her for the time being, let her crash back down to earth momentarily before gripping her legs and raising them, holding her trembling thighs. Silmaria hardly registered anything through that hazy fog of orgasmic bliss, simply laying there with her legs wide open and welcoming.



  Then she felt the prodding at her cunt. She looked down, studying every detail of him, the flat, defined muscles of his belly bunching and working as the corded power in his shoulders stood out distinctly. Most of all, her eyes drank in his blatant arousal pulsing between his thick, sculpted thighs. 



  She'd seen his cock several times already, of course; cleaning him and tending to his wounds and his bodily needs while he had waned and recovered, waned and recovered had been very distinctly different than this, however. 



  Now he was fully erect, his aroused blood swelling his length, and there was no question of his vitality and good health. He was hard as stone and generously endowed to the point of making her cunt ache already just to look upon him. A long, bloated length of muscled shaft extended, powerful and menacing, and the blood engorged mushroomed head was already rubbing against the softly spreading entrance of her cunt, teasing her with promise of the sweet agony of pleasure to come.



Shamelessly Silmaria lifted her hips, pressing forward and upward, trying to get his fat cock worked up inside her. She was thoroughly beyond caring how desperate or depraved it made her look. She wanted him in her, now, as hard and rough and cruelly voracious as he'd been thus far.

Just then, something changed. Rael's face wavered, the menacing, frightening, thrilling snarl melting away, shifting to a look of fierce concentration. His body went taut and absolutely still, and his eyes held more of the humanity and tender care that was the man she knew.

"Silmaria...I..." he growled out, and his voice strained with great effort. 

She saw it then, in his eyes and his face. Horror. Shame. Self-loathing. A deep, heartbreaking apology for what he'd done, and what he would still do.

After... hurt... sick. Crazed, he'd said as he lay wounded. Not... self. Hurt. Don't... let... hurt.

The Gnari girl didn't understand, not truly. But she saw that on some level, he was not fully in control. He was fighting himself. Fighting against some deeply insistent, primal side of himself that was driven by carnal need. He fought against it because he feared hurting her.

"It's all right, Master Rael," Silmaria said softly, staring into his eyes. She reached up, her small hands cupping his face as she moved against him, grinding her hot slit against the bulging knob of his cock, willing him to see, to understand. "It's Okay. Take me, Master. Take all of me. Take everything you need. I am for you. I am yours. Do it, please!"

He gazed down into her upturned, pleading face, the war within playing out on his stricken face.

Silmaria leaned up, staring into his eyes, one hand at his cheek as the other propped her up. Her breasts crushed tender and heavy and firm against his taut, rippling chest. 

"I love you," she said, and "Please," as she found his lips with her own.

Rael shuddered violently, once. Then he pressed his lips into hers. Deep, insistent, and demanding, he claimed her with a searing kiss before lunging forward with his hips and driving his powerful cock deep into Silmaria's welcoming, yielding cunt.

Her back bowed once more, delicate and gracefully obscene. Her thick mane of black curls, tangled and matted from the travails of their journey, tossed back as she let out a scream of sweetest painful pleasure. Rael held poised above her for the barest moment, his face a mask of satisfaction, the war with himself and whatever primal thing was within him put aside as the man and the beast within the man both gratified in the hot, wet, gripping confines of Silmaria's cunt. She gasped out the end of that scream, her breath stolen. She was full, so very fucking full, her pussy stuffed with Master Rael's bulging, thick cock. She could feel him in the deepest part of her, lodged violently up her stretching core, and his throbbing girth spread her perfectly, painfully, wonderfully wide.

The moment passed, and Rael gripped her hips tightly once more, his forearms hard and rippling. He pressed down into her, pinning her to the cave floor with his weight and his strength and his cock. The Knight pulled his hips back, his cock dragging free of her clenching, clinging twat, dragging a whimper from her full, panting lips before he rammed forward, piercing into her once again, driving his meaty length into her once more. 

Rael set into a frenzied pace. There was no patience in him, nor gentleness. He used her. The rough Lord pounded into Silmaria's tender pussy, driving into her quivering wet slit, stretching her anew with every powerful, relentless thrust. His strength was overwhelming, the slide of his cock stabbing into her weeping cunt over and again making Silmaria gasp and scream and sob with devious satisfaction.

The cave was full of the sounds of their mating. Their coupling. Their rutting. Their shameless, unabashed, carnal fucking. Rael's hips slammed into hers with bruising force. Silmaria gripped his forearms and biceps and wide shoulders, whatever she could get her hands on just to steady herself. His body was corded steel under her fingertips. She writhed and bucked beneath his sawing thrusts, her rounded ass scraping along the rough stone of the cave floor in a way that only made her crave yet more of his brutal using.

"Fuck. Fuck! Yes, please!" Silmaria screamed, clinging to Rael, her body curled up into him as he plowed deeply into her, his generous length driving punishingly into her stretched open, slippery tunnel. She came then, violently, propelled by such pain and pleasure and lust and wicked fulfillment that it overwhelmed her. She shrieked out her release, her pussy clenching down on Rael's heavy cock even as he continued to tirelessly thrust and drive into her quivering depths. Girlcum splashed from her trembling, pulsing pussy, spattering against his groin and running down her shuddering thighs and the deep, gyrating crack of her ass.

Rael growled, a deep, fierce rumbling in his throat that made her cunt dribble all the more. He pumped her full of his cock, his muscles rippling and bunching with the efforts of the conquest of her willing flesh. Their sweat mixed, glistening and chilly on their exposed skin as they meshed and mingled. A few more savage thrusts and Silmaria was cumming again, a violent release that had her gasping and hiccupping as pleasure scorched along her skin like fire.

  His mouth was on hers, kissing her deep and rough, his lips and tongue and teeth hungry and demanding. She kissed him fervently and framed his handsome, fierce face with small, trembling hands. She came again, rode out another gushing orgasm on her Lord's rigid cock. 



  Another followed, and another, until Silmaria lost all track and sense of where one orgasm began and another ended. Explosions flashed dizzying behind her eyes and there was a distinct thrumming of deep, primal power in her belly. Each orgasm left her happily disoriented, adrift on the waves of release that crashed over her again and again, dragging her down to drown in the darkest depths of ecstasy.

She was soaring and sinking all at once. Floating on bliss that dragged at her limbs until she was sluggish and utterly drained. Every time her pussy clenched up, gripping hard in splashing waves on Rael's unyielding meat, she lost herself all over again, cast out, adrift in an ocean of harsh, glorious pleasure. It was rapture. A release unlike she'd ever truly known, only skirted and dabbled in small slips and forays. 

  It was a cruel, sharp, serrated edged sort of pleasure that he gave her. It cut to the bone and ripped her open, raw and weeping with helpless acceptance of his ravages.



  Silmaria, forever cursed with a nature that yielded gladly to dark pleasures, had never known such completion.



  With a sudden lunge, Rael buried the full length of his twitching shaft into Silmaria's widely stretched slit, the bulbous head of his cock smacking against her cervix as her puffy, dripping folds wrapped around his base. He leaned down and his mouth found the side of her throat, and he bit her firmly, his teeth finding purchase on that oh-so sensitive slip of flesh and clamping down.



  The Gnari screamed, eyes wide and glazed over as the grip of his teeth trigged yet another release. She gripped his cock in a velvet, desperate embrace, her muscles squeezing and milking as she came in a wet flood of warm girlcum that sprayed out as she lost all control. Her grip unmanned him, and a moment later Rael's thick, hot cum spurted deep inside her in rope after rope of seed, splashing deep in her belly to fill her and coat the inside of her rhythmically squeezing cunt. 



  A soft, hiccupping sob came bubbling up from her throat. Silmaria shuddered as she clung to him, her small arms thrown around his neck in a desperate embrace as her orgasm washed through her, more subdued than her previous ones but longer and lingering, refusing to fully release her until she was a trembling, shaking wreck of a woman.



  He lay heavy atop her, his solid, strong form dwarfing her as he gasped in deep breaths, his muscled sides heaving. Silmaria lay there, pleasantly trapped by him, her legs spread wide and her loins filled with a profound and wonderfully satisfying ache. 



  At last, Rael raised himself on his hands, lifting slightly off her. She let out a whimper as the oddly comforting crush of his weight shifted off and the heat of his body lessened, leaving her keenly aware of the cold of the cave and her exposure.



  When she opened her teary eyes and gazed up at him, she beheld a mask of worry and concern, that same look he'd had before, only this time it did not war with that primal force that had fought for control as it sought her flesh. This was her Lord, the gentle, kind man she knew, and he needlessly feared what he'd just done to her.



  "Gods, Silmaria, I'm so sorry... I couldn't... I didn't..." he began, his voice breaking.



  "You did exactly as I wished you would do, and more," Silmaria said reassuringly, and the smile she gave him was radiantly exhausted.



  His face showed the confusion, the struggle. He did not fully understand. Himself, her, or their frantic, wild coupling, she couldn't be sure. 



  It didn't matter. 



  She took his face in her hands once more, her fingers lightly toying with the short copper curls of his beard. She met his eyes, strange, slitted greens to ethereal silver. 



  "You are my Master. Now, and forever, I am yours, to do with as you wish. My flesh. My mind. My heart. They are yours, to use and hold and keep, as gently or roughly as pleases you. You are my Lord Master Rael, a good, honorable man with fire and ferocity in him, and I wouldn't have you any other way."



  She smiled up at him, her heart in her eyes, and when she kissed him once more, any protest or doubt he clung to was lost in the soft acceptance of her lips.



***

I want to give a big, big thanks to the many readers that sent me feedback last chapter. Ask and you shall receive, it seems! Thank you SO much, each and every one of you. Your support and encouragement really made writing this chapter enjoyable and meaningful for me. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I packed a pretty good deal of content into this one and I hope you all enjoy the developments here. 

Questions, mysteries, and a whole lot of sexiness. What's not to like?!

Thank you as always for any feedback comments or critiques!



DarkFyre Ch. 17



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

*****

The bear pelt was heavy and warm. Strange, to think that the pelt and meat were keeping them alive and comfortable after the bear had nearly killed him. There was a sort of grim irony in that, he supposed, but it was lost in the relief of being alive, the exhaustion of his ordeal, and the wonder of the woman in his arms.

Rael stared down at Silmaria. She slept for now, a deep, peaceful sleep with her face pressed to his solid chest, one small hand resting on his shoulder. His arms were around her, cradling her to him and warming her in a protective and secure embrace she'd been immediately lulled by. She slept with the slight curve of a smile tracing her full lips.

He couldn't sleep. He didn't even want to, really. He'd been asleep for days, and he'd come perilously close to never waking again. No, he'd had this fill of sleep for now.

Instead, he studied the woman he held. She was a wonder indeed. He lifted a hand, tracing the fine bone of one cheek with feather light touches. He let his fingertips follow the line of the dark stripe slashing just under her cheek, accentuating her features and lines. She was lovely. Her beauty second only to her strength and goodness. 

For Rael, the past few days went by in a fever-daze. Disconnected, disconcerting half-lucid moments of pain and confusion. He remembered the pain of being struck down by the bear. Waking, sometimes for moments so fleeting he was unable to truly grasp at what was happening. The stalactite's hanging overhead as he stared up. In the haze of his fever they'd seemed the teeth of an icy giant, and him cradled in its maw. At any moment those fearsome teeth would descent and puncture him and cut and chew and rend him to pulp that would be so easily swallowed. Sometimes he awoke, his side burning with overwhelming pain. It was as if the bear had just gutted him all over again. He wanted to grab his side, to roll into a ball, to cry out and curse and do something, but he couldn't move, couldn't speak. 

Those brief moments of consciousness began to slide through his fingers, ungraspable. He was distantly and distinctly terrified that the last moments before his death would go by without his notice. Then it would already be too late.

Through it all was Silmaria. The feel of her small, stubborn hands tending his flesh. The smell of her, somehow overriding the smell of his own sweat and suffering. Her face hovering over his, the face of an angel of mercy who would not let him go. She anchored him with her fragile and courageous strength in a way that awed him. 

And above everything, her voice. The constant litany of her words of comfort and belief. Her belief in him. In his strength. Her belief he would pull through. It was a balm to his soul, a lifeline in those times when all the world went dark and his grip on all he was began to falter. Always, her words were there to cling to, and he drew resolve and will from her precious voice.

Rael did not remember what she said. Not entirely. Her words were snatches, bits and pieces, half phrases and monosyllables etched in his mind and carved into his soul.

I'm so very afraid of being alone, she'd whispered to him in the sort of tone that made him want to hold her and shield her from all the grief and pain of the world.

The people I love die. 

They never last.

He would be different. She would never suffer alone again. She would never fear to love, never fear the powerful potential for loss that love bore. He swore the vow, silent and solemn. Silmaria had tasted too much bitter loss already. He'd not add to it.

Rael stretched slightly. His body protested, sore and depleted as it always was after Mending. Silmaria stirred against him, murmuring sleepy protests, rousing but not yet truly awake. The Nobleman studied the Gnari, his brilliant silver orbs following the flow and shape of her. His hands traced the contour of her form under the blankets and bearskin, where his eyes could not go. Her short, supple pelt was softness itself, like fine, smooth velvet under his fingertips. Caressing it was a luxurious, pleasant feeling. 

Memories of her swirled around his mind, chasing one another in heady circles. The patterns of her coat, her bared, exposed body. The way orange played on white, accentuated with little slashes of black all around. The creamy whiteness of the coloring of her inner thighs and her belly. The suppleness of her strong, spread thighs. Her breasts, heavy and swaying and bouncing with the urgency of his thrusts. The taste of her on his tongue, sweet and heavy and musky with blatant arousal. The searing warmth of her flesh wrapped around his. Her screams of pain and surprise, dripping with palpably copious pleasure. 

He remembered all of it. Every last second. Every single detail. He was unable to control himself. Unable to stop. Oh how he'd tried, afraid that he was hurting her, that he was wronging her. But it was so very hard to stop the violently insistent urges that overtook him after Mending.

Almost he'd wrest control back, though it had cost him more energy and force of will than anyone would ever know. Almost he'd subdued himself, thinking to spare her the misery of his primal desires. 

Only to find that she welcomed them.

Silmaria embraced the fierce cravings he had with acceptance and understanding in her beautiful emerald eyes.

It's Okay, she said, her voice sure and tender and full of love. Take me, Master. Take all of me. Take everything you need. I am for you. I am yours. 

He'd let go, then, allowed his body and his instincts to continue their urging, and he a passenger in his own skin.

But through it all, he was aware, and basking in every last moment of their hungry, desperate fucking. It would have probably been troubling, being a sort of voyeur in his own flesh, had it not been so deeply and incredibly satisfying.

"For a man with a handful of tit, you sure do look serious," Silmaria said, amused.

Rael blinked, then looked down into her face. His brow furrowed for half a moment before he realized that at some point during his thoughtful contemplation, his hand had worked its way to one of Silmaria's generous, warm breasts and cupped the orb firmly, letting it fill his big hand. Her nipple was thickly rigid against his calloused palm.

The Knight gave a crooked, almost embarrassed smile at being caught unawares, and left his hand precisely where it was. "Seems impossible that I should be thinking so hard on other things with such treasures in my grasp. But I confess, my hand had a mind of its own."

"It seems most of you has a mind of its own of late, hmm?" Silmaria said with a playful, challenging smile. She arched her back slightly, pressing her breast briefly into his warm, gripping hand, then settled with a squirm against him. She rested her chin on his chest and stared up into his face.

"True. But this time it's merely from distracted thoughts," he chuckled lightly.

Silmaria shrugged, gave a thoughtful smile, and drummed her fingertip on the muscle of his chest. "About that. Not that I'm not enjoying the whole you not being dead thing in and of itself...but do you think maybe you could tell me about...well...any of what happened tonight, maybe? Because I admit, between the you not dying, the you being on fire, and the you turning into a raging sex beast... which was probably the best way to celebrate not being dead, I have to say... I'm afraid I'm more than a bit confused."

Rael smirked wryly down at her and reached up with one hand to run his strong fingers through her thick black curls. "That's a pretty good bit of ground to cover. We'll take it one question at a time."

Silmaria thought for a moment, then ran her fingertips slowly along the broad band of scar tissue running diagonal across his chest, down to his hip. "Let's start with the whole you being immortal bit, then."

Rael laughed softly at that. "Not immortal, no. I'm pretty sure that I can and will die. Though I've not had the courage to find out for certain. But no. Not immortal. Just very, very hard to kill."

"This isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened, then," Silmaria ventured.

"No," Rael admitted.

"So the very, very hard to kill bit, then."

Rael's brow creased slightly as he considered his words. "Truly, I don't really know what it is that happens. Or why. Nor does it always happen, every time. As I'm sure you remember, I was wounded during the assault on the House, and the most spectacular thing that came of that was I lost a good bit of blood and managed to get you into my chambers."

"Yes. And what a pity you didn't become as riled up then as you were tonight," Silmaria mused. She glanced up to see Rael giving her a slightly surprised and deeply amused look. She grinned playfully. "But please, go on."

"Pity indeed," he smirked. "But yes. It's not as if every hurt or injury I take is erased. And I don't know what causes it. Maybe I have to be mortally wounded. Maybe I have to have the energy reserves to fuel it. Maybe the stars have to align just right. Whatever the case, sometimes it happens... and I Mend."

"You Mend?" Silmaria echoed.

"Mm. It's what I've come to call it. I don't know what else to know it by. I've done research. Deep, thorough research. I can't find mention of it in any sorcery, faith text, or book of lore I've ever laid eyes upon."

"How many times has it happened?" she asked.

"I've lost count, truly. A dozen. Perhaps more. Soldiering brought a good deal of it out."

"I can imagine," she said quietly, and shuddered to imagine the legacy of the tracery of scars covering his pale flesh. She ran her fingers along that most prominent one across his chest.

"This one?" she ventured.

"A Haruke battle axe. Swung by one of the biggest bastards I've ever seen. I had full plate armor on, and it crunched right into my chest. Probably would have bit straight through me if I hadn't been armored so."

Silmaria blanched. "And it's always the same? How it happens?"

"Mostly," Rael mused. His arms tightened around her reflexively. She could feel the shudder run through him at the horrible memories, but he spoke on.

"I always fall into a deep sleep. It's impossible to wake me. My wound often becomes quickly and severely infected. Like my body is trying to get purge all the infection and poison from the wound all at once. Then the fever comes. My body builds this...heat. Like an inferno heating my flesh and boiling my blood in my veins. It's...painful.

"Then I'm cleansed by fire. My wound scoured by strange flames that come from within the damaged tissue. I'm cauterized from the inside. It burns through my flesh, and the worse the wound, the worse the fire."

"It must be awful," Silmaria murmured, gripping him tightly as she shuddered to even imagine it. Being consumed by fire from the inside out...

"It's not what most would call a good time," he chuckled softly, and shrugged his muscular shoulders. "But Mending...whatever it is, wherever it comes from, has kept me alive many times. But I don't count on it saving my life. Ever. I never know when it will take me and when I will simply suffer through a more mundane healing. 

"And always, it's the same. The infection. The fever. Bringing me to the edge of death before scouring away my wounds. I've never Mended instantly. Only if I can be stabilized and brought through that miserable period. Which is why I believe I'm not immortal, whatever I am. I'm sure if I were to suffer a mortal wound that killed me quickly, I would die before I had the chance to Mend."

"I don't want to think about that," Silmaria muttered as she nuzzled into him. "In fact, if we can avoid the whole 'Mending' thing in general, that would be great. I mean, it's pretty handy in the event you do get hurt. But it'd be great to not have to go through the whole you teetering on the edge of death thing again. Which would have been a great thing to know about in the first place, I'll add."

Rael had the grace to meet her glare with an apologetic look. Amusedly apologetic, but apologetic nonetheless. "I was sort of hopeful it wouldn't become an issue."

Silmaria's glare turned incredulous. Though she couldn't fully mask some amusement of her own, she did give it a good try anyway. "You were hopeful it wouldn't become an issue? We're running away from assassins, the Knighthood... hell, the entire fucking country wants to collect the rewards on our heads...especially your head...and you didn't think there was the chance you might end up catching a bit of a nick at some point?"

"You did say I was the finest sword hand you'd ever seen," he pointed out with a teasing smirk.

Silmaria glared at him for a few more moments, then gave it up with a sigh. She smiled tiredly at him, then rolled over to lay on her other side. "You were awake for that bit then, huh?"

Rael turned with her, wrapping his arms about her and pulling her back so she was pressed against him. He traced the fine, graceful contour of her spine with one finger as he studied the patterns of her pelt, playing out in whites and oranges and blacks across her delicate back like a natural canvas of art. "I may have been. Or I imagined it. It's hard to tell when I'm that deep into fever. Everything kind of blurs into blots of reality and delusions and hallucinations."

"Mm," Silmaria smiled lightly. She shut her eyes and relaxed under Rael's lightly tracing fingers. She enjoyed his touch immensely as his fingers slipped along her soft, short pelt.

"So how about you turning into some kind of animal?"

Rael's fingers paused for the briefest of moments, then continued their slow, casual sliding along her arching spine. "That's very hard to explain, too."

"Try," she replied softly, her lips spreading into a beautiful, if tired, smile. "I've got time. Should I expect you to go all wild if I get mouthy and make you angry or something?"

"If that were the case, I would have gotten plenty riled up a long time ago," Rael countered with a light smile. "No. It only really happens after I Mend."

The Noble thought for a moment, then went on, his eyes and hands working along her back. "It's like becoming a beast of some kind. That's the closest thing I can liken it to. Everything becomes instinct. Reflex. I lose all sense of conscious thought. Most of my emotions are gone. Well, not gone but... simplified. All I do is feel, and all I feel is basic, primal emotions and motivations. Pain. Pleasure. Instinctive drives to be safe and dry and warm and fed. I don't think about things. I just act. I lose all concept of society, of other people's feelings, of the consequences of right or wrong. I am, and I do. It's simple. It's easy. And it's disastrous. I am capable of things, when I am in that place..."

"Tell me," she said softly, after he'd fallen silent for some time.

Rael shrugged. Silmaria sensed he was dredging bits and scraps of memories from someplace long tucked away. "I could easily murder someone, when in that primal and unthinking state, and not think twice about it. And it wouldn't be out of maliciousness or spite or evil. 

"It could be because I felt threatened," he explained. "If I felt threatened, I'd kill the threat. If I were hungry, and I saw food, I would take that food, regardless if it were stealing or wrong, and regardless if I had to hurt someone to get it. I wouldn't bear the person any ill will, but neither would I care. I have no moral compass, no reasoning when in that state. I have no context to draw on. I simply... am."

Silmaria leaned back against him, her hand reaching up to rest on his cheek. She'd seen that. Seen the primal, instinctive force hiding behind Rael's eyes that was nothing but fierce, basic desires and drives. "But you're still in there, when it happens. Somewhere. You wanted what happened."

"Yes," Rael admitted slowly. His arm went around her, his fingers brushing along the flatness of her lean belly. "It's all reduced to very basic feelings and desires and needs. But it's still me... on some level, anyway. My need to be safe. My need for food. My desire to mate. It's me, only simplified, and focused. And even though I have no control during those times, it's not as if I'm blacked out during it all. I'm there. I'm experiencing it all. Just as an onlooker. A passenger, of sorts. I'm riding along, but something else... some other aspect of myself that I cannot control, has the reigns."

Silmaria squirmed slightly against him, and her ass pressed to his lap, warm and firm and curving. Silmaria had an ample backside, and shapely, the kind of generously rounded flesh brought on by activity and vitality and strength and graceful movement. Rael felt himself stirring at the warm press of it. The Gnari noticed, too, and immediately pressed back more firmly against him, grinding into the swelling length of Rael's cock to nestle it between her buttocks, soft and supple to the touch while keeping a firm, sculpted shape.

"So you have these strange, violent changes. You're wounded, then go through this wasting and feverish period. Then you Mend, and after, you turn feral and uncontrollable. And no one seems to notice this about you?" Silmaria asked.

Rael was finding it suddenly more difficult to focus on her words. "Not many," he said, fighting to keep his voice level and stable even as the wicked little minx of a Gnari pressed and wriggled that lush ass along his growing endowment. "I had help keeping it quiet. The first time it happened, I was young. I was out hunting with Father, just the two of us. I must have been eight or so. It was my first hunt, and he was teaching me how to ride down a deer. A wild boar caught us unawares. Big old bastard, with tusks like spears. Skewered my pony, and me with it. Nearly ripped my leg to shreds.

"I was taken back to the Manor. Lirena tended me. She took care of most of our sicknesses and injuries even then. Back in those days she was even better; her eyes and hands weren't crippled with age. 

"Father stayed at my side through it all. He was there, when the Mending came. He was there when I was an uncontrollable, wild thing of a child for a few hours after. Lirena knew my recovery was impossible. Father gave her a look, and she said nothing and asked no more questions. But she knew it wasn't normal, not by any means."

"And after that?" Silmaria pressed. Maddeningly, even though he could tell by the tone of her voice she was genuinely interested in hearing his words, she would not stop the distracting grinding of her delicious ass against his cock, the warm press of her buttocks surrounding his pulsing shaft and pressing him deeper into the cleft of her crack. Her tail flicked against his belly, snaking out to the side and lashing at the air playfully.

"After that," he said slowly, more distracted by the moment as his hands slid down to cup and squeeze the gentle rounding of her hips, "I was very lucky to become friends with a Dwarven physician named StoneFingers."

"A Dwarven physician?" Silmaria asked with raised brows. 

"A Dwarven physician," Rael confirmed. "He first tended me after a battle years ago. It was perhaps my second battle as a full sworn Knight. I took a sword to the gut. StoneFingers tended me, and witnessed my Mending, and dealt with me after. 

"He should have reported the whole thing to the ranking officers in the camp. He didn't. I begged him not to. I did not know what would happen if they found out, but I knew it would be nothing good. I would be viewed as a freak. Or a possible threat. Most likely, I would be sent from the war to be studied and examined and prodded and poked and used up by the Magi's Sanctum. I didn't want that, and StoneFingers was a good enough man to recognize what I feared.




DarkFyre Ch. 17



"After that first time, StoneFingers was one of my closest confidants. He was the only one besides my Father who knew of the Mending. He could have exposed that secret and who knows what would have become of me, but he was a true friend. Whenever I was wounded to the point of Mending, StoneFingers made sure I was in his care. He kept all prying eyes and inquiries at bay. He downplayed my injuries when needed, kept me alive through my waning period until my body took over and Mended. He kept me away from others while I went through the crazy uncontrolled phases after, sometimes even restraining me if need be. I don't think I would have gotten through those times without him."

"I'm glad he was there then," Silmaria nodded, glancing over her shoulder at him. Her thick mane of curls fell across one graceful shoulder, half-obscuring her face. 

She looked at him with those big Gnari eyes, and flashed a coy smile as she rotated her ass needily on his cock. She could feel the precum dribbling from the fat, engorged head, slippery and warm and wet along the crack of her ass. "So am I the first helpless maid you've made a conquest of during one of your out of control spells?"

Rael chuckled softly. "There wasn't exactly any women around the other times. I guess even when I'm not in control of myself, I'm not too keen on Dwarven doctors."

Silmaria laughed loudly, then drew up short, going still as Rael's powerful, calloused hands firmly gripped her upper arms, holding her there meaningfully.

"Silmaria...if I hurt you..."

The Gnari girl shook her head, and slowly turned in his grasp to face him. She rested one slender hand on his broad, scarred chest, and stared firmly into his eyes. "You know my nature, Master Rael. I've told you all about my ways, my cravings. Everything. I gravitate toward dark pleasures. That I love you and am enamored with you and that you are more to me than an inconsequential fling or a passing stranger to sooth my ache does not lessen my cravings for those darker pleasures. If anything, having you take me, use me harshly, and inflict sweet pain on me gave me more pleasure than I have ever known. 

"Do not fear to hurt me," she told him solemnly, "For I know you will never truly harm me. I have learned to appreciate pain, my kind and wonderful Lord. I learned to appreciate it for the focus and clarity it gives me during the Stirring. Pain often keeps the longing and painfully hollow ache that gnaws into me from becoming overwhelming. Besides, my Master... I have felt much of pain that has gone far deeper than the flesh. Compared to that? There is no pain or sufferance that your tender brutality can deliver.

"Unless," she said, slowly, and here she seemed almost to wilt as she faltered, staring up into his silver eyes with uncertain vulnerability. "Well. If you find such dark pleasure and loving... distasteful, when you have your wits about you..."

His hands tightened on her arms again, his fingers digging into her flesh until she gasped aloud. She saw the subtle darkening of his eyes, and his sharp, pointed gaze smoldered in a way that had her squirming.

"I am not in control of myself, during those times," Rael said in his deep, low, measured tone. "But it is still me. My motivations and desires are primal and basic and instinctual. But they are still, ultimately, mine. That unfettered aspect is, nonetheless, a strong part of myself. Understand, Silmaria... I would never want to hurt you. Not in a way that would do you lasting harm, or cause you heartache. I have always strived to be a good man. A kind man. A man of character and compassion and grace. And I feel very strongly against mistreating women. 

"However," he said, and his voice dipped into that low, gravely tone that made her thighs clench immediately. "Sometimes, certain women need to be treated differently than honorable conduct and chivalric kindness dictates."

Silmaria arched her back sensually and reached up with one hand, reaching back to run her fingers through his copper hair. "I'm no lady, to be treated gently," she murmured.

"Ladies do not have sole right to gentle treatment," he said into the nape of her neck, his breath hot on her skin. "But there is a time and place for all things. Even the casting aside of gentleness and proper manners."

"Funny you should talk about casting aside manners, considering you're choosing such a polite way of talking about fu...ah!" Silmaria cried out, for Rael's hand had suddenly come up, quick and sure and without warning, to grip one of her generous breasts, cupping the firm, lush orb in one huge palm. His thumb and forefinger caught her already stiffly aroused nipples and pinched, hard, pressing it between his fingers and rolling it.

Silmaria quivered, her back arching, thrusting her breasts into his wicked, powerful hand. She thrashed, jerking as that hard, tight pinch shot a lance of pain straight through her and into her gut, where it settled in the depth of her cunt with a profoundly effective ache. Her thighs pressed and squeezed together and she could feel herself growing rapidly wetter by the moment, more and more each time Rael rolled that hyper sensitive nub of pink flesh back and forth between his tormenting fingers.

"Ah...you...oh gods..." Silmaria moaned. She glanced over her shoulder, catching just a glimpse of his face, but that glimpse made her suck in a breath anew. She saw his silver eyes, a darker, harder shade of silver, piercing and cool as he watched her. His lips lifted at one corner in a wicked, confident smirk. He knew the torture he was putting her through. He knew he was hurting her. And he knew just how keenly she needed it. How that one solitary lance of pain was enough to make her a helpless puddling mess at his feet and in his hands.

And he was enjoying it! Reveling in it. He was playing her like a fine tuned instrument, and he had barely even started. He knew it, she could see it in his eyes, and he would use that knowledge as power on her, against her, and for her.

Silmaria swallowed hard to keep from whimpering her delight.

"Sometimes I will have manners," he said beside her sensitive feline ear. His lips were just a breath away, so close she could feel the vibrations from their movement on the short, smooth hairs of her pelt. 

"And sometimes I will not. Sometimes I will love you with kindness and tenderness in my touch. And sometimes I will fuck you in the dark and wicked ways you crave to receive and I am more than happy to give. But it will be in my time, in my way, for that is the way I am, and that is all I can be."

Silmaria whimpered, moaning as he gripped her nipples, both of them, and those wicked, cruel, patient fingers pinched hard. He pulled, stretching her nipples so very deliciously out away from her jiggling tits, and he was so very nonchalant and casual about it and that was driving her insane in the most maddeningly delicious ways. All the while he conversed with her as if talking about their travels or the weather or what he planned to do once he was old and his soldiering days were through. Her pussy was on fire, and all she wanted was more of him.

"And that's all I want," she groaned, trying hard indeed to form some coherent thoughts. "All I want is you, Master. All I want is for you to take me, however you want to take me. Take me at your leisure, whispering sweet nothings into my ear that make my heart ache. Take me frantic and cruel as you curse me for the wanton whore I am. I don't care! Take me as it pleases you. Just take me."

"Gladly," he said into her ear, his voice a growl that mingled amusement, triumph, and sweetly savage longing in a way that would have any woman frantically peeling off her knickers.

"Yes," Silmaria sighed, and then he was upon her. Rael's hand wrapped around her throat, his long, powerful fingers circling around the delicate column of her neck. He squeezed, not especially hard, just enough to make her breath hitch a bit and her air to come slightly labored. Enough to let her feel the strength and control in that grasp, and oh gods that was exactly what she needed.

Rael pressed her down, arousal pumping through his blood. He pushed the sensual woman onto her belly on the ground, forcing her delectable ass into the air. For a breath of an instant, his eyes lingered on her, drinking in that erotically devious sight, Silmaria pressed to the stone ground, her head held in place by his grip on her neck, her ass upturned like the eager little slut she was. Her thighs were parted, and beneath the firm, plump swell of her arching ass was her cunt, slick and dripping already in anticipation. The thick petals of her outer lips were swollen and spread, showing the tender, glistening pink within.

Silmaria licked her full, soft lips, wriggling in anticipation, and then bit her lower lip. Her breasts pressed against the cold stone floor, as did her cheek, and she didn't care that her nipples were cold pebbles grazing along the stone, she just wanted Master Rael, she just wanted...

"Oh fuck!" she screamed as his free hand grabbed her side and steadying her as he came up behind her, lined up with her sodden cunt, and thrust forward. His cock drove home, spreading and stretching her slippery folds and driving deep into her hot, welcoming core. 

Rael growled softly in his throat, holding Silmaria's neck still as he plowed into her, his cock throbbing as the wet grip of the Gnari's pussy swallowed him up, squeezing and pulsing around the bloated length of his meat. 

He held there, for a moment, as both of them stood still, awash in that moment of shared shock and pleasure. "You're mine, Silmaria. Mine," he growled.

"Yes," she gasped through his hold on her throat. Then, as he began to thrust and fuck into her, she screamed, "Yes, Master, yours! I am yours!"

Rael reveled in the pleasure of her. Her absolute yielding of control, her total, blissful surrender. He held her pinned beneath him and pounded into her. He gave her what she desired. What she needed. She craved dark pleasure, she said, and clearly needed a hand able to clutch with a firm and decisive grip.

He was all too willing to be that hand. 

He drove his hips down into her upturned ass, pounding her eager little cunt. His cock pistoned in again and again in long, deep, punishing thrusts that left her wailing and whining. He near crushed her beneath him, his weight pressing down on her. His hand gripped her neck as she gasped and choked, writhing in response to his abuse.

Soon Silmaria was thrusting back into him desperately. Her tail lashed, wild and flailing as the Gnari bounced her pussy against his groin, trying to get the fat length of Rael's cock deeper and harder. Rael savaged her, his cock drilling into her welcoming, drooling cunt, spreading her inner walls around his invading meat as the sex starved woman pressed down before him trembled, her thighs shaking.

"Oh gods, Master, oh that hurts so fucking good!" she screamed, her back arching against him as she came. Rael grunted, his muscles working tirelessly as he grit his teeth through the wildly spasming contractions of Silmaria's orgasming cunt. Her pussy milked and squeezed and pulsed as she screamed and cried her release, cumming in a gushing squirt that splashed wetly down her taut, shapely thighs and puddled on the cold stone ground.

Silmaria was in heaven. She was on her belly, her ass hiked up in the air with her pussy split to gaping while she came all over herself like the shameless slut she was. There was a powerful hand around her throat, controlling her, gripping her tight and making her breathing come out in short, sputtering gasps. 

As she came, the grip tightened. And when she came a second time, it tightened again. Her head was starting to get fuzzy, that haziness around the edge of everything. Her pulse was pounding in her ears and her temples, and everything was both indistinct and extremely focused all at once. It was thrilling. It was wickedly erotic. The huge cock pounding away into her stuffed pussy hurt just right, and she was being used and abused in the kind of way that made her cum hardest. She reveled in it, wallowed in it, glorified in her own wretchedly devious sexuality.

And above it all, best of all, most amazingly gratifying and delightful of all... it was Rael. Master Rael. The man she had grown to love above all things.

The thought resonated in her head, in that fuzzy yet sharp sort of focus that everything was taking right then. It was enough to make her give another strangled cry and cum all over again.

Lord Rael was fucking her. His magnificent cock was lodged punishingly in her belly, driving in over and over past her clenching, contracting muscles. She was under him, her body servicing him, just as she wanted, just as she was meant to.

For Silmaria, the mountain and the old god's storm and the assassins and the whole world could be damned. Nothing else mattered.

At last, she was where she belonged.

***

Rael ran his fingers tenderly through Silmaria's thick tumble of black curls. Her hair was a tangled, unwashed wreck from weeks on the road, and it was still beautiful to him. 

"We can't stay here," he said quietly as his fingertips traced one of the delicate triangular ears atop her head.

Silmaria slowly raised her head, her pursing lips stretching along, and her skilled tongue pressing firmly to the underside of Rael's half erect cock all the way. She sucked firmly, her lips catching on the rim of his bulbous cockhead, and finally coming free with a wet pop. 

Though she couldn't quite get enough of the heady taste of her cunt and his cum mingled on his flesh, Silmaria was satisfied that he was clean enough for now. She looked up at him, into his eyes, meeting them slowly. Then she let out a soft sigh. She leaned down, pressing her forehead into his hip. 

"It's too early for you to be reading my mind already," she complained half-heartedly. "We've only just started this and you're already plucking thoughts from my head."

Rael chuckled, one hand resting atop the Gnari's head as she nuzzled into his hip. The girl settled there, with no sign of moving. As she seemed content, he lay back, staring at the way the flames from their small fire played tag with the shadows on the cave ceiling, light and dark chasing one another around the hanging spires of stalactites overhead.

"Our supplies won't last. The meat from the bear is going to be inedible soon, and we're running out of firewood again. The longer we stay here, the more we are betting against disaster."

"I know," Silmaria admitted. "It was just nice to... I don't know. To have a day, or two, to just... be. Without traveling. Without the storm. Without you being almost dead."

His hand cupped her cheek. Gentle. Kind. His thumb brushing along her cheek. The same hand that had been roughly choking her just moments before touched her with more patient tenderness than she'd ever known. It was such a strange and startling contrast, and all the more perfect to her because of it.

"I love you, Silmaria," he said.

She looked up at him then, her bright green eyes staring up at him. He returned her gaze, and his eyes spoke more than those simple words ever could. They spoke of love in a way that no words could convey. He had seen her as she was. Her darkness. Her depravity. Her insatiable lusts and needs. Even when she was not in her Stirring, she had become so accustomed to the rampant demands of her sexuality and the wicked touches she craved that at times, it was hard to separate when she was out of control and when she simply embraced it all.

Master Rael saw every last bit of her. And there was no judgment in his eyes. No glimmer of loathing or hesitance. Only the all too rare love of a man who loves honest and true, with all of a very generous heart. 

And more. He was unafraid of taking her. Of using her. Of giving her the hard, rough hand she craved and needed. Nor was he afraid of claiming her. She wished to surrender to him all of herself, to give all of herself in a way most men did not understand. 

He understood. 

And he didn't falter.

Tears pricked her eyes. Silmaria turned her face into the crooked of his thigh, brushing her tears on his pale skin.

"Thank you, Master. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for your goodness. And for your acceptance. Even more, thank you. For loving me in a way I can understand."

*****

As always, thank you to all my readers for your supportive comments and critiques and all the encouraging words sent my way. 

So, as is probably evident at this point, there will be more sex than has previously been featured, for some obvious reasons. Some of my readers are going to be totally thrilled by this, and some less so. The flip side of the readers who were thrilled while others were less so when sex was scant and plot was the star.

Both kinds of fans should, I am hopeful, continue to enjoy this ongoing tale. Sex will be more prevalent. But plot, character, and other key features that have been strong in this story thus far will continue to shine and be featured strongly. I think everyone who has been very supportive and enjoyed this story thus far will continue to.

Thanks again everyone, and keep coming back for more, it'll be on the way soon!



DarkFyre Ch. 18



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

*****

The next day, Rael was a busy man. Silmaria sat back and watched him with a sort of amused fascination. After a long night of rest, Rael was renewed and overflowing with energy and robust health. They'd discussed with disappointment how much of the bear meat was going to go to waste as its spoiling became eminent, but Rael gave a good effort at consuming as much of it as possible that morning. Silmaria was shocked and very nearly appalled, and couldn't quite keep herself from laughing at the Nobleman as he ate more and more. He was a big, hearty man, true, and she'd always known him to have a healthy appetite, but this was something else. 

"How are you not even sicker than you were before? I mean gods, you've got to be close to your own body weight in bear meat right now. And none of it's terribly fresh. And you weight quite a lot anyway," Silmaria said with a laugh.

Rael chuckled softly around the mouthful of bear he was already working on, swallowed it, and gave her a wry smile. "This is pretty normal for me after a Mending. My body uses a huge amount of energy and resources. I have a lot to replenish. I could eat for days."

"Good to know. I guess if this kind of thing ever happens again I'll have to find another bear to feed you," Silmaria said with a playful smirk. "Maybe a fresher one."

"It's passable," Rael smirked. Then made a face. "For the moment."

Finally eating his fill, Rael then spent time stretching, working the last of the ache from his long limbs until he moved free and limber once again. Silmaria watched him with admiring eyes for a time, then rose and joined him. It felt good to stretch and work out some of the stiffness from her joints and muscles. She'd not realized how much the cold had made her body tight and stiff and achy. 

By the time they were done, Silmaria felt truly better. Her body was back to the usual easy grace she hadn't even realized was being sapped away by the cold and cramped conditions of the cave. Rael and Silmaria sat around the small, crackling fire, and Rael studied their remaining supplies with a grim look on his face.

"We only have another day or two of firewood left. I don't think I would chance the meat past tomorrow, and we have no other food. Water won't be a problem. But we can't stay here any longer. Even as much as the cave is holding onto the heat from the fires, it won't take long for the cold to settle back in here after the fire runs out. After that, the rest of our stay is going to be cold, wet, and hungry. And probably very short."

"What do we do?" Silmaria asked.

Rael looked out the gaping cave entrance, past the long crystalline teeth hanging from the gaping cave maw, shining and pointy and transparently dangerous. The storms raged outside, the wind howling like a mournful beast searching for prey to devour. Snow and ice flittered and flurried, an undulating wave. A billowing shroud of white washed emptiness happily swallowing the world.

A muscle jumped in his firmly set jaw, and his silver eyes went hard with conviction. "We'll have to brave the storm." 

Silmaria held silent as she stared at him, studying the contours and angles of his handsome, strong face, the solidness of his jaw and determination of his brow. 

"Going out there may be the end of us," she said slowly in a tone that was not a question.

Rael met her eyes. "Yes," he said simply, for there was no hiding that truth, and no way to soften the blow of it. "But at least that way, there's a chance. Better to struggle on and take our chance in the blizzard than to face a slow, starving, frozen death in here."

The Gnari girl took a deep breath, then stood. She went to him, and sat in his lap with her head curled to his chest. "I don't want to die. Not after I've finally found something and someone who makes me truly alive."

Rael wrapped his arms around her, and he was a warm, solid, comforting shelter around her, his strength rushing into her through his touch and the steady beating of his heart against her cheek.

"Then we just won't die," he said.

Silmaria smiled a grim smile tinged with foolish hope. "Simple as that, huh?"

He reached up and ran thick, roughened fingers through the blackness of her curls. "Yes. If you think about it, when we put all other details and factors aside, living is the simplest thing anyone does."

"You'll have to teach me how to see the world in such simple shades of black and white someday," she mused as her eyes grew heavy. Silmaria hardly understood how they could talk about something so frighteningly real and immediate as their own mortality, and yet she felt utterly relaxed and calm and at peace. She should be terrified. On some level, in some part of herself, Silmaria was positive she was. 

But Rael was here, and his arms were around her, and he was alive and well and strong. She didn't know if she could feel any less calm and centered and right if the bear had come surging back to life just then.

"Oh, the world is full of more shades of gray and blackest black and purest white than I have words for," Rael chuckled softly into her ear in that deep, rumbling tone his voice took when he spoke quietly, for her ears only.

"But in the end, in matters of battle and survival, so much of the grays and shades between can be filtered down to two very simple absolutes. The blackest black, and the whitest white. Die, or live. Death, or life.

"I choose life," he explained somberly. "For both of us."

"A good choice, my Master," Silmaria nodded slowly. She turned her gaze, quiet and serene and trusting, up to Rael's intense, focused silver eyes. "I trust you, my love. And if you choose life by going into the roaring mouth of a wintery old god, then that's what you choose, and I can do naught but follow."

Rael stared down into her eyes, and his thumb softly traced the vibrant black of the stripe on her cheek. "I swore that I would let no harm come to you. I'll honor that vow. I swear it. Even the old gods will not make me break it."

Silmaria shivered softly. Some people would say he spoke blasphemy. Any other time, given what he proposed, she could say he spoke insanity.

Just then, staring into his eyes, she saw only the truth of his words

***

Rael had spoken of facing the storms of the old god of the pass with fierce conviction and deep belief. And each word had been honest and sincere; he truly believed that braving the wrathful blizzard and proceeding through IceMarch Pass was their only hope, and that staying in the cave held nothing but slow death for them. He also believed, with everything he was and would be and had ever been, that he would keep Silmaria safe and whole through it all. He must.

Even filled with belief and conviction, however, he was not a fool. He knew the near suicidal dangers the storm presented and how narrow their chances were. One mistake would be their undoing, and there was so very many mistakes that could be made. Rael believed in himself, and he was brave, but his fear was nonetheless very real. 

But he didn't let it show. He didn't have the time or luxury of giving into his fear as they crawled and slogged along the pass, facing the full fury of the storm that swallowed them up like the ferocious force of nature it was. Resolute, Rael pressed on, battered and buffeted by the driving gale as he waded through snow piled up to his thighs.

Silmaria clung to him, gripping his cloak and shuffling along in his wake, her jaw set grimly. The winds pulled and tugged at her, and the slippery path was treacherous even under her sure footed stride. The Gnari girl was terrified. Her teeth chattered and as the terrible moments passed. Chilled numbness spread through her limbs by the moment. The winds, ice and snow threatened to send her tumbling off the Cliffside, promising a swift and sudden end. Alternatively, the wickedly relentless cold would make an end of her just as surely, if much more gradually.

Despite her terror and the hopelessness of the situation, Silmaria pressed on, driven by Rael's stubborn defiance of the storm. The Nobleman bore the brunt of the storm's wrath and the hard work of forward progress, and not once did he slow or hesitate or complain. He stoically trudged on, determinedly meeting the storm's rage with an uncompromising will.

Silmaria would not slow him, and she would not be left behind. If her Lord pressed into the storm, she would follow until the last spark of her life was snuffed out.

Savagely, the old god's storm did its utmost to accomplish just that.

Rael reached a hand back to grasp hers and clutched her wrist in his unforgiving grip. He didn't look back, did not acknowledge her in any other way. He clung to her, pulling her along after him, and bent his complete will and all his focus into meeting the storm and pushing forward.

The storm pushed back mightily. It howled, it blustered, it bore down on them with implacable fury. Snow filled the air so densely the airy powder had become a heavy, oppressive mass, screening the world behind an impassable sheet of white. 

Rael would not yield.

The winds blew hard enough to make each and every step a tortuous effort. It was as if they were trying to press back a solid stone wall. It pushed and pulled, spun around them so forcefully that Silmaria could barely keep her feet under her even sheltered behind Rael's broad body. It buffeted them, pounding with the force of striking hammers, until every muscle and tendon and sinew strained against the wind just to take the next solitary step.

But Rael would not yield.

The storm blew clusters of freezing ice. The small, jagged shards smashed into them, pricking, piercing little needles of purest cold that lance right through the heavy cover of their bundles of clothes. Like a hail of arrows the ice came, riding the fierce winds, formed so hard and thick that they had to shield their eyes with their hands lest they be damaged. Silmaria almost feared she'd actually been punctured by the little icy lances, and she'd come out the storm to find she was bleeding out from ice piercing her flesh.

Yet still, even facing elements any man would be crushed by, Rael would. Not. Yield.

Faced with a man who was as stubbornly unbending as the iron his will was made of, the old god's storm, at last, yielded.

The fury of the storm spent, it faded into nothing, leaving naught but the softly promising threat of snowflakes, drifting on a sleepy breeze, merrily haunting their exhausted steps.

***

Two days after their desperate departure from the shelter of the cave, Rael and Silmaria emerged from IceMarch Pass. The land that greeted them was hilly and untamed, with high golden grass and many groves of trees with hard gray bark and thick low hanging branches. There were small wild things that scurried about furtively unseen in the tall grasses and steered far clear of them.

The change in climate and temperature was startling. Oh, it was still cold this high in the hills and close to the mountains, certainly, but compared to the mountain pass, or indeed near anywhere in the North, these southern lands were distinctly warm. Before their first day on the south side of the Teeth was through, Silmaria had shed the heavy piling of clothing she'd grown accustomed to until she was down to a single layer and her cloak. 

Escaping the death trap of the pass was invigorating and refreshing. The air seemed clearer, the world less oppressive, and the shift from bleakly snow covered overcast to the clear blue skies of the south was stunningly beautiful. Silmaria could have spent days simply enjoying the change, and appreciating the beauty of the south that she'd never known.

Except in those first few days, she had no time to truly enjoy the changes. For all his strength and indomitable will, forcing their way through the oppressive storm had spent Rael immensely. He'd stubbornly pressed on after the storms relented, unwilling to be caught in a resurgence, and made it through the pass and into the hills on the other side of the mountains before collapsing, drained of all energy.

Rael fell ill for several days, passing in and out of consciousness. He was so weak he could hardly lift his head. And he developed an intense, racking cough that left him shaking at times with fatigue. Almost, Silmaria thought he was going into another Mending as his fatigue was so intense he was hardly able to stir enough to acknowledge her. Despite her own exhaustion Silmaria mustered the strength to care for her lover Lord.

Blessedly, after three days of misery, Rael seemed to rally. He remained too ill to travel yet, but he was awake and aware, at least, and able to move about some and help with a few things here and there, though Silmaria insisted he rest as often as possible.

While they rested and recovered in the hills, Silmaria took up hunting once more. She found that perching up in one of the hardy trees afforded her better hunting opportunities than stalking in the high grasses. She took down a number of small prairie animals, as well as a rangy and long legged goat that she found contentedly munching away at a cluster of grass. The Gnari also foraged about and collected a good many nuts, berries, fruits and small roots that she took back to Rael, who helped her identify those unfamiliar to her.

It was a slow, quiet time. After the madness and terror and heartache of their trek through the mountains, slow and quiet was a welcome change. 

They savored the peace, knowing it would be as fleeting as it was precious. 

***

"We are here," Rael indicated a circle he made in the dirt with the tip of a small stick. He drew out a range of peaks and points to represent the mountain range at their backs. 

"Just a short ways east and south from IceMarch Pass. The Pass empties out in the northwest corner of the Johake Grasslands. The FrostFall Mountains on the West border of the Dale meet with The Teeth just north of us. The Teeth divide the southern reaches of DarkFyre Dale from the northmost territory of the Johake Grasslands. IceMarch Pass circles west and then south through where the FrostFall and the Teeth mountain ranges meet."

"Right," Silmaria nodded, studying the scratches and markings he made. "I'm pretty familiar with that. It's south of the Teeth that things get fuzzy."

"Mmhmm," Rael nodded. He continued to scratch out lines and territories in the dirt. 

"This area of the Grassland's is called the Boar's Back. The Grassland's spread out south of us, and to the southwest and east. To the southwest is the Ghostwood, a sprawling and dense forest where the Johake believe the spirits of their dead who do not receive proper burial rites go to wander, lost.

"West of the Ghostwood is the vast Jade Sea. SouthWest from the Ghostwood, along the coast, is StillWater Bay."

"I've never heard much of StillWater," Silmaria said.

"They're a major power in the west," Rael explained. "One of, if not the largest port cities on the Jade Sea coast. It's a republic ruled by a council of elite, wealthy trading families. Many goods pass through StillWater on their way to and from the Jade Sea. None of it goes through without passing through the Trader's hands in one way or another.

"Here, to the east and southeast of the Grasslands, is The Reach. Mountain country, but not like the mountains of the North. They are hot and arid and rocky, full of canyons and valleys and peaks and solitary crags. It's not a wasteland, but The Reach a harsh, treacherous place and very difficult to travel through. The Reach is mostly the SkyRacer's domain, and the Kingdom of Ser is their seat of power."

"I've seen so few SkyRacer's," Silmaria commented. "They're beautiful. Rare. But they seem... hostile."

"Rightly so, more than like," Rael nodded. "Their people were almost wiped out a thousand years ago."

"I didn't know," Silmaria replied, her brows raising. "What happened?" 

"It's not surprising that you've not heard of it. It's more part of southern history. The Dale wasn't really involved. As far as what happened, that depends on who you ask," he replied. "The histories I've read are incredibly vague and indecisive about it. Many who follow the legends say the SkyRacer's once ruled much of the land south of The Teeth. Their society was advanced beyond Mankind and the other Demi-races, and the winged folk held dominion over the skies. With those advantages, they subjugated the other races, until the races rose up as one to strike the SkyRacer's down. Fallen from power, the other races feared the SkyRacer's so much they hunted them all through the lands and nearly wiped them out.

"Of course," the Noble went on, "The SkyRacer's claim otherwise. They say they saw the primitive, barbaric ways of the GroundBorn, as they called the other races, and held themselves separate and isolated. They lived apart, and in peace. Until a group of SkyRacer's sympathetic to the GroundBorn made contact with intention of forming peaceful alliances. The other races used the fools to find the SkyRacer's and strike at them through surprise and treachery, and eventually butchered them to near extinction." 

Silmaria was gutting a GrassHare. Rael had taught her to make a simple snare just yesterday, and Silmaria had been proudly satisfied when she found the Hare snagged in it when she checked on it that evening. She began to skin the GrassHare, moving the sharp blade of her hunting knife along the animal's pelt carefully while Rael followed her blade with watchful eyes. "So which side do you think is telling the truth?"

Rael shrugged. "Neither. Both. Tyranny and bloodshed are rarely a one sided affair."

The Nobleman went on, scratching more figures into the dirt as Silmaria watched. "Here to the south is the Ashlands, a great desert wasteland of hidden riches. Its wealthiest city is RedStone, jewel of the Leftin Empire."

Rael drew a huge circle on the southern portion of his dirty stick-scratched map. "This is roughly the extent of the Leftin Empire's influence. In terms of riches, territory, and military power, the Leftin Empire is the most prominent force in the lands."

Silmaria studied the rough map for a moment, then pointed to the untouched middle. "Ondaria must be somewhere here, then?"

"Indeed. Very good," Rael said with a small smile. "Here at the middle of the continent is The Weeping Land, a collection of swamps and bogs fed by Vierra's Road, the many great rivers running westward to the Jade Sea. The Weeping Land is home to the alliance of city-state's that form the Ondarian Federation, which is also called Ondaria as a whole. None of the city-state's are especially powerful on their own, but together, the small armies they command are formidable. And more importantly, they are at home in the swamplands surrounding them, which have swallowed invading armies innumerable. Every attempt to conquer Ondaria has met with disaster. Even the Leftin Empire has been held at bay by the swamps of The Weeping Land."

"So if the Ondarian Federation is surrounded by a bunch of swamps, why would anyone want to live there. Or take it over, for that matter?" Silmaria asked.

Rael looked at her, and one corner of his lips quirked upward in a challenging smile. "You tell me. Figure it out."

Silmaria made a face at him, which only made him grin the wider. But she did as he bid, her eyes downcast, watching her hands work at cleaning their dinner while she puzzled over the answer. 




DarkFyre Ch. 18



Then she had it.

"It's in the middle of everything. Everywhere meets in The Weeping Land. The Federation is the crossroads of the entire realm."

"Exactly," Rael gave a satisfied nod.

"Which is why the Library is there," Silmaria continued slowly. "No one can invade the Federation because of the bogs and swamps, so it's safe... and it's in the middle of everywhere, so it would be a natural gathering place for knowledge from all areas of the continent. Right?"

"Just so," Rael said with a wider grin, nodding to her. "Very smart, my girl. The Ondarian Federation is also a neutral country. Outside of the city-states in the federation, Ondaria holds no alliance or interest with outside powers or governments. Anyone from outside nations can come to Kahrthen Library to share and explore knowledge freely, without bias."

"That makes sense, yes," Silmaria nodded thoughtfully. She studied the map, then returned to preparing their dinner, sticking the small, skinned GrassHare on a spit and placing it over their small fire. "I suppose we're going to cut south through the Grasslands, then?"

"No," Rael shook his head. "It would be much faster and more direct, but we can't risk it."

Silmaria's brow furrowed for a moment, and then she understood. "The Haruke?"

"The Haruke," Rael agreed.

"Do you think they would attack us? Even if we pretended to be simple travelers?"

"Perhaps not us," Rael said thoughtfully. "You they might allow to go unscathed. I don't know that Haruke have any kind of vendetta against Gnari. Me, however, they would know for a Daleman, and kill on sight. And more than likely, if they saw you with me, they'd kill you for being my companion and ally."

"Well, after the whole cheating death in the Pass, I don't much feel like now's a better time for it," Silmaria decided. "So let's avoid all that."

"My thoughts exactly," Rael chuckled. He scratched a line on his dirt map. "We're going to have to go the long way. Skirt the majority of the grasslands. Going around west and then south would be quicker, but it's not safe. The Ghostwood lies that way, and the Haruke have several permanent encampments near the wood to keep watch over the restless spirits of their dead."

"East and Southeast, then?" Silmaria guessed.

"Yes," Rael confirmed, "East along the foot of The Teeth, and then south along the border of The Reach. Then we will cut southwest and into The Weeping Land. It will be a longer road, but a safer one. Our best chance for getting there unscathed."

"It's going to be a long time before I see a bath and a bed again," Silmaria sighed, and wiped her forehead with a bloodied hand.

***

Nightfall the next day found the couple sitting around a small, pleasant fire, finishing of a rather satisfying stew of goat meat and squirrel with root tubers. Silmaria wiped her mouth on her sleeve and leaned back, staring up at the wide open night sky. "You can't see as many stars on this side of the mountain," she said offhand.

Rael stared up with her. His strength was returning, but he was still tired often and in need of more rest than he liked. He also couldn't quite seem to shake the annoying, persistent cough he'd developed. "The skies in the south aren't as clear as the ones of the Dale. Less of the star's light shine through."

The Gnari turned curious eyes to him. "Can you still use them to navigate our way?"

Rael nodded slowly. "I can. Most of the major constellations are recognizable."

He pointed, and Silmaria followed his finger as he indicated different clusters and groups of stars. "There's the Bear. And the Bastard's Tower. Izendor, the great tree. Gemil the hunter. The Traitor's Mark. The True Star. They're all here, if you just get used to seeing them from a different angle. And there are some you can only see south of the Teeth, too. Like there, the Asp Tamer. And that star is Terin, the hawk of Bealorn of The Twelve."

Silmaria followed, studying the skies and his words. "After Trelling became a god and joined the twelve, Baelorn, who had been guardian of the empty North, left the Dale to Trelling and went south of the Teeth to visit his sister and lover Vierra, who was goddess of the sea," she recited the old tale.

"But Baelorn became lost. Terin was his god-hawk and companion. He went up into the sky and become a great star to show Bealorn the way, and there he remains."

"Just so," Rael nodded and smiled lightly. "Bealorn meant to call Terin back down from the heavens after he reunited with Vierra. But the sailors and sea folk that worshipped Vierra and sailed the waves on her back had come to use Terin to chart their courses, and so associated the god-hawk with their goddess. Vierra begged Bealorn to let Terin remain in the heavens as her Guidestar the rest of the world's days. The god finally relented, but not until after Vierra gave him a fortnight of such debauchery and sex that the storms of their passion sank a score of ships."

"Seems a waste. All those lives, for a silly star. I don't understand the gods and their ways," Silmaria sighed quietly.

Rael lifted a stick and poked at the fire, shifting the wood into better position to be caught and consumed by the shifting flames. "Who truly does? Knowing the tales and legends of the Twelve, their deeds, the old stories and small wisdoms of the old gods, the piety and sacred rites and endlessly divine rules of the Highest Holy... none of this means we know the gods. None of it is understanding them. All of it, mere touchstones. Small and insubstantial ways of relating to things beyond true knowing."

Silmaria regarded him curiously across the fire, and tilted her head in gentle thought. "You don't believe in the gods, do you?"

Rael reached for his greatsword. He pulled the huge length of steel from its sheath and balanced it across his lap. Taking a whetstone from his pack, he began to run the smooth stone slowly along the great gleaming blade in slow, smooth, repetitive strokes, honing that powerful blade. Silmaria watched him, the firelight gleaming off the impressive sword in dazzling little flashes. 

"I believe that the gods are not what we think they are," he said at last. "I don't believe the old gods are present in every facet and phenomenon of the world around us. Nor do I believe the Twelve are a group of benevolent beings who are us, but not us, watching down on the mortal world and occasionally dropping in to use us as their playthings. Nor do I believe there is a High Holy that watches every facet and miniscule detail of our life, judging the steps we take and whether we draw our next breath with ill intentions or a pure heart, waiting in hopeful silence to damn us for breaking a list of rules so staggeringly heavy it carries the weight of mountains. No. I do not believe in those things."

"Then what do you believe in?"

Rael was quiet for several moments. Then, he balanced the greatsword on both palms, and lifted it, holding it slightly forward. "This."

"The sword?" Silmaria asked quietly.

"The sword shapes the world," Rael explains. "Men don't live and die by the whim of the gods, old or new. They live by their sword, or they die by someone else's. The sword is power. Nations are built on the back of it, and crumble on the point of it. The sword can punish, and the sword can redeem. Evil men slay with it. And good men defend with it. 

"A sword can be a thing of ruin. It can be used by conquerors and tyrants to rule over hundreds of thousands. It can be used by them to end scores of lives. A sword can make a fair man cruel, and a cruel man an abomination.

"But a sword can be a righteous thing, too. A sword can give a weak man courage. And a sword can enable a courageous man to defend those things that are right and good in the world. A sword can maintain order. And a sword can be a tool for justice. It can be the steel in a man's spine, and make him stand up for what he believes in where he would hesitate without one."

Silmaria drew her knees up to her chest, regarding the man across the fire. She loved him. And she knew he was a good man, a man of kindness and intelligence and honor. But she was reminded then that he was a hard man, too. Beneath his kindness and his good heart there was a hardened mettle, a stoicism that was forged in fire and battle and blood. Though it was frightening at times, she was glad of it; it was that hardened part of him that was keeping them alive now.

"What happens to people who don't believe in swords, then?"

"Those that believe in swords defend them," he said, "Or those that believe in swords kill them."

Silmaria's lips quirked in a wry smile. "You're speaking in black and whites again. Where's my Lord of gray, whose hand gripped the pen as well as the sword?"

Rael smirked lightly, and he ran the whetstone along the blade of his greatsword again before raising his eyes to meet hers across the fire. There was humor and self-deprecation in his smile. "I'm still here, my love. Culture and learning and knowledge and etiquette will always be a part of me. 

"I believe in the pen and the page and knowledge and reason. They are what make men better. What help us strive toward a more civil world. They help us to understand deep mysteries, and teach ourselves about wonderful facets of life unseen and unexplored by most. They are as important as the sword. But in their time. In their place. And this is not the time or the place for pens."

Silmaria stretched out, her body curled toward the warmth of the fire, basking in it as she arched her back sinuously. "You are a strange, complicated man, my dear Master Rael."

Rael grinned, arching a brow at her as he slid the greatsword back into his sheath, and took out his dagger and began to sharpen it in turn. "Me? I'm the complicated one? This from the woman who is fierce and aloof and self-confined, yet shares her deepest self until her heart bleeds. A woman who has been raised in the ways of the servant, yet can read and write and reason like a scholar. A woman who has been beaten and battered in body and spirit and yet has the tenacity to brave the kind of storm that would kill a strong man, and the courage to face down a raging bear."

Rael rose, and stalked over to her side of the fire. Silmaria stared up at him, sprawled out along the ground, and her smile was slow and sleepy and entirely welcoming. The swell of her breasts pressed at the neckline of her shirt, and it had ridden up to bare the taut, flat expanse of her belly, where her pelt was a fine, pale white fading into orange at the outside of her rounded hips. 

"From a woman who desires sweet nothings of love whispered into her ear," he said, his voice dropping into that low tone as he crouched over her, bending down to hover his face over hers. His eyes took on a wicked, wanting glint, and his smile was taunting. "Mixed with kisses and curses and hands that are cruel."

"What can I say?" Silmaria murmured as her lashes shadowed her narrowed eyes alluringly. "I never was very good at keeping things simple."

Rael smiled, and bent down to press his lips to hers. Then he quickly sat up and turned his head away, and began to cough heavily, until he was near out of breath from it.

Silmaria sat up and rubbed at his back, and then chuckled softly, "I think maybe you need to sit this one out."

When his coughing fit was finally past, he took a deep breath and scowled unhappily. "Unmanned by a damn cough, like some frail sickling. The hells is wrong with me?"

The Gnari girl laughed softly and hugged him, and pressed a kiss to his cheek just above the coppery growth of his beard. "Don't worry. I'll never tell."

They bedded down shortly after that. Rael laid on his back with Silmaria's head resting on his chest, with the small woman curled around his side. Her tail flicked idly under their shared blankets, thumping lightly against his leg. Rael's arm wrapped around the Gnari, and his hand lightly caressed along her back, tracing the fine, delicate contour of her spine, rubbing in slow, lazy circles between her graceful shoulder blades.

"You're beautiful," he said softly into her ear.

Silmaria squirmed slightly against his side. His breath tickled the sensitive hairs of her ear, but not unpleasantly so. "I'm not beautiful. Just different."

"Beauty isn't made by being different. Nor is it unmade by being different. Beauty just... is. You're different. And you're beautiful."

The Gnari shrugged, and scrunched up her face. "I've never thought of myself as beautiful. If I were beautiful, people wouldn't hate me so much."

"That's the being different part," he replied. "Most people can't understand or accept people who are different. It's ignorant. And foolish. And none of it makes you any less beautiful."

She smiled, a trace of sadness at the corner of her lips. But she was warmed by his kind words kissed his chest softly. "Thank you, Master."

Rael's hand raised and he ran his fingers through her hair, his fingertips pleasantly grazing her scalp as he looked down at her. "You don't have to call me that, you know."

Silmaria turned her eyes up to him, her brows raised. "What? Master?"

"Yes," he nodded, looking into her eyes in his intent way. "Or Lord. Or Sir. Any of those honorifics."

Silmaria's brows furrowed in thought, and she carefully said, "But you are my Lord. And my Master. Why should I not call you those things?"

"Because I'm not a Lord anymore. I'm a fugitive. And you're not my servant anymore," he said, thinking it obvious. "You're my partner. My lover. My love."

"Yes," Silmaria agreed, her eyes never leaving his. She raised her hand to cup his cheek tenderly. "And you are my partner, and my lover, and my love. And you are also still a Lord. My Lord, and rightful head of House IronWing, which is still a Noble House no matter the horrible things that have happened. And you are still my Master, too."

"But..." Rael began.

"Listen," she interrupted him. "My mother once told me something, shortly after we began serving in House IronWing. She said, no matter how long I am a servant, no matter how long I work to serve Nobles and Lords and Ladies, to never call a man, 'Master'. A man can be a Lord, and a man can be a Noble, and you can be his servant and do his work and tend his House and his lands and his holdings, and that is a fine thing, a respectable thing.

"But when you call a man Master, she said, you have given him more than a Lord's due. Call a man Master, and he is more than a Lord. He is more than a Noble. And you are more than a servant. Or maybe less. When a man is a Master, he owns you in deeper more meaningful ways than a Lord ever could. A Master possesses you completely, without reservation. And you serve him without reservation. With everything you are. Blindly, even. Knowingly blind.

"That kind of devotion, and that kind of possession, comes from two things, she said. Deep fear," Silmaria explained, "Or deep love. And sometimes, in some people, from both. Both of them, fear and love, can be equally dangerous if you let those things settle deep in you and you allow a man to master you through them."

Rael studied her closely as she spoke the words, his eyes tracing her earnest face. She could tell he was struggling to understand.

"It's a surrender," she told him. "It means that I have accepted your total control and power over me."

"But you don't have to do that," he said gently. "I told you. You're not a servant to me anymore."

"But I am," Silmaria replied, and she smiled softly up at him. "Understand, my Master Rael. I am a servant. I have been for almost all of my life. I loved your father. Very much. And he loved me. But even as I loved him, and he me, I continued to serve him. Not because he required me to, but because I wanted to. Because I needed to. For me, part of loving a person is serving them. Whether it be serving them in the mundane duties of a servant tending a house and estate, or with my body, or with my heart and my presence and my kindness and support. It is an expression of my love. It is my way. And it's no different with you.

"I was your servant," Silmaria said as her hand rubbed gently along his chest, tracing the solid shape of toned muscle. "And I still am. I am also your lover. Your companion. Your partner. And you are my Master. Not because you are a Lord and I am a servant with no choice but to serve. But because I choose to. Because I choose you to be my Master, and to have all of me. Every piece of me, every last facet of my flawed and loving and devoted being, I place in your hand."

Silmaria leaned up and brushed her lips to his, softly, tenderly.

"I want you to have me. All of me. I yield myself to you, in my completion, because I trust as my Master, you are strong enough to hold all those fragile pieces safe from the world, and wise enough not to crush them in that same strong grasp."

Rael kissed her, firmly and softly at once. He tasted her lips, and her hair was between his fingers. Silmaria, true to her word, yielded to him, and gave herself over to his kiss.

When he at last pulled back, he drew a deep breath, and the breath tasted of her, and it was her he drew into his lungs, filling his being with the essence of her. He pressed his forehead to hers, close. Silmaria gazed into his eyes, bright and shining with emotion.

"I understand the gift you are offering me," he said somberly. "I understand the faith, and the trust that requires. I accept your gift, and I promise you that I will always try to be worthy of it, my lovely one."

Seeing the understanding, the acceptance, and the love in his eyes made Silmaria's smile radiant indeed. "You are already worthy, my Lord Rael. I would not offer all of myself and all of my love to you if you were not." 

Rael kissed her once more, and squeezed her tight.

They lay together that night, quiet and at peace, under the bright light of the god-hawk star's ever watchful gaze.

*****

Thank you as always to my loyal readers, and those who continue to send me their feedback, good and bad. I know this one took a bit, I fell a bit behind because of real life concerns, and also reasons. I know there wasn't a whole ton of eventful stuff in this chapter. I'm a sucker with a guilty pleasure for lore building, and was in that mode. 

I received some feedback, both positive and negative, regarding the 'Master/Lord/Sir' title usage in this story, specifically after Rael and Silmaria have gotten together. Believe it or not, the above scene was planned and almost entirely written before those bits of feedback were received, but that showed me I was on the same wavelength I guess. I hope the explanation cleared things up a bit.

Please continue to tell me what you all think! Feedback is important, and really helps me gauge if I need to make adjustments or I am hitting all the right spots! More to come soon.



DarkFyre Ch. 19



*** 
All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 
***



Never had the sun shone so bright and warming north of The Teeth before spring had even come. The breeze was chilling and sharp as it rolled off the mountains and swirled along the rise and fall of the open hilly country, but next to a lifetime of winters in the North, the breeze here was but a refreshingly cool caress. 

The wind touched everything. It combed through the flat plains to the south, teasing patterns from the high, dense grasses. Ripples and waves, and the constant, minute movements of the face of an ever shifting and changing sea. The breeze ruffled through the leaves of tall and twisting trees both solitary and crowded together, like fingers stroking through a lover's hair.

The plains were not as frantic with life as they would be in the spring of course, even south of The Teeth. But there was still plentiful plant life to forage for, and enough wild things scurrying about in the tall browning grasses to hunt and trap. Small birds with vibrant orange plumage at their throats flitted between trees. They tittered shrill rebukes when the pair passed under their treetop perches.

Rael stood at the precipice of a hill that sloped steeply down toward the grasslands, and took a long drag from his water skin. The day was pleasantly balmy, the sky clear and vastly blue as it stretched expansively overhead. Aside from a few small puffs of cottony clouds, the sky was empty, an immense void of azure space broken only by the fiercely radiant disk of the sun streaming light and warmth over all. The great Johake plains stretched out at his feet, wide and open, an enticing spread of brown and green grasses flowing and undulating under the wind's playful sway. The promise of the horizon was unbroken except for a few clusters of trees spread here and there, and stretched out to meet the blue of the sky with wide and welcoming arms. The Teeth towered in their harsh splendor at his back, a wall between worlds built of sterner stuff than anything mortal hands could conceive.

Their journey was arduous. Food and clean, fresh water were always a concern, and while predators were rare and not much of a concern, his encounter with the cave bear left him acutely aware of the wild things they shared the land with. More pressingly was the concern of the Haruke. It was rare for them to venture into the hilly regions at the feet of The Teeth. They instead preferred the flat and expansive lands of the plains further south in the Grasslands, especially near the fresh water sources where the grass was shorter and hunting more plentiful. Still, there was always the possibility that some small nomadic tribe would venture farther north than their usual migration, or some hunters would strike out into a new area to find game. 

Despite these fears, Rael was enjoying himself. The weather was lovely, the land bountiful, and the views unfamiliar and beautiful.

Best of all, of course, was the company. Sharing the road with Silmaria was joy itself. As they journeyed on, the pair continued to explore and become comfortable in their new intimacy. It was a fine and precarious thing, balancing the serious and somber needs of the journey and their still quite dangerous situation with the moments of tenderness and smiles, playful conversations and sharing moments of newfound love. 

Rael knew he was not always easy to cope with in times of stress and danger. The Knight became sharply focused on the gritty and unpleasant business of surviving in untamed lands, trying to guide their way forward, and being wary of any possible dangers and hazards in their way. He was sure there were times when he was not as kind as he should have been.

Silmaria weathered his moods well. She understood his need for seriousness and practicality. Moreover, she learned from him and adapted, and seemed to do her best to shape herself to his moods and moments of focus, something that he was sure was no easy task. For his part, Rael did his best to remember to be tender, and patient, and to remind her of his appreciation for her efforts.

And truly, her efforts were important. Silmaria worked hard not to hold Rael back or be a detriment, but even contributed many useful skills and talents that made their journey easier. Silmaria learned from him all the time, and knew how to set up and run camp as well as he. Though Rael was well versed in cooking in the wild and took his share of that duty, Silmaria had worked with Cook back at the Manor long enough to make their food more flavorful and enjoyable, even out in the wild with little resources at her disposal.

One of her biggest contributions were her senses. Silmaria's eyes and ears were much finer than his own, and it was she that went scurrying into trees to get the lay of the land, look for land marks, and spot any sign of other people in the area. Likewise, though they both hunted, Silmaria's sharp senses gave her a natural advantage in tracking prey.

Silmaria continued to work with the longbow, getting more proficient with it. Her aim and accuracy developed rapidly, though she continued to struggle with draw power. Still, the more she practiced, the more strength she was building, and it did not exhaust her the way it once did. Rael made his own makeshift bow, carving out a supple and strong branch and twining together a string. It didn't have the power or range of the longbow, but it gave them two bows to hunt with instead of one. Between the traps and snares they set and the both of them hunting regularly, they wouldn't be going hungry anytime soon.

More importantly than any of that, Silmaria gave him companionship, trust, understanding, and love. She was a constant source of reinforcement. There were times he wondered and doubted, as anyone would, if he were following the right path. Were there answers at the end of this journey? Would there be vengeance, and redemption at the end of this mad trek to the south? Silmaria was there, then, placing her small hand in his and looking up at him with absolute faith in her eyes.

In those moments, looking into those beautiful slitted emerald eyes, Rael knew his path was right and true.

The Nobleman grunted in surprise as something thunked into his skull from overhead. He rubbed the top of his head, bent to retrieve the offending object, and rolled the small, hard apple in his palm.

"Woops," Silmaria grinned down at him, and her soft laughter was joy itself, a melodious tune to write songs of. Rael smirked up at her and arched a brow.

"It slipped," she explained, laughing again from where she stretched out among the branches and scant leaves in the great old tree atop the hill. From her tone and the impish glint in her eyes, Rael felt sure that, whether it had truly slipped or not, Silmaria was not displeased with the result.

"Anything of note?" He asked her. 

"Besides the apples?" Silmaria asked cheekily.

"Besides the apples," Rael confirmed, and caught several more that she passed down to him.

Silmaria sat astride the branch, her legs dangling, and bit into one of the apples. Her brow furrowed with thought. "I'm not sure. I see... something, way off in the distance. Right on the edge of the horizon. It's so far off I can't tell what it is."

"Try," Rael returned, his eyes suddenly deathly serious. "Is it a settlement? A camp?"

"I can't tell. They're smudges and what looks like...wait..." The Gnari squinted and peered off into the distance, and then her eyes widened a bit. "What the hell? That looks like smoke! I'm not sure... but I could swear it is, rising up from those shapes on the horizon!"

Rael pressed his lips into a tight, thin line, then gave a curt nod. "Cooking fires. Probably a tribe of Haruke nomads."

"Are they insane?" Silmaria shook her head. "There's chest high grass as far as I can see! They could put the whole Grasslands up in smoke!"

"They'll have cleared a wide area of any grass where they're making camp right now," Rael explained. "The Haruke are very conscious about the dangers of uncontrolled fire."

"Well that's reassuring," Silmaria muttered darkly. She looked down at Rael with a look of concern. "Do you think they know we're here, Master?"

"No," Rael shook his head. "If they knew we were here we'd know. To let us go unchallenged, even for a moment, would be unthinkable for them."

"So what do we do?" Silmaria asked, struggling to keep the nervousness from her voice.

"Continue on our way," Rael said with a nod. "But carefully, and quietly. We have the mountains at our backs, so we won't stand out against a horizon when we take to high ground, so that's good. We keep our eyes and ears more open than ever."

Silmaria dropped down from the tree. Real reached up and caught her, gripping the slender woman in his arms and lowering her to the ground.

She smiled up at him lightly. "My eyes and ears, you mean."

"Yes," Rael nodded, not even attempting to deny it. He bent to kiss her, briefly but deeply, a hungry, loving kiss that stole her breath and left her up on her tip-toes searching for more.

The Nobleman brushed a thick strand of black curls from her eyes, and then gently rubbed her pointing feline ear with affectionate fingers. "We'll have to be very careful about fires from now on. No more during the night. And only very small and brief ones during the brightest part of day to cook any food. Preferably if we can find somewhere in the land to give us good cover."

"That's alright," Silmaria murmured with lips still happily tingling from their kiss. "It's warm enough for us to go without fire anyway if we get good and warm under the blankets. And your cough seems to be gone, for the most part."

"Thank the gods," Rael said grimly as they gathered up their apples and resumed their march east.

"You don't believe in the gods," Silmaria reminded him as she laced her fingers with his. "You believe in the sword, remember?"

"I never said I don't believe in the gods," Rael countered. "I just don't believe the gods, or the god, or whatever is out there, isn't what people believe them to be. Anyway, I'd sound the fool thanking and praying to a sword, wouldn't I?"

"You would," Silmaria laughed, "But it would be pretty entertaining, at least."

"Is that what I am, then? Your entertainment?" Rael said, teasing her.

"No, of course not. You're my wonderful Master and love. I would never imply less of you, would I?"

The smile she flashed him was of endearment and utterly unconvincing feigned innocence.

"Yes, yes, wonderful," he smirked. "And don't forget to add dashingly handsome in there, too."

"I dunno," Silmaria said, and then laughed as she stepped in front of him. She stared up at him, smiling her impish, wicked smile, and reached up to tug at the bright coppery red growth of his beard. "You might be handsome. If I could see a face under all these wild whiskers of yours."

"They're keeping my face warm at night," he complained.

"It's not cold anymore, and we're not in the mountains, so there's no more need for a mountain man beard," Silmaria countered.

Then she smirked challengingly up at him. "Besides, oh Master of mine, your beard may be keeping your face warm at night, but it's itching the hell out of me when your face is between my legs. I think I'm at risk of developing beard burn. I've heard that can be pretty debilitating to a girls sex life."

By the next morning, Rael's beard was gone.

***

For near three weeks they traveled through the hilly country at the feet of The Teeth on the northern border of the Johake Grasslands. Their days were peaceful, but tense; they never did see any further sign of Haruke near them, but that initial scare was enough to keep Rael vigilant and wary the rest of their journey. By extension, Silmaria's own mood was somber. She constantly felt eyes following her every movement. They traveled quickly, and carefully, sticking to the shadows and always making for the cover of trees or tall grasses when able. The weather was fine and the breeze held the promise of spring come early, the smell of new life and green things. It carried notes of a land that yielded to the warmth of a strengthening sun instead of fighting it, and the tantalizing prospect of easy hunting in the days to come.

Yet neither of them enjoyed it, really. Their eyes were turned ever southward, watching and worrying.

The land changed gradually and all at once, like a runner slowly building its pace before launching into a full out sprint. The Teeth fell away to the north, circling up to meet SkySpear, the mountain range that formed the east border of the Dale. The gentle rolling hills and spacious flatlands of The Grassland's yielded to the short, squat rocky crags and red veined valleys of The Reach.

The Reach was a hard land full or rock and stone. There was none of the lush, tall grasses and vegetation's of Johake's vast plains.

Oh, but there was life, certainly. Green things lurked, timid but hardy. Vines crept and snaked and spiraled out between the abundance of rocks all around The Reach, entwining their way up cliff faces, finding purchase in every crack and fissure, in the stones. The vines were undeterred where there were no cracks or fissures to hold to; centuries of patience and persistence yielded their own special crevices to make their home. The vines creeped and crawled, sprawling out in a vast network of greens and browns and knotted tendrils and stiff, broad little leaves. There were bushes, too, dense little hardy underbrushes in varying states of green and brown, dressed or undressed with small, thickly clustered leaves. Perhaps, in a few weeks or days or moments, when spring truly took hold, there would be eager little flowers blooming, a riot of colors on a backdrop of brown cliffs and red clay and smudges of struggling green.

For even in The Reach, there was vibrancy. In the red clay of the earth, bright and startling and thick as blood, and as beautiful. The dusty browns of the rocks and crags, muted and complimented by the dark greens of the dense scrawl of vines and bushes covering everything and creeping over the rocks, an unrelentingly patient tide slowly overwhelming the very stones. 

There were trees, too, most of them dotting the deeper valleys between the rocky formations and plateaus, but also spread along the slopes and sides of the great rocks all throughout The Reach. They clung to whatever spot they found purchase, small bands of brothers and loner's alike. All standing testaments of stubborn, enduring strength. The trees were withered, knotted fellows with bare, twisting limbs stretching forth in all directions, searching. They gripped at their companions with bony reaching fingers in struggle, or perhaps embrace. Those separate and alone led a solitary, longing existence, and they reached most desperately of all. 

What they yearned towards, only the trees knew. And trees, as everyone knows, are the very best keepers of secrets.

Rael led them several miles east into The Reach. It was further than strictly necessary, but he had no desire to chance an encounter with any Haruke skirting the edge of The Grasslands. Journeying through The Reach was different from traveling the Grasslands, and often strenuous; there was nothing remotely resembling a road in The Reach, for two reasons. Firstly, as the ancestral homeland of the SkyRacers, roads had been largely uneeded in The Reach for many centuries. The winged folk had little use for roads. And second, even after GroundBorn began to live in The Reach in greater numbers, the lay of the land with its frequency of rocky ranges and formations and deep, cleaving valleys made any practical road a near impossibility.

The lack of roads and being forced to navigate around and often across the ungentle terrain was not their only hardship; hunting was less abundant in The Reach. There was game to be found, but it was more difficult to come by than in Johake. Water, too, was hard to find. Rationing their water became a necessity, and they were constantly looking for a small stream or a shallow pool of water in the valleys or spilling in a gentle trickle from a natural spring between the great rocks.

It took Silmaria time to adapt to the new land, but adapt she did. The Reach was as different from Johake Grasslands as The Dale was different from both of them. It was strange to be traveling through these different places. Strange and hard, and wonderful. She had only imagined these lands, only envisioned what a truly mild climate could be like. How could she have ever thought she would spend all of her life in the North? 

How could she have let all this pass her by? But for heartache and tragedy and treachery, she would never have known the dance of the grasses like the ebb and flow of the ocean waves undulating as high as her head, waiting to drown her. Nor the depth of crimson in the clay of The Reach's hills and valleys. Or the sharp, harsh beauty of its rock formations, all jagged stone lurching in pointy brown surges, hard and fearsome. The formations were ever, imperceptibly changing, like angry ponderous giants shifting at the speed of centuries. 

Never would she have known these wonders if she hadn't left the North.

The journey was as hard and harrowing as it ever was, and Rael's pace was unforgiving. But somehow, Silmaria couldn't bring herself to care. She was with the man who held her heart in a grip dangerously strong and kind.

And, gloriously, she was out in the world, exploring lands ever shifting under her stride with the wind sweet on her tongue.

Free.

***

Rael came awake immediately; he was and always had been a light sleeper, and even minor disturbances would rouse him to alertness. 

In this case, the not-so-minor disturbance came from Silmaria, sitting upright beside him. One small hand rested on his chest, and the other slipped under the waist of his pants, searching. She was lit by the silvery light of the full moon. Her eyes were wide, staring down at him. Her breathing was coming quick and shallow, her ample bosom heaving. The Gnari girl looked unsettled and there was a desperate air about her.

"Sil?" Rael asked softly, watching her. 

Her slender fingers wrapped around his cock, and a shudder ran through her. "The Stirring, Master," Silmaria panted quietly. Her fingers ran along his dick, and already Rael's flesh stirred and thickened under her sensual, longing caress.

"It's bad... gods, it hurts... I ache so... please, Master, I need you," she practically whimpered. Rael stared up at her, taking in her stricken face. It had been so long since she was last struck by Stirrings that he'd near forgotten about them. Now they were returned with a vengeance it seemed, and the intensity of the girl's need left her shaking and unsteady.

Rael reached up and cupped her face, his thumb brushing at her cheek as he stared into her wide, pleading eyes. "Tell me what you need."

Silmaria's hand was sliding along his cock now, pumping the thick, engorged flesh with her small little fist. Her fingers spread around the fat, throbbing girth of him. She stared into her Master's face, her slitted green eyes nearly swallowed by the black of her pupils, giving her eyes an almost trance-like fervor.

"Use me, Master," she said, her voice thick with lust. Her hands worked at his pants, and then she had his heavy cock out and exposed, and she had eyes only for the flesh she yearned for most just then. "Use me however you want, and use me hard, I beg you! Make it stop!"




DarkFyre Ch. 19



Those words spoken, Silmaria slipped down and pressed the broad flat of her tongue firmly to Rael's cockflesh. She ran her tongue from the base of his cock upward in a long, firm lick, dragging as slowly as she could stand to go. His taste flooded her, spreading on her tongue, strong and musky and masculine and distinctly, unmistakably him. Silmaria had tasted more than a few cocks in her years, and none made her mouth water quite the way the flavor of her Master did. By the time she reached the swollen, bulbous plum of Rael's cockhead, saliva was dribbling from her full, lush lips and slipping down the impressive length of his meat.

A long, ragged moan dragged from her throat at the simple act of tasting him. She was trembling, quivering as she shifted to lay between his slightly spread legs. Her big, wide eyes stared up into his face, holding her Master's gaze as she opened her plump, plush lips and plunged his proudly erect cock into her mouth. She took him deep, her lips and jaw stretching wide to accommodate his thickness as her supple mouth filled with cock. Silmaria's tongue worked along the fleshy muscle of Rael's meat even as she drew more and more in.

Rael's powerful hands slid into the curling tumble of the Gnari's black hair, gripping at either side of the finely pointed feline ears atop her head. Newly awake, he nonetheless responded almost immediately to his love's surging need. Silmaria took him in deeper, deeper still, stubbornly and hungrily sliding down until his cock was plowing its way into her supple, clutching throat. Inch after bloated inch of dick disappeared past the tight 'O' of her lips. Silmaria stared into his eyes all the while his cock lodged down her throat, even when she began to softly gag and choke and the muscles of her throat constricted roughly around his shaft.

Her head began to bob and sway, rising and falling rapidly. She slurped wetly and her lips and tongue voraciously worked at Rael's sensitive flesh, drawing him in and out. She feasted on him. She gorged on him. All her senses were deliciously overwhelmed, her whole world full of Master Rael's cock. The taste of it, the smell of it, the rigid, iron hard flesh under the soft, pliant skin, the warm pulse of it throbbing deep in her throat. Silmaria moaned and whimpered and gurgled, the vibrations of each noise vibrating along the length of Rael's pulsing shaft.

The Knight gripped Silmaria's hair in his clenching fists, and he thrust his hips forward, hard, burying his cock down her throat roughly. He pressed forward, deeper, deeper still, until Silmaria was choking and gagging on his cock while he fed his flesh down her spasming throat. He pressed in until her lips trembled around the base of his shaft. Finally, he gave her some slack, letting her head jerk up so she could gasp in a breath with only the bulbous, distended head of his cock in her drooling mouth.

As soon as she drew in that shuddering gasp of air, Rael yanked her head back down. His hips lunging upward to fill her throat once more. He stared down into her face, watching her, his eyes glinting with a cruel love that made Silmaria's belly clench into a tightly balled knot. 

Her love and Master began fucking her face hard, working his powerful hips to drive his cock in and out of her pliant, welcoming throat. She slurped and suckled, her tongue wildly sliding along his plunging cock, stroking him, pleasuring him as he took what he wanted from her. She gave all she was to him gladly, knowing he would demand more, and she could deny him nothing. Her lips trembled, puffy and bruised from the force of his thrusting cock. Saliva ran in sticky, glistening rivlets from her stuffed mouth until it hung in messy ropes from her chin. 

Silmaria didn't care. She didn't care how wicked and depraved she must look. She didn't care that her scalp hurt where he gripped her hair or that her throat was raw with use or that she got lightheaded as he held her face down, her nose pressed to his pubic bone with his heavy cum-filled balls warm and weighty on her chin. She didn't care, because this was what she craved, what she needed, what she wanted with a desperation she didn't even fully understand. She needed him. She needed his use. She needed to service him unreservedly.

Unreservedly, yes. But not unselfishly. Oh, no. There was nothing unselfish about how potently and perfectly she got off on the abusive way he claimed her mouth. Nothing unselfish about the deep satisfaction she reaped in having him use her throat as his own personal fucktoy.

She was his love, and he was hers. He was her beloved Master, and right then? He was using her mouth without mercy or tenderness, as roughly and completely as he would any common whore on the street.

And there was absolutely nothing unselfish about how deeply it scratched the unrelenting need of her Stirring.

Silmaria swirled her tongue along his flesh, feeling a distended vein throb along the side of Rael's sizable cock. He buried deep in her throat, holding his cock down her gripping gullet, and he was so huge, so very hard and fat. It felt like he went on forever, an endlessly delicious cock she forcibly swallowed. He held her there, his fingers cruel and demanding in her hair. 

Her lovely Master choked her with his big, powerful cock, and she could do nothing but drool helplessly on his flesh as she suddenly and violently came, thrashing, her cunt contracting and milking desperately on emptiness while her screams came out as wet gags and slurps. Primal, primitive, whorish sounds that just served to make her pussy explode even harder.

The sensation of Silmaria roughly cumming while impaling her throat on his cock was too much to bear. With a loud, satisfied growl, his muscles rippling and contracting, he grit his teeth together and thrust forward, plunging his cock down the Gnari's vibrating throat as he came. 

Silmaria let out a sputtering moan as her Master filled her throat with thick ropes of hot, sticky seed. Burst after gooey burst splashed down into her belly, warming her. Her thighs clenched hard and she tugged her head back to keep just the head of Rael's erupting cock in her mouth. She slurped loudly, moaning and whimpering as he emptied himself into her willing mouth. Rope after rope of jism splashed sloppily in her mouth, coating her tongue in the rich flavor of his potent seed. She swallowed again, sucking hard, slurping down his plentiful load until that coil in her belly was wound tight once more, and then for a second time, violently snapped.

She was a whimpering, mewling, quivering mess. The second orgasm was so overwhelming, heightened by the Stirring and the intense focus of his roughness, that Silmaria was lost for a moment, unaware of anything but the throbbing surge of blood in her veins, pounding in her temples and between her legs as her vision dimmed and blurred.

Rael drew his cock from her thick, full lips with a wet pop. He took a deep, shuddering breath. His cock still jerked slightly and his body was slick with pleasure-sweat. Silmaria slumped forward, sagging against him, her forehead resting against his hip as she heaved and panted, lost somewhere between the exhaustion of his rough usage and the jarring intensity of her release. 

But he knew, no matter how fulfilling and pleasurable she may have found servicing him to be, there was entirely no way that was enough to slake the debilitating need of her Stirring.

With sure hands, Rael grasped the shaking Gnari and shifted her. He efficiently removed the clothes from her unresisting body, leaving her exposed to his roving eyes and wandering hands. Silmaria's eyes were distant, as if she had gone... elsewhere.

His lips at her achingly stiff pink nipples, followed by his teeth, brought her firmly back.

Silmaria let out a strangled gasp, her back arching violently as she pressed her plush, heavy breasts into Rael's face. He tugged her stiff nipples with his teeth, stretching them lewdly. Silmaria openly yielded to him, basking in the sharp edge of his pain that cut so perfectly through the haze of her Stirring. Rael's tongue ran along her nipple, one and then the other, tasting her flesh as he yanked Silmaria's pants down her shapely legs. His lips suckled at one hard little nub, and then the other, and the Knight's insistent hand slipped between his wicked love's splayed thighs. Her cunt was dripping with wetness, slick sticky honey spilling down to stain her thighs and coat his exploring fingers.

Rael relished her pleasure, and her pain. She moaned, then practically screamed as he switched breasts, and firmly sank two thick fingers into her hot, gripping core. He pumped his fingers deep into the hungry wet sheath of Silmaria's needy cunt, working them back and forth as the Gnari girl bucked and thrashed for him, hips undulating wantonly.

"You are so shamelessly desperate, my lovely one," he growled into her ear after letting her heaving tits fall from his lips. Rael's fingers worked deeply inside her, curling upward to press along the roof of the girl's cunt to find that sweet, spongy spot that would be her undoing.

He knew when he found it. Silmaria lurched, yelping, and her fingertips gripped the corded muscle of Rael's forearm, even as she frantically pressed her sopping pussy into his hand and nodded furiously. "Yesss, yes I am, Master, I'm desperate and shameless! Oh, fuck, please!"

Rael's blood pounded wildly. It surged through his veins, alive with her, with the feel of her arousal, with the gasp and moan and sob of her need and the smell of her hungry cunt. Every yelp of pain, ever scream of pleasure fed his need, his want, his consuming drive to take her and possess her. To own her completely. His thumb found the hard, hypersensitive nub of her clit and began to work it in tight, purposeful circles as his fingers thrust and drove deeply into her, mercilessly dragging along the tender flesh of her gspot. 

He watched her, gauging her intently, and just as Silmaria's pants and gasps of pleasure reached a crescendo, Rael leaned down over her and bit firmly on the delicate flesh of her slender throat.

"Oh gods! Oh gods no, no, Master... oh, fuck yes!" Silmaria screamed as she came violently, her hips tilting upward. Her taut, strong thighs went painfully tense and began to quiver heavily as Silmaria squirted, her girlcum and abundant honey spilling and splashing out uncontrollably. She was sobbing, then, her jaw gritting as she rode out the violence of her orgasm, her release overpowering her senses.

Not allowing her a chance to catch her bearings, Rael rose up over her, holding her legs apart and leaving her plump pink cunny wide open and vulnerable. He lined up with her quivering hole and thrust forward, hard, lunging down onto her and burying his bloated cock into her. The hot, slippery, gripping warmth of her delicious cunt cradled his cock, swallowing his length voraciously in a desperately needy embrace. Rael grit his teeth and surged forward, driving, pounding into her and setting immediately into a powerful, claiming rhythm that left Silmaria rocking helplessly beneath him.

Silmaria felt her cunt split wide around Rael's violently stabbing cock and screamed. She clung to him, her arms flailing, small fingers gripping at the bulging muscles of his broad back and shoulders. Rael's hips slammed down into hers as he fed his engorged length into her welcoming slit. Silmaria felt full to bursting, her insides stretched until her pussy ached fiercely. The fullness was incredible. Pain layered on top of pleasure on top of pain, and on, an endlessly delicious cycle of agony wrapped in ecstasy.

Rael reached down to grab her wrists and pin them beside her head. She couldn't move. She was helpless, at his mercy, and he gave her none. It was too fucking delicious to bear. In the delirious throws of passion and need and want and insatiable fucking depravity of her Stirring, Silmaria relished every second of his control, every moment of being unable to do a thing but be taken and claimed and fucked by the man she loved most in the world. Rael held her down and used her, his cock spreading her cunt wider with every brutal downward thrust, and Silmaria came and came and came again, her cunt splashing out her lust and release as she yielded to his power.

Rael growled, biting her neck again, his sharp teeth giving focus to her pleasure. 

"Please, Master, oh please, hurt me more! Hurt me! Make that dark ache go away!"

Rael drew back slightly, staring down into her eyes. He gazed into the Gnari, and she knew he saw through her, down into the dark and twisted depths of who and what she was. It frightened her; it shook her to her core. She couldn't hide from him. She couldn't cover her ugliness, not from him.

She wanted him to look away. She needed him to look away. He saw too deeply and too truly, and she would give anything, would pay any price, for him not to see the filth of her. 

Silmaria thought she had long ago accepted herself for who and what she was, and the things she craved, and the deeds she'd done. And on some level, for the most part, she had. Yet there it was. In the deepest, darkest corners of her, she was wretchedly wicked in a way she could never fully forgive. In a way she never wanted anyone, ever, to know.

And he was looking right at those darkest of places, the parts of her she hated deeper than she could even acknowledge.

No man should see a woman so plainly.

The Gnari stared into the same places. Into the dark carnality of Silmaria that she never dared to gaze on too long, lest she lose herself. Looking left her on the precipice of utterly shattering into a madness of self-hatred and shame-fueled regret.

All it would take was the right turn of the wind, and she'd be undone.

Rael's hand reached up to cup her cheek. His palm pressed warm and strong to her, and his fingertips cradled her head up toward her hairline. His touch was a tether, a bastion offering sanctuary from the overwhelming storm of her emotions. The Nobleman's hand was gentle, and infinitely patient.

Silmaria met his gaze with glossy eyes. Her chin quivered. "Master... I'm sorry. So sorry."

"Hush now," Rael said. His voice was soft and warm, and brooked no argument. His big hand shifted down to her chest. He placed his palm on her breastbone, and his fingers fanned out wide. Silmaria could feel her heart jumping violently against his palm.

"All I need to know is here. All I want is here. And there is nothing here that I do not love or accept. Nothing that is not beautiful and wondrous and precious to me. I am not afraid of what is here. You shouldn't be, either."

Tears spilled down the Gnari's cheeks. She couldn't say which ones were of joy or sadness, relief or regret, love or shame, but she certainly had more than a few of each. 

"I don't deserve you, Master."

Rael brushed her tears away, and his smile was small but sincere. "I'm exactly what you deserve, little one. No more, and no less."

Silmaria stared up into his eyes, studying him. She struggled inside. She was too raw and overwhelmed by too many emotions and sensations to even know what against. 

Whatever it was, her struggle came, and then just like that it was done. She gripped him tight and leaned up to kiss him deeply. She drank him in through that kiss, deeply and hungrily, as if that kiss were the very essence of her bond with him, and that bond was all in the great wide cruel world she had left to cling to. Rael returned her kiss fervently, his lips strong and confident, his hands gripping her, and he was once again her steadfast anchor in the mad tempest of her passions.

Silmaria drew back, breaking the kiss as the Stirring came roaring back to the forefront, overwhelming her once again. For the briefest moment, she was disgusted with herself. She hated that she could go through such a wild array of near crippling emotions, just for her blind, potent libido to overpower her again.

Then Master Rael's hands gripped her arms, hard. She gasped, the pressure of his fingers bringing her back to the present. He stared down at her, eyes full of knowing. 

She didn't question it anymore; he understood her. He accepted her. She could try to do as much.

"Make it stop," she pleaded softly. "Hurt me. Please."

So he did.

***

Silmaria pressed her face into Rael's chest and let out a slow sigh of exhaustion. Rael pulled her in closer, his arms wrapped around her tightly. His embrace was near crushing, but she didn't complain. She needed that. The sureness of his strength.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to avoid crazy women like me?" she asked, but her tone was light.

"Mostly I've been told all women are crazy, so there's no real avoiding it," he returned.

Silmaria smiled against him and burrowed deeper into his arms. "I think I'd be offended, if it weren't true."

Rael reached down to gently roll one of her soft ears between his thumb and forefinger. "Understand, my lovely one. Everyone is nutters. Everyone. We are, each and every one of us in this world, well and truly crazy. Damaged. Flawed. The world is too ugly and hard a place not to be, and people in general are too wretched and toxic to not make each other warped. You're crazy, love. And I'm crazy, too."

"You could've warned me," she muttered into him. 

"You wouldn't have listened," he smirked, then looked thoughtful. "Loving someone is a new experience to me. But I've always thought that loving someone isn't about finding someone who isn't crazy. It's about finding someone who is right enough for you to make the craziness bearable."

Silmaria looked up at him as he spoke, studied the play of moonlight over his strong features. She quirked a brow at him when he'd finished, and her lopsided smile was charmingly impish. "You know, I'm beginning to think you led a battalion of philosophers at the warfront as opposed to actual soldiers."

Rael snorted softly. "Not far from it. Soldiers were the first philosophers, after all. Too much time to think about death and life and the plight of humanity before and after battles. It's wax philosophical or crack your brother's head in with a rock as a way to cope with the stress. Waxing philosophical tends to win out."

Silmaria traced a fingertip along the grooves in his shoulder. "So which do you keep sharper, hmm? Your pen, or your sword?"

"Depends on which is going to do more damage at the time," Rael grinned. He shifted and rose to his feet. 

"I'll be back in a moment, I need to take a piss," he said.

Silmaria rolled her eyes and, grinning, said, "Glad to see the toils of traveling haven't dampened any of your charm."

Rael chuckled as he pulled on his breeches. "At least I don't just drop trou without a word three feet from you and let go."

Silmaria shot him a glare. It was half-hearted at best, but all the glare she could really muster just then. "Hey! I was holding it for miles, and you kept pushing to keep moving! I couldn't take it anymore!"

Rael laughed and gave a playful grin, then stepped away from the soft glow of their small fire and into the night to go urinate.

Silmaria smiled to herself and rolled onto her side, curling up in their blankets and bedrolls as she stared into the softly shifting flames of the fire. She was sore all over, and filled with a deeply satisfied achy feeling. The man knew how to hurt, and hurt good. She was glad of that; it was rare for her Stirrings to be quenched so well, though it had taken several hours to do it. But here she was afterward, spent, exhausted, wonderfully used and sated. Best of all, most of her doubts and fears were gone with the Stirring.

Most. But that was more than she usually hoped for, anyway.

She still didn't understand how she got so lucky. Most men, upon getting so much as a hint of her dark and twisted ways, either condemned her as a worthless whore, or saw her as nothing but an object for their gratification. And getting off on her own wantonness and wickedness was well and good...but at some point, she needed love and tenderness and comfort as much as the next girl.




DarkFyre Ch. 19



Or perhaps just a bit more.

This was a concept she'd long ago given up on men understanding. To the point she'd thought it futile to even think on anymore. Master Edwin had been a rare exception. But then, even he hadn't seen to the depth of her that Master Rael had.

She wondered if she could ever look into herself the way Rael did, and not see something wretched and horrible. 

So wrapped up in her moment of self-reflection, Silmaria didn't notice the soft steps of the men striding on near-silent feet until they were upon her. 

Even in only the moonlight she could tell their skins were sun-blasted a dark, swarthy bronze. Their ebon hair was tied into rows of braids all flowing down their back. Their garb differed from man to man, but were mostly of cloth, supple leather and animal pelts. Charms and tokens were tied into their braids and beards, animal bones and fine feathers and claws and tusks, and the finger joints of slain men. Eerily, their trinkets made no noise when they walked, and they moved with unnatural quiet for such large and powerful men. Coal black eyes peered at her as dark as the night surrounding them. Their weapons were crude and rudimentary, but the men held them with the air of competence that suggested the weapons had already spilled blood amply. 

Memories of tales about their treatment of women flared up in her mind. She'd never seen men of their kind before, but there could be no mistaking who, and what, they were.

Somehow, despite being long gone from their lands, the Haruke had found them.

***

Well, hell, that ain't good.

Thank you as always to my patient and loyal readers, more shall be coming soon so tell me what you all think!



DarkFyre Ch. 20



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

*****

Silmaria's heart beat violently, thudding unpleasantly in her breast. As the men stepped into their small camp she swallowed and fought to ignore the rising tide of panic threatening to drown her entirely. There were half a dozen of them, all armed and stepping with the confident, easy swagger of men who were comfortably acquainted with a great many kinds of violence.

Dark eyes roved over her. She saw a flare of desire here, a glint of lewd interest there. Mostly, they looked curious, and perhaps a touch surprised as well. One of the men nudged the other and pointed a short, notched iron blade toward her as he spoke in a thick, rolling tongue she didn't recognize.

Silmaria's gaze flicked to the movement in the shadows behind them and glimpsed Rael crouching behind the jagged rise of a rock formation a few yards away. He caught her eye, and gave a single, curt nod as he held up a hand: Wait.

The Haruke men spoke back and forth in their strange language, gesturing toward her. Deciding what they would do with her, she was sure. Silmaria bit her lip, trying desperately to be calm as she looked up at the men. Resisting the urge to bolt up and run, or to stare at Master Rael expectantly, was tormentingly difficult.

At last, the first man who spoke said in thickly accented, broken Common, "You. Woman. Woman is... is alone? Here?"

Silmaria swallowed and nodded. "I am alone," she said slowly, and her voice cracked with fear. 

One of the other Haruke men, the one with half his head scalped while the other hung with braids that dangled to his waist, scoffed. "Untruth. Women never alone, here. Reach. Is not to be doing."

She could see the doubt in the other men's eyes. Her eyes wanted badly to rebel and flicker to where she'd seen Master Rael. She forced her gaze to remain focused on the men. She did not know how to speak to the men without sparking some outburst; all the tales held that they should be busily raping her already. But oddly, the men did not seem in a rush to debase her. Indeed, the men seemed more thoughtful than the barbarians the stories made them out to be.

"This woman is doing," she told them, and now her fear made her bold and gave a touch of defiance to her voice. "I am not the women you know. I am not afraid."

"Woman is stupid, then," the first man spat into the sputtering fire. "Bad things in Reach. Dangers. Dangerous men, too."

"Woman stupid. And untrue. Not alone," another of the men insisted vehemently. "Woman alone in Reach, alive? It is not to be doing."

Another of the men spoke up. His common was much clearer, though his accent was still thick and rolling. He regarded Silmaria thoughtfully. "They are right. You are stupid if you are out here, alone. And if you were stupid, you would not be alive. There is a man here with you, somewhere, I am thinking."

The men nodded agreement. Their eyes drifted at last from her and began to cast about in the darkness.

Knowing that this could be their undoing, Silmaria made a desperate gamble. 

"There are no men here but you," she said, struggling to keep her voice calm, and even suggestive. The Gnari woman stood, letting her blanket fall away, to stand naked before the men. She rested a hand on her curving, rounded hip, letting it jut seductively to the side. Once again, all eyes were on her, and the men drank in her body, all exotic coloring and toned, shapely curves, her smooth, flat belly and lushly formed hips and buttocks, her firm, strong thighs and generously soft breasts.

Silmaria's heart was pounding so hard her chest hurt, but she showed nothing of that. "And that's a shame, because I've been in terrible need of a man's company lately."

She half expected one or all of them to close the distance to her and take her then and there. She played a dangerous, deadly game, but it was the only hand she had left just then, and she would do anything to keep them from finding out her Lord.

With a sway in her step, Silmaria came a few paces closer. She regarded the men through hooded eyes, displaying her flesh fully and openly, even reaching up with one hand to meaningfully brush her fingers along her ripe, buxom breasts. "It's just me out here...and it's been very lonely."

Most of the men's expressions changed, losing the wariness and distrust in favor of unfeigned desire. She shivered as they stepped in closer, and bit her lip. 

Hurry, Master, she thought frantically, willing Rael to act, and bracing for the worst.

"Something is not right here," one of the men, the one who spoke coherent Common, said. His distrust lingered as he eyed her. He said something in the Haruke tongue. The man closest to Silmaria barked a guttural reply, and reached for her breasts with grasping hands. She went tense, shuddering.

Rael's dagger whipped through the air to violently burry into the back of the reaching man's neck at the base of his skull. The man gurgled around a throat full of blood. The crowd of Haruke warriors stared, momentarily stunned, as their comrade fell to the ground.

Before the men could fully react Rael was already on the man closest to him. He slammed into the Haruke's back and grappled with him, gripping and holding the man from behind. The warrior let out a curse and struggled wildly, thrashing and twisting to try to face his unseen attacker. Rael's face was a wrathful mask, his lips drawn up in a snarl. Silmaria saw the glint of violence in his silver eyes. The wild, savage spirit he kept tucked away was out and raging. He bore the man down beneath his powerful weight, driving him to the ground. When the man spun to face the Knight, Rael slammed his forehead into the Haruke's nose, shattering it with a wet snap. As the man let out a wail of painful outrage, Rael tore the dagger from the man's hands and plunged it into his skull.

The world blurred into motion. One of the other warriors came at Rael, loosing an undulating battle cry. Silmaria didn't have time to see what came next; naked still, she exploded into a sprint as the two men closest to her, one to her left and the other to her right, rounded on her. By then she was already moving, making for the mound of rocks to her left that formed a stretch of formation rising about forty feet overhead.

The Haruke on her left leapt into her path with an ugly curse. Reacting instinctively, Silmaria leaped forward with all her might, using her momentum to slam into the man. The man wasn't ready for the reckless tactic and the feline projectile knocked the breath from him and drove him to the ground.

As it often did, desperation and fear made her fierce. The man brought the iron crudgel in his hand up, but he was dazed and Silmaria swifter, and the Gnari viciously slashed her frightfully sharp claws across the man's throat, tearing open his airway. Blood burst forth as the Haruke clutched at his shredded windpipe.

Silmaria leapt to her feet, moving before she had time to watch the light die in the dead man's eyes.

The rocks were treacherous, jagged and hostile. But Silmaria was well suited to climbing. She bounded up the rockface, her strong claws gripping at the tiny crevices too small for fingers to fit. She scrambled agile and sure footed up into the rocks. The Haruke chased her, but his pace was crawling compared to hers. Silmaria stared down at him and sneered unkindly, baring gritted teeth as her eyes flashed defiance.

"Cat Bitch!" The Haruke cursed her in his broken Common as he struggled up the cliff.

Silmaria found a loose stone the size of her fist and whipped it into the top of the man's dark, braided head. He let out a cry and dropped with a weighty smack of meat onto the ground below, then rolled to the side, groaning miserably. Silmaria spat at him and then tossed another sizable stone at him for good measure.

Safe for the moment, her attention went to her Master. Rael had dispatched the Haruke who'd leapt at him, and now faced off with the last standing member of their group. It was the man who'd spoken clearly before, who had been the least inclined to fall for her ruse. 

He was shorter than Rael by almost a foot, and much smaller of build, but he appeared capable nonetheless, with a sort of lean, solid strength. His hair was long, tied at the back of his neck into three thick black braids that fell half way to his waist. His eyes were lighter than his fellows, nearly hazel. Cunning, clear eyes that spoke of an experienced and calculating warrior.

The man had the foresight to stand between Rael and where the Nobleman's weapons remained bundled with his pack. The Haruke shifted his grip on his dagger, holding it at the ready as the two warriors regarded one another. "You are far from your lands, Cold One. What does a Daleman do here?"

Rael didn't flinch, didn't let the keen edge of his focus slip for a moment as he slowly circled the man. "I could ask the same of you. Grasslander's don't take well to The Reach and its rocks. You're a stranger here as much as I."

"Our business is ours. It is not for Cold One's to know," the Haruke replied.

"It doesn't matter," Rael said. "I've no interest in Haruke's affairs. I came to The Reach to avoid your folk, and I'd as soon let this be the end of my brush with you."

"It cannot be. You are Daleman. I am Grassman. You kill my brothers. You see us. You will tell DarkFyre that Grassmen visit the Flyers. This cannot be."

Something flittered, ever so briefly, across Rael's face; a flash of confusion, or perhaps curiosity. Then his jaw set in that expression of unbending will.

"Then it seems we are at an impasse," he said in a voice as calm and soft as a looming and patient death.

"Yes," the Haruke agreed. Then, his eyes flickered to where Silmaria perched up in the rocks. "Your woman?"

Rael bristled, and he bared his teeth in a snarl. "Don't look at her."

The Haruke gave the ghost of a smile. "She kills like a man. A good woman. She does not try to kill again, we will let her live."

Rael's eyes narrowed. He stepped to the side, circling to the left. The Haruke followed his example, and the two men began the slow, purposeful steps of a dance that would end in death. "But we have seen you. We cannot live. You said it yourself."

"You cannot live," the dark haired man corrected. "You are a Daleman. A warrior, I see this. You can tell the Cold One's, and maybe they will act. Not she. She is a woman. Who will listen? No-one. If she does not try to kill, we will let her live."  

Rael studied the man intently for a moment, then nodded curtly, seeming to accept his words as truth.

"Novasio Farlock," the man said in the Grassland Tongue. 

"A good death," Rael agreed.

As one, the men exploded into motion, lunging forward to meet in a tangle of limbs and power and fire-lit death. Silmaria watched, breathless and anxious. The Haruke slashed with his dagger, the blame gleaming and flashing in the night. Rael weaved away, slipping out of the blade's reach and then skipping forward to try to bear the smaller man down with his body. But the dusky skinned warrior was no fool and circled, balanced on the balls of his feet. His blade whipped about, cutting and then stabbing. Rael retreated, and the man pressed the advantage, aggressively stabbing with his blade, moving swift and deadly.

A flurry of movements later, Rael caught the man overextending. He looped his arm around the Haruke's lead arm, gave a twisting jerk, and the dagger fell to the dirt. The Grassman fought back, and the two warriors grappled, struggling one against the other. Rael was larger and more powerful, but the smaller man was experienced enough not to try to match the big Knight with power. Instead, he used his small, nimble size, and his cunning. He twisted around Rael and kept moving, not allowing the bigger man to get a sure grip and apply his full strength. He drove his forehead into Rael's face, making the Nobleman curse and spit blood.

So it went, for several moments, the Haruke using his speed and his wits to stay a step ahead of Rael. But Rael was patient and tenacious, unrelenting. At last, he managed to get a good hold of the smaller man and drove forward as his leg swept the Haruke's feet out from under him. Rael drove his weight down into the man, slamming both of them into the ground with the Haruke caught beneath him. The air went out of the Grassman's lungs in a wheezing rush.

Before the man could suck in a lungful of air and twist free, Rael was on him. He straddled the man and gripped him about the throat with one hand, pinning his head to the dusty ground. Rael's huge fist came down, driving a thunderous blow into the man's vulnerable face. And another, and again, dropping his weight and size behind each blow. The Haruke jerked and writhed, trying desperately to escape, but each blow made his struggles weaker, until he went limp, unresisting.

Silmaria swallowed softly, watching as Rael beat the man into the ground. Blood from the Haruke's shattered nose soaked into the clay, red on red.

At the foot of the rock formation, the Haruke she'd stoned was struggling slowly to his feet, spitting dirt from his mouth and reaching with confused fingers to the wet surging of blood from the rip in his scalp. The Gnari moved quickly and slipped down a short way along a slope in the rockface, grimacing at the graze of the rock along her bare backside, then launched herself from the rocks, arching through the air to land atop the man. She smashed into his back and bore him down to the ground again. 

The Haruke cried out in painful surprise, sprawled face down with the Gnari on his back. Before he could even begin any feeble struggles, Silmaria gripped a handful of his hair and smashed his face into the ground. He went quickly limp, senseless.

Rael was standing over the motionless warrior, shaking the ache from his bloodied hand. Silmaria came to him and wound her arms tightly around his. 

"The other one? The one who chased you to the rocks?" Rael asked.

"He's out. Might be dead. I don't know, I didn't check. I think he's just unconscious, though."

"Good enough," Rael nodded.

She looked down at the prone man. His swarthy face was battered, his nose broken, and a large cut bled across his brow.

"Is he...?"

"Alive," Rael grunted. "Though he won't thank me for it. He'll be shamed, when he returns to his clan. Might even be exiled."

Silmaria reached up and wiped the blood from where it dripped from Rael's split lip. "Why didn't you just kill him, then?"

"He fought well," Rael said with a shrug. "His code of honor says to fight well means he should die well. My code of honor says if a man fights well, you don't kill him if you don't have to. If I'd had to kill him, I would have. But he's no threat now. His brothers are dead. By the time he or that other one get their senses back enough to be any kind of threat, we'll be long gone from here."

Silmaria nodded, then pressed against him tightly, wrapping her slim arms around Rael's waist in a desperate hug. Rael put his arms around her, squeezing her tight, letting her feel his tired strength. She soaked in his solidness for a moment, saying a silent praying to whoever was listening, thankful that he was alright.

"We'd better get out of here if we plan on being gone when they wake," she said at last. Rael nodded, brushing her hair back. 

"You did well," he said.

"I managed," Silmaria said with a frown. "I ran. You could have been killed, and I wouldn't have been a damn bit of help."

Rael gripped her shoulders in his powerful hands, meeting her eyes firmly. "You were unarmed. They had you surrounded, surprised, and naked. And you still took care of two armed warriors. You did the best thing you could have. Getting away from them meant they couldn't use you as a hostage against me. It was the wise thing to do. We're both alive, and got out of that unharmed. I count that a win any day. Give yourself credit where it's deserved, because I do. Understand?"

"Yes, Master," Silmaria nodded slowly, staring up into his eyes.

"Good girl," he nodded, and bent to kiss the top of her head. "I'll get our things packed up and we can get the hell out of here. Throw some clothes on and keep lookout. I've had enough surprised for one night."

***

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Master?"

Rael tossed another log onto the building fire and wiped the dust from his hands. "We still have to be careful, of course. But we're two days march from where we left the Haruke, and we covered a lot of ground. They have no idea which direction we were going, and besides, they weren't in much condition to pick another fight any time soon. We need to cook the kills we made today, and we need to keep warm. It's been getting pretty cold at night lately. It'll be fine."

"If you say so, Master," Silmaria nodded. She continued to skin one of the plump hares she'd taken down earlier that afternoon. "Do you think there are any more of them out here?"

"Not likely," Rael replied as he retrieved their cooking supplies from one of the packs. "Their little group was sent into The Reach for a specific purpose. The quick and quiet sort."

"Any guesses on what that would be?"

Rael shrugged his broad shoulders. He took the hare Silmaria hadn't skinned yet and got started on it while Silmaria began cooking. "It's pretty hard to say. But the Grassman I left alive... the smart one. He said something... I don't recall exactly what it was. But it was something about the Grassmen visiting the Flyers."

"The SkyRacers?" Silmaria asked.

"Right," Rael confirmed. "It would make sense. There's not a whole lot in The Reach of interest aside from the SkyRacers. The Human and DemiHuman settlements out here are small and inconsequential. Outside of Ser, there's no real kingdoms or organized nations."

"What do you think they would be meeting with the SkyRacers for?" Silmaria asked as she cut up one of the hares to throw into a stew.

Rael looked up into the fire. It was blazing merrily, now, the flames cracking and popping aggressively. A strong, willful fire that cast shades of orange and gold to overlay the reds of clay and rock. The fire reached skyward, stretching toward the legions of resplendent stars with hot fingers.

"I can only speculate. The only thing that makes any sense to me is, they're looking to the SkyRacers to form an alliance against the Dale."

Silmaria looked up with a touch of alarm. "They're trying to get the SkyRacers involved in the war? Would they even do that?"

"No idea," Rael replied. "The SkyRacers don't typically get involved with foreign conflicts. But then, I've never heard of the Haruke seeking aid from non-Grasslander's. They're getting desperate. Or the war is reaching a turning point."

"And if the SkyRacers allied with the Haruke..."

"It could be bad," Rael finished for her. "Very bad. The SkyRacer's don't have the military numbers that DarkFyre or the Haruke have, but attacking from the sky gives them an advantage the DarkFyre's military isn't prepared for. With Haruke on the ground, DarkFyre's forces would be hit high and low. It could change the tide of the war."

"And there's nothing we can do, is there?"

Rael's silver eyes turned thoughtful. "Whenever we get to a settlement, I'll try to see if I can get a messenger raven sent to the Dale with a message for Galin. It may not help; I don't know how much pull the old dog has anymore, and he said the Knights are watching him closely. And hell, all this speculation may be completely wrong. We just don't know. But that's the best we can do. They're certainly not going to listen to me if I come running with a report."




DarkFyre Ch. 20



Silmaria nodded and bit her lip, worried. It was all guesswork and hearsay of course, but she had learned some time ago that Rael had a good sense about these kinds of things, and his logic was sound. She hoped that he was wrong. Maybe the Haruke's visit to the SkyRacers was about something entirely unrelated to the North. 

She didn't want to think about the very real possibility that, when all this was done, they may not have a home to go back to.

***

The midday sun beat down on the red land of The Reach with ambitiously sedated heat, a false-start of summer days yet to come. Rael and Silmaria emerged from a shallow and jagged edged valley that took the better part of the morning to navigate. Rael had been on guard during the whole march through the valley, his greatsword propped on his shoulder at the ready while he and Silmaria scanned the rocks rising around them. Too many vantage points and hidden crevices rose around and above them on all sides. Too many places bandits or worse could lurk, waiting to ambush the unwary. Rael would have preferred to avoid the valley altogether, but the land spat out dense cliffs and rock formations and miniature mountains in an overbearing rush to stretch before them on their southbound trek like piles of coagulated blood. It was the risky exposure of the valley, or days of extra travel through the treacherously inhospitable rocky terrain.

When they emerged from the valley back onto flat land a clearly defined road took shape, the first real road they'd seen in The Reach thus far. It had the distinct rut of well-worn cart tracks grooving the dusty road. It extended off into the distant southward, gently winding and shimmying across the landscape as it scratched a slender slinky line toward the horizon.

Rael and Silmaria paused in the shade of a tall old tree beside the road, sheltering beneath the gnarled boughs and stubborn foliage defying the dry heat of the land while they drank from their waterskin's and watched the road spin its way out before them.

Silmaria stowed her waterskin back in her pack and peered out over The Reach. The road extending out before them and there was a range of red mountains in the distance. Around them was the undulating, ever-changing terrain of hills and valleys and twisting clusters of rock. Her sensitive ears twitched, bothered by the dust that frequently swirled through the air on the hot breeze.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not as pleased to see this road as I am?" She asked, arching a brow at him.

Rael smirked and scratched thoughtfully at the short length of coppery red beard dusting his jaw. "I wouldn't say I'm displeased. This is a good sign, really. If there's a road, it has to lead to somewhere. And it seems to get a fair bit of traffic by the look of it. But that means we have to be cautious. There's less cover from here on, and where there's a road and travelers, there are bandits looking for easy prey."

"I feel sorry for whoever decides we're 'easy prey'," Silmaria quipped, leaning into him. 

Rael smiled, putting an arm around her and squeezing. "It definitely wouldn't be the encounter they anticipated. Still, I'd as soon not deal with the hassle."

"So do we avoid the road, then?" she asked.

Rael thought for a moment. "No," he decided at last. "By the looks of it the road will get us south and close to the Weeping Lands a lot faster than hiking through the countryside. We take the road. But we stay cautious, and alert. Keep your bow at the ready, and be prepared to make for the high ground at the first sign of trouble."

"You need to teach me how to fight," Silmaria asserted as they gathered their things and made their way down the road once more, both of them scanning their surroundings constantly for any sign of life, hostile or otherwise.

"Based on how many men you've managed to take down so far, I'd say you know how to fight quite well already," Rael pointed out.

"That's not the same," Silmaria protested. "I managed, in desperation, using surprise. I caught all of those men off guard. It's not the same as fighting someone directly."

"Isn't it?" Rael challenged. "I've got news for you, my lovely one. If you think it's a good plan for you to take on a man head on, blow for blow, then you're making a big mistake. Don't get me wrong. You're a strong woman, and tough and very capable. But you aren't as strong as a man, especially a trained warrior. Your strength will give before his, every time."

Silmaria frowned, hurt. "Well, thanks. That gives me a lot of hope."

"You aren't listening," Rael said, gently but firmly. He reached out and gripped her shoulder, bringing her eyes up to stare at him. "You're not as strong as a man, Sil. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you won't be crippled by it. What you are is fast, and agile, and cunning. You have a talent for taking people by surprise. You act quickly and decisively, and you have a good sense of when to strike to take advantage of someone's vulnerabilities. On top of all that, those claws of yours are an inborn weapon that no man is prepared for.

"All of these things can make you deadly, Sil," he explained. "Strength and power are not the only way to fight. You saw the Haruke we left alive. He was much smaller and weaker than me, but using his skill and cunning and speed, he was able to hold me off better than most men."

"But he still lost," Silmaria pointed out stubbornly. 

"Not for lack of being a capable and talented fighter, or from being less of a threat for being weaker," Rael explained. "He lost because I was more experienced than him."

Silmaria shrugged, feeling petulant even as she tried to get past it. "I understand what you're saying. I guess."

"But you still feel like you need to be better prepared for trouble," Rael offered.

"Yes," Silmaria nodded.

"Then I guess we're going to have to start preparing you," the Nobleman replied.

Silmaria looked up at him, and a wide grin spread across her face. "Really?"

"You're strong enough and tough enough to handle learning to fight," Rael replied. "And the better trained you are, the less I'll have to worry about you."

"Oh, Master, thank you!" Silmaria laughed and turned to launch himself at him, curling her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

Rael returned her embrace, crushing her up in his strong arms before lowering her to her feet and looking down into her face. "It won't be easy. It's going to be miserable pretty often, actually."

"I know," Silmaria said soberly. She stared up into her Lord's face with serious emerald eyes. "But I want to learn. I want to help. I know I'll never be the warrior you are, but I need to be able to help you and do my part. That shouldn't stop just because a fight breaks out. I'd be doing a poor job of serving you if I did any less."

"You know you don't have to serve me in anything, Sil," Rael pointed out.

"No. I don't have to. I choose to," Silmaria replied. She stood up on her tiptoes, reaching for a kiss. "It's my way. I want to love you the best way I know how."

"Who am I to argue with that?" Rael chuckled, and bent to kiss her.

***

The sun dipped to kiss the horizon. The many shades and glossy bursts of crimson lacing through the clouds and smearing across the heavens like so much spilled paint matched the land of The Reach perfectly. Silmaria slowed her pace beside her Lord love and stared hard into the distance.

"There's a building, Master. There, along the roadside."

"Is there?" Rael replied, his brows raised curiously. "Can you make out any details?"

"Not much just yet," Silmaria replied. "It looks like some kind of small compound. There's more than one building. They're larger than a hut...tall. That's all I can tell from this distance."

Rael rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully.

"What do you think?" Silmaria asked. "Could it be safe?"

The Knight shrugged. "One way to find out."

The cluster of buildings were of modest quality but sturdily made. There were three buildings, all of them large and expansive and housing many rooms. Two of the buildings stood side by side settled back away from the road. A courtyard and garden divided the two buildings from the third, larger building which stood alone at the roadside. All three buildings featured roofs shingled from the red clay found all throughout the land. The wooden walls were freshly varnished and clean. Fanciful and intricately worked carvings etched the borders of the buildings by someone with a deft hand for woodcraft and an artistic flare. The west most building in back had a finely made oval stained glass window set to catch the light of the rising sun. A long enclosed corridor joined the two buildings in back, allowing traffic to move in comfort between the buildings even during the region's short but aggressive rainy season.

The building with the stained glass window and the building close to the road were both two storied, while the eastern building in back was short and wider than the others. A wrought iron gate enclosed all three buildings, with a tall double gate that was thrown wide open. The iron crest hanging over the gate matched the crest carved into the solid oak door set on strong iron hinges at the front of the building closest to the road; a tower with a flame dancing atop the uppermost battlements, with the doors at the foot of the tower open in welcome.

Silmaria stared at the crest, her smooth brow furrowing thoughtfully. "I know that sign."

"You do," Rael nodded as they stepped through the iron gates. "It's the crest of Sren of The Twelve, god of travelers, roads, and the unknown."

"Sren of The Tower," Silmaria nodded slowly. "His Sigil means sanctuary and security and succor for travelers and the lost and those away from home."

"Just so," Rael nodded. "This is probably a place of worship for Sren."

Silmaria chewed lightly at her full lower lip. "Do you think they'll help us?"

"Sren's biggest precept is aiding weary travelers," Rael stared at the big building before them. "I think they'd be open to doing what they can, at least. Let's go see how agreeable they are."

As it turned out, the Brothers of the Tower were very agreeable. Rael led the way into the building by the roadside and they found themselves in the open space of what was clearly an inn's common room, complete with a scattering of scar-topped tables and wobbly old chairs, lanterns hanging from the low beams in the ceiling, and a hearth with a small kettle hanging from a hook arm over the flames that bubbled out a richly aromatic scent that set both their bellies to growling. A man stood behind a bar to their left that led back into what could be reasonably assumed to be a kitchen. Beside the bar, nestled into the corner shadows, was a staircase that ascended to the floor above. 

The man standing behind the bar top with a shining bald pate and a round face looked for all the world a typical bored innkeep, except he wore the robes of a monk-priest under his flour dusted apron instead of common clothes, and the copper choker clasped around his neck was engraved with Sren's Sigil.

The Brother-turned-innkeeper spotted them and gave a wane but kindly smile. There were a few other patrons seated around the common room, but it was largely abandoned. 

"Be at peace, my young friends. You are welcome here. Please make yourselves at home." The monk wiped his hands with a cloth that hung from his apron and nodded them to a set of stools set at the bartop. Rael and Silmaria sat, Silmaria glancing about warily as Rael nodded to the Brother behind the bar.

"Good afternoon, Brother...?"

"Ricard," the brother-named-Ricard supplied, and held out a work-rough hand, which Rael shook firmly. "What brings you two to our fair home?"

"A long road, low supplies, and too long spent between beds and proper baths," Rael replied, to which Silmaria nodded vigorously.

"Well you two are in luck, then," Ricard smiled a bit wider. "We of the Brothers of the Tower have all those things to offer in plenty, for as long as you wish to stay."

"What is this place?" Silmaria asked the man. "It seems strange that Monks would run an inn. Or that an inn would be the chosen place of home and worship for monks. Whichever it is."

"It is both," Ricard explained. "We of the Brotherhood are an order devoted to offering shelter and succor to travelers. It is our mission and our sworn duty as followers of Sren, who is the father of all travelers and nomads. 

"Our Brotherhood make our homes and worship halls in remote places that see many travelers coming and going. We host inns and lodgings and places of rest with our temples and worship halls, that we may worship our god and contemplate his mysteries, while carrying out his virtues of offering shelter and sanctuary."

"That's very kind of you," Silmaria offered.

"It is our duty, and our privilege" Ricard said. 

"Thank you, Brother," Rael nodded. "How much is it for a night and whatever food is fresh?"

Ricard motioned the question away with one hand. "We do not charge wayfarers for that which we are blessed to provide. Shelter and food are free, the holy gifts of Sren. We do accept donations, however. Whatever you might wish to give. Donations help us purchase supplies to run the inn and our own lodgings, and go toward the eventual building of our Tower."

"Your tower?" Silmaria asked, arching a brow.

"Indeed," Ricard's smile was generous, and the subject was obviously dear to him. "All worship halls of the Brothers of the Tower strive to build a Tower. It is the highest honor a sect of Brother's can attain, and the truest monument to Sren there is."

"A noble cause," Rael nodded. "We do not have much. But I will gladly donate fair compensation for any assistance the Brothers can provide."

"Wonderful," Ricard nodded. "What will you be needing from us?"

Brother Ricard brought them two generous bowls of the thick corn chowder hanging over the fire. It had chunks of roast duck, fatty and rich and filling. Rael and Silmaria ate slowly and happily as he and Brother Ricard discussed their needs, including lodging, food, and a good deal of supplies they would need for the road ahead. 

Silmaria sipped from a flagon of spiced mead. It was weak, but the flavor was very fine. Then again, after so long drinking nothing but water, Silmaria was sure anything short of fermented goat piss would taste fine. 

"I can't believe in a few short hours, I'm going to be able to sleep in an actual bed. It's going to be heaven."

Rael reached up to lightly rub the tip of one of her ears between his thumb and forefinger affectionately. "Traveling can give you a real appreciation for the simple things. The oldest, most worn out straw mattress can feel finer than the finest goose down pillows and beddings when you've been sleeping on rocks for the past month."

"Damn the goose down," Silmaria smiled at him, her tears twitching not-unpleasantly from his attention. "I'll give goose down up for life for a bath."

Rael couldn't help but chuckle; she as much as he was utterly caked in a thick, clinging layer of red dust, grime, and dirt. Clay was clumped into the creases of her clothes and matted into her fur. It colored the fierce tangle of her curling hair, startling red on black. Her clothes were in desperate need of a more thorough washing than the occasional rare stream could provide. Honestly, Rael doubted their clothes would ever be completely free of the memory of red. 

"You're lucky," Silmaria said as if reading his thoughts. "You can hardly tell the difference in your hair and your beard. It just makes the red redder."

"Yes, but it shows up just as well on my clothes as yours," Rael smirked.

Silmaria waved him off in feigned annoyance. "So you look like you've been on the road awhile. You're a man. You can pull off the weathered, road worn survivalist look. I just look... grungy."

Rael took her small hand and kissed the back of her red dusted knuckles, his bright eyes staring at her. "You, my little one, could walk straight out of a mud pit and still look ravaging."

Silmaria broke into a broad, radiant grin. She found herself thankful for the coloring of her pelt, for once, as it quite effectively hid her blush. "You Nobles and your sweet words and silver tongues."

Rael laughed and leaned in to press his lips to hers in a sweet, soulful kiss. It was unhurried and relaxed and drew her in, pulling the Gnari into the press of his lips that quietly took possession of her.

His tenderness, as much as anything, was her undoing.

When the Knight pulled slowly away, the Gnari girl nearly pitched forward on her stool as her lips instinctively followed.

"Why don't we get cleaned up and refreshed," Rael suggested into her ear in that tone of voice, all knowing and coyly devious. "And I'll show you the meaning of sweet words, and the true nature of a silver tongue."

A thrill ran rampant through Silmaria's being, trembling its way like quicksilver in her veins, pumping from her racing heart and settling like a heavy, sensuous weight in that special place in her belly. She licked her pouty lips and nodded, vigorously, while regarding Rael with great big cat-eyes full of want.

"Yes, please."

Rael gave her a lazy, casual smile filled with the sort of patience that made her frantically impatient. "Go on upstairs, my love. I'll tend to a few more bits of business, and be right behind you."

"Yes Sir," she agreed readily. She leaned in to kiss him, unable to hide the depth of her hunger when she tasted his lips. His mouth tasted of summer in the Dale, clear bright days with sunlight glinting off the ice capped mountains ringing their homeland. He tasted of kindness and crushing strength, fresh, cold springs and mountain pines. He smelled of oiled leather and gleaming metal, armor and swords and war and blotted ink staining his warrior's hands. He smelled of old vellum and fresh parchment and delicately rolled scrolls. 

He smelled of knowledge, and action.

He smelled of his father. Maybe that should have been troubling, but in truth, it was comforting.

Silmaria's slender fingers were wound in the copper of his hair before she realized it. Rael kissed her back firmly, and then gently, purposefully disentangled himself from her. He chuckled softly, smiling down at her, and there was love, and amused affection, and the burnished darkness of lust in his gaze.

"Go," he told her gently, "Or we'll skip the baths entirely, and we're both sorely in need of one."

Silmaria nodded, grinning happily. "Yes, Master."

Clearing her throat, Silmaria looked up at the inn keep as he returned from the kitchen. "Excuse me, Brother Ricard. I think I would very much like a bath now, if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," Ricard smiled, wiping his hands on the cloth hanging from the front of his apron. "I'll have the tub brought to your room and hot water drawn for you right away."

"Thank you, Brother," Silmaria smiled at the man, and with one last peck on her Master's cheek, she slipped up the stairs.

Rael's eyes followed his love's steps, and he was quite certain the rolling, swaying sashay of her hips that set her firm, juicy ass to bouncing was no accident at all.

The Nobleman turned his attention back to Brother Ricard and nodded to the man. "If you wouldn't mind, before you draw the bath, do you have any messenger ravens here?"

"We do," Ricard replied. "Brother Victus maintains a roost of messenger ravens behind the Brother's dormitories."

"Can any of them make the flight over the Teeth?"

Ricard looked thoughtful for a moment. "To DarkFyre Dale? I believe so, yes."

Rael nodded. "If you have pen and parchment to spare, I'd like to write a missive to a cousin in Trelling's Rest.

"Certainly," Brother Ricard nodded. "Give me a moment and I'll retrieve them."




DarkFyre Ch. 20



Shortly, Ricard returned with the writing tools Rael requested. The Nobleman penned out a short letter in his tight, cramped hand. As he wrote he said, casually, "Tell me, Brother. Any news in The Reach these days?"

The look Brother Ricard gave Rael was touched with befuddlement. "The Reach? I'm afraid there's not much in The Reach to make news of. Red rocks and red dirt and dry days and tired travelers passing between towns that realized too late that The Reach isn't a good place to live out your days."

"And what of the Airborne?" Rael asked as his pen scrawled across the sheet.

"The SkyRacers?" Ricard asked, then shrugged and scratched at his nose. "They're as they ever are, I suppose. Isolated. Alone. Quiet, and scornful, just the way they like it."

"Pity," Rael mused. "I'd thought of going to Ser. I've heard it is a place of wonder. But I guess they're no more welcoming to outsiders than the stories claim, then?"

"Probably less," Ricard grunted. "The SkyRacers keep their own council, and don't suffer visitors lightly. It is a shame, though, as you said. I've heard the tales myself. The city is said to be unlike any other."

Rael nodded and fell silent, satisfied that he would get no answers about the SkyRacer's from the monk. He sprinkled the pinch of sand that Ricard provided onto the ink to dry it, shook the excess off, and read quickly over his missive.

Galin,

Greetings, Cousin.

The road finds the kitten and I well and in warmer climes. We rest our weary soles for a spell before resuming our march on the long road.

I heard the most interesting news. The unending tide from the Grass Sea we both sailed on is on the move. It went east to the great hermit birds in the Red Nest. 

I don't know what became of that visit, but I find it passing strange.

Isn't that interesting, Cousin? I'm sure you and I are not the only ones who would find it so. There must be others who watch the patterns of the Grass Sea's tide, and would find this a most unusual development.

The road goes on. Our rest will be brief, but a swift reply might reach me before I gather my cat and move on. 

I would be very interested to know your thoughts on this matter.

Your wandering Cousin,

Ed.

Rael grunted. It was vague and intangible, but that was as specific as he dared be. Any number of spies could put eyes to the message before it was in Galin's hands. He had to trust that the old Knight would be able to take some meaning from his words.

"Here we are," Rael nodded. He folded the parchment and handed it to Brother Ricard, who took it with a gentle smile. 

"I'll see it to Brother Victus. The raven will be gone at first light."

"Thank you, Brother," Rael smiled. He fished a silver from his coin purse and slid it across the bar top. "I do believe that bath sounds mighty fine right now."

"Very good, sir," Brother Ricard smiled, pocketing the silver. "Very good, indeed."

***

The moon hung heavy that night, low and full of portent. The great old face in the sky was swollen, and there were flecks of blood about its pock marked face.

Brother Ricard sat in the modest den in the dormitories of The Brotherhood of The Tower.

His eyes, an overpoweringly ordinary sort of brown in the daylight, shone burgundy in the soft fire of the small, simple hearth.

The burgundy eyes scanned the tight, cramped hand writ out over the short letter one more time.

The Brother wordlessly flicked the letter into the fire.

"You are sure it is him?" the man in the shadows of the den asked. His voice held the cracking whisper of breaking glass.

"I'm sure," Ricard nodded.

"It will take a few days for The Empty to gather," the glass-voice said, fracturing, screeching, shards rubbing together and grinding their edges in a dark throat.

"I can stall them," Ricard assured his visitor. "They will stay. All will be in order."

"Do not fail us," the voice popped like the splintering of the stained glass of the temple outside.

"Never."

The voice was gone. 

Ricard began to shake. Failure would be death, and so much worse.

He raised his left hand and his sleeve fell away, leaving him staring at the intricate, long-forgotten runes burned into his skin.

***

...Yeah, then that had to happen.

*****

Please keep up the comments and critiques and love and criticism, everyone. It is, as always, the driving force behind these writings.



DarkFyre Ch. 21



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

Rael sank back into the large brass tub sitting in the middle of their room. The room's furnishings were modest, but the bed was large enough for them both to settle into comfortably as long as Silmaria curled in tightly to him, and the room was clean and tidy. The bedding was simple cotton spun, with a thick wool cover and soft, fresh straw stuffed into the mattress. There was a small ash wood table and two small chairs set under a shuttered window. A patterned rug made the room a bit more cozy, on which the brass tub sat.

Surprisingly, the tub was large enough that Rael could really stretch out his long legs and recline back in a comfortable way, which was something rare indeed. The water from Silmaria's bath had been drained and refilled with fresh, steaming hot water. He gave himself over to the hot water's soothing embrace. 

Allowing himself a rare unguarded moment, the Nobleman shut his eyes and willed himself to relax. It was more difficult than it seemed; being alert and on guard, ever ready for trouble had become a part of his life. His vigilance had kept them alive through the long weeks of their journey, true. But even he couldn't keep his guard up, always; his constant watchfulness was exhausting. 

"Hey, handsome," Silmaria called softly.

Rael cracked one eye to peek at her. Then both eyes opened wide.

His Gnari love stood before him, gloriously naked, her hands resting on the sumptuous curve of her lush hips while she regarded him with a curious expression. Rael hadn't realized just how much the toll of life on the road had changed her until just that moment. The rigors of their dangerous journey had transformed her, just as finally washing the road off had done likewise. 

Silmaria had always been fit and strong, but living on the move, walking for miles on end every day, climbing and hiking through hills and valleys and treacherous mountain passes and all manner of other hardships had trimmed and sculpted her body well. Silmaria was still amply curvaceous and soft in all the most delicious of places, but now her flat belly was taut with gently defined, feminine muscle, and her smooth legs were solid and strong, well-muscled in her shapely thighs. Her ass was sculpted and round. Two solid, tantalizing globes of fit, firm, grab-able flesh. She was still the same little slip of a woman she'd ever been, but her small stature and deliciously sensual curves were now complimented with an athletic sense of vitality and feminine strength.

Even more evident, she was glowingly beautiful now that she was clean. Which was not to say she hadn't been beautiful and alluring when covered in trail dust and the wear of the wild, of course. He'd found her every bit as desirable then. But now, freshly washed and brushed, her abundant black curls were light and silky soft with health, the true depth of their darkness revealed and begging to be twined around his fingers. Likewise, her pelt was healthier than it had been in some time, glossy and satin, with the richness of the whites and orange and black all mingling together in stark, exotic contrast. Even her face seemed refreshed, and her smile was radiant and proud when she noticed his eyes on her.

Silmaria came to him, her steps a purposeful feline slink. For a moment Rael's eyes didn't know where to go, so they settled on going everywhere.

"Have I told you lately how heartbreakingly beautiful you are?" Rael asked her softly as she perched lightly on the edge of the tub.

"You're just saying that because I'm not a dusty, dirty wildcat anymore," Silmaria laughed softly, the sound of smooth stones falling into a deep pool.

Rael smirked lightly. "Clean wildcat, dirty wildcat. Beautiful all the same."

"Sure I am," Silmaria said with a smile, and flicked droplets of water at him with her fingertips.

Then the Gnari bent to kiss him, soft and slow. After, naked still, she knelt beside the tub. Her movement was purposeful and careful, and Rael senses a shift in her demeanor. He had trouble placing the expression on her face, but the closest he could equate it to was focused. Calm, and somewhat reverent.

Silmaria grabbed the lump of soap they'd been given. She took one of Rael's large feet, dripping from the tub, and began to wash it.

Rael's brow rose. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Washing you, what does it look like?" Silmaria said with a light smirk before her seriousness returned. "May I, please?"

"I've never had someone else do it for me," Rael admitted with an awkward smile. Though it would have been well within his right and privilege as a Noble, Rael had never had anyone else wash him since he was old enough to do it himself.

"Please?" Silmaria repeated. 

Rael paused, noting the tone of her voice. And he realized then that this was as much for her as it was for him, if not more.

"Go ahead," he acquiesced.

Silmaria gave him a soft smile of thanks, and continued.

The girl handled her Master's body carefully, soaping up his sore foot with careful hands, getting it thoroughly sudsy and clean before beginning to massage his foot with surprisingly strong, small fingers. She worked her fingertips and thumbs, even her palms into his foot, the arch and heel, the top. Even his toes she paid special care to, thoroughly massaging him with that same focused, calm, if somewhat determined look on her face. Then she rinsed the soap from his foot, and moved her soapy hands up to his taut, hard calves. Her fingers worked at the thick bundle of muscles there in a slow, purposeful way, and then up to his knee, and the powerful swell of his thighs before switching to his other leg and repeating the process all over again.

Silmaria continued her ministrations to the rest of Rael's body. All the while, she maintained the same purposeful pace, the same reverent touch. There was a peace in her eyes, during those moments, a peace that spoke of a depth of love and devotion and a deep seeded need to serve and provide for his needs. Her care left Rael humbled, and his chest tight with warmth even as his body relaxed under her ministrations.

It was a strange experience, but wonderful. Rael had never allowed someone to so devotedly working at his body to ease his aches and pains and make him truly relaxed. Indeed, he was deeply, utterly relaxed just then; the aches and pains of the long road seemed to disappear under Silmaria's skilled fingers. 

He wasn't sure he would have enjoyed it in any other circumstances, and likely would have felt quite strange and uncomfortable. Silmaria's dutiful care, however, felt right.

The last of the soap was rinsed away from his body. Rael stood slowly, and stretched his back and legs with renewed vigor and health, feeling like a new man entirely.

Silmaria knelt beside the brass tub. She stared up at her Master as the water rolled off him in rivulets, little streams of the glistening water running along the many grooves of his battle-toned muscle and scared flesh.

Wordless and with the same careful, tender purpose, Silmaria leaned forward and took Rael's still dripping cock between her lips.

Rael let out a low groan of pleasure. Silmaria stared up at him, her big, bright green feline eyes never leaving his own strange silvers as she drew the full length of her Lord's dick into the warm, softly suckling confines of her mouth. Immediately Rael's cock began to grow, rapidly expanding and filling with blood and arousal. Silmaria kept her lips firmly nestling against the base of Rael's cock, letting it fill her mouth as her tongue played along the length of that swelling flesh. Even when his generous cock lengthened to slide down her throat, spreading her supple, slippery muscles there around the meaty girth, Silmaria held herself in place, swallowing him down with hungry little swallows.

Not until his cock was fully erect and throbbing, fat and jerking deep down her throat and Silmaria was softly gagging on his flesh, her muscles contracting and squeezing, did the Gnari at last pull back. She let his cock pop wetly from her mouth, and she gasped and softly choked with a thick rope of saliva dangling from full, trembling lips to drip down her neck and ample chest. As she gathered her composure, Silmaria stared up at Rael, her eyes glossed over with lust and shining with utter devotion.

Rael plunged his strong hands into the still slightly damp darkness of her lustrous curls. His hands found her delicately made furred ears atop her head, running them between his thumbs and forefingers. Silmaria shivered, that touch sending a primal surge of pleasure racing through her body, twisting along the pathways of her nerve endings and hopscotching down the length of her spine. She pressed her face to Rael's swollen, wet cock, nuzzling it, rubbing it against her cheeks and lips as she inhaled the scent that was so intrinsically and unmistakably him. 

"Master," Silmaria breathed just to hear the word on her lips, to feel it roll meaningfully off her tongue, the word and the tone and the weight of its meaning making the both of them ache for what she offered to him with that single, deceptively simple word.

Control. Power. Her devotion, undying. Unguarded, unrestrained access to all that she was. She laid herself bare, right there at his feet, offering all that she was.

His.

Rael stared down into those upturned eyes, and did the only thing he possibly could.

He took.

There was all of her, at his fingertips. Rael guided her head back to the rigid shaft of his cock and she went oh-so willingly. The girl ran her talented, agile tongue along the pulsing underside of her Master's heavy flesh. Silmaria traced the distended veins throbbing along the solid sides. Felt the beat of his strong heart and the coursing of passion burning in his blood. 

When Silmaria took Rael back into her mouth he gripped her head and began to thrust his hips in deep, long thrusts, driving his bulging dick down the sweet surrendering Gnari's supple throat. Silmaria moaned deeply, her head swimming with satisfaction as her Master took what he pleased from her. His cock throbbed with life as it thrust down her gripping throat, and she slurped, her tongue working over his flesh. He buried himself down her throat until her lips kissed the root of his meat, and she gave a wet, strangled gag. And again. And again.

Saliva glistened in sticky strands from Silmaria's puffy lips, shining threads of passion that dripped down onto her heaving tits. Silmaria was utterly filled with him, all her senses consumed and overrun with Rael. The smell of him. The strong, fleshy taste of him, peppered with the snatches of his sweet, syrupy precum. The feel of his powerful guiding hands in her hair and his engorged cock stuffing her hungry little mouth. The sound of his growl; the rumbling of it made her cunt clench violently. And his eyes, staring down into hers.

His eyes, as intense and focused and vivid as ever they'd been, and understanding more and more just how deeply he owned her. 

Rael grew rougher, his thrusts harder. Silmaria sucked and slurped and gagged, choking on her Master's cock until tears glazed over her eyes, and still she stared up at him. She stared at him as he choked her with his cock. She stared too as his forceful claiming of her mouth and throat made her tears spill over. And she stared into his eyes even still, as she reached between her splayed thighs and shoved three fingers into her cunt, and desperately thrust and screwed her fingers deep into her clenching pussy as she violently exploded, cumming hard as she screamed around Rael's impressive cock.

Rael jerked his dick from her throat, and Silmaria gasped in a huge lungful of breath and collapsed onto the floor, trembling and twitching. Rael stared down at her, sprawled on the floor, her knees bent with her hand still trapped between her strong thighs, sticky and wet. Her breasts bounced with her gasps, coral pink nipples vivid against the creamy white of the velvet pelt along her belly and the generous round mounds of her tits. Her hair, clean and glossy and silken was disheveled and hung forward to hide her face.

The Nobleman gave a soft growl, his desire ignited into a raging inferno. He easily gathered the smallish woman into his heavily muscled, powerful arms and carried her to the bed, where he placed her on her belly. 

Silmaria began to stir, but before she could even fully rise, Rael gripped the round, supple swell of her ass and pulled it up into the air. Silmaria gasped lightly, her eyes going wide, and then Rael's powerful hands parted her solid buttocks and the hot, wet press of his tongue dragged firmly along the valley between her cheeks, from the drooling cleft of her slippery pink slit up along her crack and over the tight, quivering pucker of her asshole. Rael's talented tongue worked along her anus, circling the fluttering ring of pink muscle, swirling along her delicate rosebud in a deliciously wicked erotic dance.

"Oh fuck, oh Master, yes," Silmaria moaned, her breath coming out in a frantic pant. She pressed her ass back, wiggling, eager for his attentions in whatever form they took. Rael licked at her pert, clenching asshole, prodding it briefly with the tip of his tongue before he shifted his attention back down to her pussy. 

His hands, powerful and rough, kneaded and squeezed the Gnari's lush ass as Rael plunged his tongue into the quivering depths of his love's fragrant pussy. He lapped and sucked, his mouth filling with the distinct flavor of her. The silky sweet stickiness of her arousal was a delicate treat that quickened his lust all the more. Silmaria moaned and whimpered, and she writhed beneath him as he feasted between her legs.

Once Rael found the hard, tight little swell of Silmaria's clit, it took but moments before the Gnari came again, screaming. Her back arched as she pushed back into his hands and torturously talented mouth once more. Her flanks trembled and her muscles tensed deliciously as ecstasy raced through every taut fiber of her being. Before her first orgasm fully died down Rael cruelly, and wonderfully, began to lightly worry and nibble and nip at her clit with his sharp, oh-so lovely teeth, making her cum again, violently now, a great burning explosion of pleasure-pain slamming her in the gut and radiating through her in great, racing waves. 

Silmaria shrieked. And screamed. Then she sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure and unexplainable release running down her cheeks as firecrackers went ballistic behind her eyes. Her pussy contracted, desperately gripping at nothing, and great gushes of sticky wet pussy juice spilled from her in shining rivulets down her wiggling legs.

Rael watched, felt, and tasted every last moment, and he reveled. Reveled in her pleasure and her pain. Reveled in her release, her spiral into that deeply gratifying, desperately needed pleasure. He basked in her surrender, and fed on the primal, overwhelming sexuality that was His Silmaria.

"M-more...please," she whimpered when at last she could breathe again. Her voice was raw, full of tears. Twitchy with overstimulated nerves and gut-wrenching lust.

"Tell me what you need," Rael rumbled behind her as he trailed a solitary, powerful fingertip slowly up the drooling length of her heated slit.

He knew. He asked her, even though he knew. And she knew it. He asked her to make her say it. To make her speak it aloud. To make her face it, that she wouldn't try to hide it or deny it. 

Because she couldn't. 

Not to him.

"Hurt me."

Rael pressed his finger deep into her core. 

Yes. Oh, fuck yes. 

Pressed inside her, swirling in her clutching wetness, caressing inside. That was good. But it didn't hurt. It wasn't scratching that part of her itch, wasn't sating that need. Almost, she wondered if he was denying her this time.

Then he surprised her. Silmaria let out a soft gasp, her eyes fluttering when she felt the press of his thick finger retreat from her cunt to move to her exposed, vulnerable little pucker of an asshole. She bit her lip, stifling a moan as he circled her anus for a few tantalizing moments. When the slow, patient, steady pressure of his finger pressed to her rosebud, she moaned out loud and pushed her ass back, welcoming.

"Tell me why you want me to hurt you," Rael spoke as he slid his finger into the warm embrace of Silmaria's ass. The Gnari girl moaned, quavering. His strong finger opened her asshole slowly but firmly open, spreading her sphincter, the tender muscles parting and yielding for him. Her ass was tight and gripping. Yet, no stranger to this type of invasion, she took her Master's finger with relative little discomfort.

But his question was throwing her off. Her mind was afog with lust and pleasure and need. She could barely form a clear thought beyond a simple and primal fuck me, fuck me, dear gods fuck me. 

"Wh-what?" she croaked at last.

"Tell me," Rael repeated, punctuating his words with a twist of his finger up her succulent bottom. "Why you want me to hurt you."

"I c-can't!" Silmaria moaned, swallowing, and arching her back to offer her ass up more. His finger felt delicious up her ass, but oh, she needed so much more than that!

"Tell me," Rael insisted. Confident now that she could handle some force her, he thrust a second finger up her ass, much less patiently this time, ramming it up her clutching bowels alongside the first and stretching the ring of her asshole wider.

"I...I..." 

Conflict and confusion. And, startlingly, embarrassment welled inside Silmaria. They settled, heavy weight in her clenching belly. What he asked was simple... but so very hard. She shook her head, tossing her thick mane as she whimpered. She was grateful he couldn't see her face, scrunched up as her eyes misted with tears. His fingers probed and pressed into her ass, slowly swirling inside her, stretching her delicate, gripping anus as he thrust them in and out of her asshole.

"Tell me!" Rael growled into her ear, this time a command.

"Because I need it!" Silmaria whimpered. She pressed the side of her face into the bed as she arched her ass up, utterly exposed, wanting, and desperate for his touch. Any touched he wanted, only please, please, more. 

"Because I need to hurt," she went on as his fingers probed deeply at her ass, sliding in and out of her straining, welcoming bowels. "Because it's what I know, and it's what I need, and what I crave! It makes me feel wretched, and worthless, and complete and so wrongly right!"

Rael continued to explore her tender, dark hole as the words came tumbling out, now beyond all control. "Because I love you. Because I know you can hurt me so well. And because I know you'll scrape together the pieces when I'm done shattering. I need it, my Lord, my Master, my love, I need your pain and I need your tenderness and I need you to know me, every last bit of me!"

"I know you," Rael rumbled behind her, and as his fingers continued their rough work in her ass, stretching her little ring open, he leaned down and kissed the firm, meaty swell of her supple ass before biting it firmly.

Silmaria cried out, her eyes going wide as her back bowed, arching. Her asshole stung perfectly, mingling waves and pleasure and pain washing through her and wracking her body with quivering ecstasy. His teeth on her flesh only made the sensation all the more overwhelming.

"I know you," the Nobleman went on, "I know your goodness, and your darkness. Your kind, loving heart, and the wicked demands of your cunt. I know your tender love and devotion, and your cravings for pain and torment. I know you, Sil, and I love you without fail."




DarkFyre Ch. 21



"Fuck," the Gnari grunted through gritting teeth, her belly hot and tight, coiling into a small, hard ball of arousal. Tears spilled, just a few of them, hot and salty on her cheeks. 

It was too much; his words, his love, his kindness and his cruelty. He acknowledged that shameful, hungry part of her, honored it and accepted it as easily and equally as he did the light of her smile and the loving devotion of her service. Her shame and her love mingled in a heady cocktail of lust and adoration and deep felt devotion that gave a glossy coat to the desperation of her sexual haze. 

His fingers twisted inside her tender ass, exploring the forbidden depths of her, and his teeth once more found a hard, sharp grip on the luscious rounding of her buttocks.

It was too much, indeed.

"Please, Master, please may I cum!" she begged so prettily, her voice quavering with the need of her release.

"Cum, little Silmaria. Cum for me," Rael growled deeply behind her, and his big, powerful hand slapped hard at the globe of her ass.

Silmaria screamed, spasmed, and roughly came as her ass stung from his blow. Her asshole clutched wildly around his pumping fingers, gripping and fluttering with delight as she came and came, thighs trembling as her breath sucked frantically in and out. Her pussy splashed her release, a glistening spill of arousal running in shining tracks down her strong inner thighs. 

When the intense, heady orgasm faded Silmaria sank, panting, all the tension gone from her body to leave her limp and twitching, her muscles all contracting and releasing, out of her control. She panted, little moans and mewls and whimpers coming from her as she weakly squirmed on her belly.

So wrapped in the haze of her orgasm was she that Silmaria hardly registered Rael pulling his strong fingers from her hot, gripping ass except to softly grunt, and wonder distantly at the suddenly empty ache in her backside, the distracting, unpleasant sensation of her ass squeezing on nothing but air, which was not nearly filling enough, no not at all. 

Her flesh twitched, heated and trembling, and for a moment she lay there limp and unable to so much as shift, panting with her face pressed into the bed and her ass raised up high still.

There he was, then. The firm, warm, steady pressure of Rael's bulbous cockhead pressing to her twitching little asshole. For just a moment Silmaria tensed, her ass clenching tight. Then she took a deep, steadying breath and relaxed, willing her muscles to loosen. The Gnari girl sank slightly as she settled there on the bed, her ass upturned and offered. Rael's cock felt huge, blunt and swollen against her small, shivering rosebud, and Silmaria felt a thrill of anticipating race through her.

"I'm ready," she breathed softly as Rael slowly circled the tip of his heavy cock around her pucker, enticing and exciting her even more. She bit her lower lip softly and nodded to herself. "Take me. Please."

Rael pressed forward, slowly and gradually but firmly. A steady, insistent forward pressure. Silmaria's tender asshole began to open for him, spreading around the thick knob of his cockhead. The girl gasped softly, a sharp inhale of breath as her tender, intimate hole began to accommodate her Master's thick organ, and then she once more forced herself to relax and be pliable. Rael grit his teeth, his hands holding to her hips, lightly gripping the round contour of her ass as he pressed into the tightly gripping heat of her asshole with gradually increasing pressure. 

Silmaria held as still as she could, but already her breathing was coming faster and deeper as she experienced that delicious stretch, her ass burning in a deeply pleasurable way as he forced her tender little ring to spread wider and wider to accept his generous, swollen size. She felt every moment of it in a starkly surreal and pronounced way. He felt enormous, bigger by the moment, and as inch after bloated inch worked its way into her bowels, filling her clutching asshole up, Silmaria shook with the pleasure-pain of it. She had taken a fair number of men this way and had always enjoyed the wickedly carnal experience, but this was especially intense, and soon she was quivering, bent before him with her ass raised up, offered completely to his whims and desires as she began to wiggle her generous ass back and forth to take that wonderful cock in deeper.

"Fuck," Rael said in a deep, rough edged growl of lust and appreciation while he fed his cock deep into the twitching, stretching passage of Silmaria's wiggling ass. He pressed inward, sinking, sinking, with the Gnari girl's muscle ring splayed around his flesh and clutching as it fluttered from the stretching sensation. He watched his bulging cockmeat disappear into Silmaria's delicate, hot backside, and continued his slow, deep thrust until he was at last fully embedded in the milking heat of her pliantly eager ass.

Silmaria let out a low straining moan and her thighs trembled for a moment when Rael finally sank in to the root. She was so fucking full, so stuffed with that beautiful, powerful cock of his and her ass couldn't be happier. Laced with the sweet sting of the muscles of her ass being opened wide was the exquisite pleasure of the penetration, of feeling his cock lodged so deep in her hungry little asshole. It was a unique, strange sort of pleasure, very different from having him in her cunt, but just as powerfully arousing.

"Fuck me," she moaned, gasping as she pressed back into him now, eagerly, grinding her plump ass into his hips and rotating her asshole around the thick post of his cock. "Fuck my ass, Master, oh gods, fuck it hard!"

Rael's body was tense, his muscles corded. His fingers dug into the ripe globes of Silmaria's ass as he drew his hips back, his cock dragging out of the desperately hot clutch of the Gnari's bowels, and then drove inward again. Deeper and faster this time, he buried his cock into her fully once more. Silmaria yelped and squealed softly, and pushed her ass back eagerly for more. Rael's cock was surrounded in the deep warmth of her bowels, gripping at him snugly, rippling around him in a way that was similar but entirely different from the girl's demanding little pussy.

After a few more moments of adjusting and testing, Rael settled into a deep, hard fucking rhythm, driving his cock powerfully in and out of Silmaria's accepting, bouncing ass. The Gnari girl moaned and softly screamed, wailing now and then as she arched her ass back to eagerly take the painfully pleasurable thrusts that Rael gave her. Her ass burned and stung where he stretched her wide around his fat cock and she liked it absolutely fucking fine just like that. She wiggled her hips, offering herself up totally for his demanding lust. 

And demanding his lust was. Sensing that Silmaria was able to take this without any distress, Rael fucked her harder and harder until he was spearing his length in and out of her heat, stretching her over and again around the unyielding fatness of his cockflesh. Silmaria's back arched and her ass shook for both their pleasure. Her firm, buxom tits bounced and swayed beneath her. Her nipples grazed along the bed, sending little jolts racing into her belly from the stiff, stimulated nubs. Silmaria gripped the sheets, wadding them in her small fists as Rael had his way with her so perfectly, claiming her, using her in just the way she needed to be used, pounding her warm, welcoming ass for his pleasure.

"Gods, you're so fucking tight," Rael growled through clenched teeth as his cock sawed in and out of her trembling asshole.

"Oh, oh, please Master, please!" Silmaria screamed in a voice overwhelmed with lust and pleasure and that wonderful pain he gave her.

"Do it," Rael ordered roughly, his tempo increasing as he powerfully drove his cock to the root up Silmaria's spasming little asshole. His hips worked heavily, crashing with sharp little slaps into her meaty thrusting ass. "Cum for me!"

His words released her, and Silmaria obeyed, launching violently into an intense, rushing orgasm. Her ass clamped down around him, sucking at his flesh as Rael drove his cock past the stubbornly gripping muscles. Her pussy quivered, gushing out her girlcum as her poor cunt squeezed and gripped at nothing. Her juices splashed down her shaking thighs, spilling down to her knees as she came and came hard, losing herself in the pleasure of her Master's demanding, demeaning fuck.

Once she started, Silmaria was almost incapable of stopping. All too soon, scant moments after her orgasm subsided, she was cumming again, shrieking and screaming as Rael slam-fucked her lush, rippling ass. Light burst and flared behind her eyes, blinding her with the pleasure. 

His hand shot out to wrap her long, thick black curls around his fist, gripping powerfully. Silmaria sobbed quietly with delight, her body overwrought as she arched her back, her neck craning back at a sharp angle as he bowed her, using her hair for even more leverage to drill into her hot, twitching backside. She could feel his cock swelling huge and warm and relentless in her narrow, gripping passage. The combined pain in her tingling scalp and her stretched-wide ass tripped Silmaria up into yet another all-consuming orgasm.

Rael stared down at her, watching her lose herself in the wicked, carnal fuck, cumming over and over again all over his throbbing length. It was a beautiful, wonderful thing to behold, his little Silmaria panting and sobbing and screaming, her back arching so fucking deliciously as she lost herself in violent release while he powerfully and roughly slammed his cock in and out of her clutching anus. The toss of her hair and expression of her face, half hidden in the sheets, made his blood pound and race so intensely in his veins that he was dizzy with it.

"Fuck! Fuck! Oh gods it hurts so good, Master, shit, oh no, I...oh fuck yesss!" Silmaria screamed, and her ass clamped down around him as she sprayed her girlcum all over the sheets. 

She was lost, then, Rael saw. Broken under the weight of the pleasure he inflicted on her. His Silmaria was limp and quivering like a leaf beneath him, and her eyes were far, far away as her hips shifted and arched still, but weakly now.

For just a moment, Rael wondered if he'd pushed her too far, if he'd well and truly broken her, and not in the right sort of way.

Silmaria, her eyes still distant and lost, panting softly with her whole body shaking and trembling, breathed out, a soft whisper with all her heart's adoration in her voice, "I love you, Sir."

It was immediately his undoing. Rael felt the pleasure surge in him, quickly and violently overwhelming. His blood coursed with his lust and need and love for the woman beneath him who was spent and sexually driven past her ability to cope, and professing heartfelt love for him. 

With a deep, shaking roar of peaking pleasure, Rael plunged his cock deep into Silmaria's ass, burying to the base, and began to cum harshly, his entire body wracked with pleasure as his muscles all tightened and tensed. His cum spurted heavy and thick and hot, splashing up Silmaria's ravaged bowels, splattering her clinging inner walls and spreading deep inside her fluttering, hot asshole. Silmaria gasped, and then began to softly, gently coo, her ass slowly wiggling as her Master pumped her ass full of his rich, warm seed, soothing the ache inside her while he pressed tightly against her.

The heavy, reassuring pressure of his weight was comforting.

At last, with the Gnari's ass full of his load, Rael let out a shaking groan and slowly drew back. Silmaria moaned, distantly and soft, and her asshole released him after a moment or two of gripping too tight. She sighed, then, so awash in endorphins and pleasure-pain and the heady, potent fuzziness of her repeated orgasms that she had yet to come fully back to herself. She lay there beneath him, and she was miles away, drifting, floating... her consciousness winding out into the ether like an unraveling thread caught on the gentlest of kind breezes. 

When at last the Gnari girl blinked, and shifted, and was truly aware again, she found herself laying wrapped up tight in Rael's powerful, protective arms. Both of them were tangled up in the warmth of a blanket. She blinked up at him, staring into his beloved face, for a moment just staring and enjoying the handsome arrangement of his strong features. Then, noting the clear concern crinkling the corners of his eyes, Silmaria gave an exhausted but entirely sincere smile.

"Sorry. I, um... went elsewhere for a minute there."

"Are you alright?" He asked softly, and his sword-calloused hands ran slowly along her graceful flanks.

"Yes," Silmaria sighed, and burrowed deeper into his comforting, safe arms. She nestled her face to his solid chest as she rested her fingertips along his scars. "It happens, sometimes. I get so overwhelmed and lost in the moment and the pleasure that I just... can't quite process it all for awhile. I go floating off elsewhere, not really quite connected to myself. But it's okay. Elsewhere is a nice place to go. Or visit, anyway."

Rael looked down into her eyes. He did not seem particularly convinced. Silmaria smiled a bit more firmly, warmth shining in her emerald green eyes. She reached a hand up to tenderly cup her man's cheek. 

"I am wonderful, Master. I feel spent in every known way, but I am wonderful still. That... that was something else."

Relief washed over Rael's face, and he allowed himself a smile at last. "Something else is certainly an appropriate way of putting it," he nodded, and squeezed her firmly in his strong embrace. "You scared me for a minute there. Just don't float off so far into the distance where I can't pull you back."

"Mmm," Silmaria acknowledged softly. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply of the scent of his sweat and his skin and their sex., and relaxed deeply. "I won't, Master. Promise. I'm okay, really I am. It's a good thing, for me to have that kind of release. I feel so wonderfully drained and soothed and empty, now. Light." 

She could tell he didn't understand. Oh, he got her meaning, but he didn't understand, not truly. It wasn't something she could properly explain, and it wasn't something he could properly grasp without going through it himself. And that was fine; it was enough, for her, knowing he cared, and he tried.

More than enough.

Silmaria gave a soft, delicate yawn. "It's a good thing we're going to be resting here for another day or two. I don't think I'll be walking quite right for awhile," she mumbled to herself.

Rael gave a lighthearted chuckle, one that Silmaria felt as much as heard as he enfolded her deep into the safety and comfort of his arms.

"Absolutely worth it, by the way" she added, and fell into a burst of giggles into his chest.

***

As it turned out, the days of their stay were not as few as they would have liked.

Dusk settled outside the inn as it had every evening for the past week, vibrant and colorful, showing off every shade of red the mind could picture and more, as if the skies over the land borrowed inspiration from the crimson soil and rock and decided to do The Reach one better. It was an absurdly gorgeous sight, one Silmaria had thoroughly enjoyed near every day of their journey through the rocky region and their subsequent stay at the Brotherhood's Inn. This face of the sky was very different from the one she knew in DarkFyre Dale.

But tonight, as she sat at the table they'd frequently used when eating in the common room, gazing out the window at the sunset outside, Silmaria couldn't shake her unease enough to truly enjoy the view. 

Rael was at the bar, his big hands braced on the bartop, speaking with Brother Ricard again. 

His voice was hushed, but Silmaria knew from his body language that he was getting frustrated and thoroughly annoyed. As their stay over the past week had gone on, Rael had become increasingly wary and uncomfortable. Though he tried to hide it from her, Silmaria was getting more adept at reading his moods, and she sensed it even when the Knight gave his best effort at acting as if nothing was bothering him. His unease stemmed mostly from the repeated delays and problems that seemed to be arising regarding the supplies Rael was trying to procure before they went on their way. 

First was the new sets of clothes; Brother Ricard had claimed they simply did not have any clothing big enough to fit Rael's rangy and strongly built proportions. That has seemed fairly reasonable; Rael was an uncommonly large man, after all. A day had become two, then three. Five days into their stay and well after Rael had resigned to continue on with their worn out and red stained clothes, the Nobleman's clothing was at last finished. 

But not before Rael's request for travel rations hit a snag. The Brothers kept a regularly restocked supply of fresh food, you see, nothing properly cured or preserved to last over a long journey. 

This was, of course, ludicrous... how could anyone with a respectable larder and supply of goods not carry a large stock of cured and dried foodstuffs to last in case of lean times? And besides, why wouldn't an inn stock proper travel rations when their entire purpose was to serve travelers in the first place? 

By that evening, Rael's agitation was palpable. His unease made Silmaria nervous, and she was liking these delays less and less. She picked up their bowls of turnip soup with venison broth. Rael had hardly eaten half his bowl, a clear sign of his preoccupation as the man could eat like none she'd ever known when he put his mind and appetite to it. 

The Gnari girl carried their bowls up to the counter. She placed her hand in his, which he lightly squeezed to acknowledge her, but his attention remained otherwise on the uncomfortable looking Brother Ricard standing behind the bar, wiping his hands nervously on his apron.

"I say again, Ricard, I appreciate the sentiment, but I can do without the map. I asked for one out of an effort to ease our way a bit, but it's not a vital thing. I'd as soon be away and continue our journey than wait any longer for it."

"Begging pardon, Rael, but I feel I should insist. I know we've inconvenienced you with this waiting about for your supplies and the least I can do is be sure that you leave here with every bit of resources that you've asked for."

The set of Rael's jaw told Silmaria that they'd chased this particular topic around a few times already. He heaved a sigh and tried again, his words polite but tight. "Ricard. It's fine. You mean well, but we need to be on our way. The inconvenience of going without a map is less important than the inconvenience of lost time. Time I cannot make up. We can't tarry any longer."

Ricard looked visibly upset at this point, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "You're certain I can't convince you to wait? Brother Ekar assures me he has just such a map that you are needing, he simply has to find it. The libraries are usually not in this sort of disarray, but he has been cataloguing some of our oldest tomes recently, and it is an uncommon jumble just now. Surely you can wait another day? Two at the most, my good man. The map will be ready by then, surely!"

There was a strange desperation in the man's voice that he could not entirely hide.

"Thank you, Ricard, but no," Rael said firmly. "We leave at daybreak."

Ricard swallowed hard, and a light went out of his eyes. His face crumpled into something very like morose resignation. "Very well, sir. Very well."

Silmaria's brow furrowed as she watched Ricard's face take on an almost sallow tint. She said nothing, but the hairs on the back of her neck raised in an unclear sort of nervousness.

For his part, Rael's face remained sternly somber, resolved. "Good day, Brother."




DarkFyre Ch. 21



Stern of feature and mind made up or no, Rael still had his sense of fairness and honor. He paid the Brother good coin for their meal before the pair returned to their room. 

The last of the sun's rays peeked over the hills on the horizon by the time they headed upstairs, narrow flickers of golden light piercing the darkened sky like the lash of a whip. Little flashes of light reflecting off a razors edge, cutting across the heavens.

Then even that was gone, and only darkness remained.

"He was strange," Silmaria said as she plopped down onto their bed, propping herself up on her elbows and staring at the dusky ceiling while Rael lit the small candle in the wall sconce just beside the window. 

"Stranger than usual," she clarified.

"He was," Rael agreed in short tones. He stared out the window into the darkness of the empty night. Silmaria knew from his tone and his posture that he was lost in thought.

"He was unsettled, that much was clear. Frightened, maybe," the Nobleman voiced at last.

"He seemed awful reluctant for us to leave," Silmaria commented.

"Yes," Rael agreed, his jaw setting hard. He leaned against the windowsill, and stared pensively into the distance.

Silmaria watched him, for a time, and seeing him stare into the blackness outside their window, the Gnari's earlier unease began to rise, settling into a hollow ache in the center of her breast. Her tail twitched, swishing with anxious energy, and her ears flicked forward to lay flat along the top of her head.

By the moment her dread became a tangible, certain thing.

She sat up and went to him on quiet feet. She twined her arms around the Knight's thick arm, pulling firmly at it, until he turned his gaze to her, staring down into her upturned eyes.

"Master... Master, we need to leave," she said, struggling to fight down her rising panic and keep her voice steady.

Rael stared at her for a moment, his brows raised with surprise. "Now?"

"Yes," Silmaria nodded urgently. "Tonight. Right now."

Rael motioned toward the open window with his free hand. "It's a moonless night, and not even the starlight is getting through. It's black as the void out there."

"I know," Silmaria said, swallowing softly. She forced down her anxiety and frustration. She knew it sounded foolish, and she couldn't even articulate why, but she knew that Rael saw it, too. She just had to get him to acknowledge it.

"Something is wrong here, Master," she tried again, staring up at him with wide feline eyes. "Ricard has done everything he can to delay our leaving, don't you think? You said it yourself. All his reasons, all his excuses for why we couldn't get this, or get that, it all felt... wrong. None of it made sense. And he wanted too desperately for us to stay. Why would he care so much? It's not for our coin or patronage. And we certainly aren't the only travelers to pass through the Brothers' door! 

"So why? And why did he look like we'd just handed him a death sentence when we refused to stay another few days? It's not right, Master. None of it is right."

Rael listened to the distressed Gnari quietly, his intense eyes staring down into hers while he contemplated her words. At last, he turned to face her fully, and placed his roughened hands on her graceful shoulders. "What do you suggest is going on, then?"

Silmaria shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her face screwing up with uncertain frustration. She shook her head quickly, sending black curls flying. "I don't know, Master. I've no idea! All I know is that it doesn't feel right. Call it intuition. Call it a gut feeling. I just know it, in my bones and in my core. We need to leave."

The Noble stared down into his love's eyes, and then nodded. "I agree. I was feeling much the same. I told myself I was being paranoid. But you're right. Something is strange here. And I'd honestly as soon not linger and find out what."

The air went out of her in a rush, and Silmaria felt herself relax, if only somewhat. She gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you, Sir. For listening to me. For not thinking I'm a fool."

"You're many things, Sil, but a fool you are not," Rael nodded, reaching up to brush away the tumble of rich, gleaming curls that had fallen before her eyes. He bent and kissed her, soundly, and then nodded to their things in the corner. "Let's get our things together, and be away from here."

They gathered their supplies quickly and orderly in the manner they'd become accustomed to over the long days on the road. Silmaria felt lighter already. It was a strange sort of thing, the impulsive urgency to be away from the inn.

Silmaria cinched her belt on around her narrow waist and shouldered her pack. She glanced around the room while Rael strapped his greatsword to his back, and not without more than a bit of fondness in her gaze. Despite the unease she felt, and a certainty that their stay had reached its end, their brief time here had been welcome, and needed.

"I never thought just a few days ago that I would pass up a chance at one more night in a bed," Silmaria mused.

Rael chuckled softly, and shook his head. "Neither did I. All things in their time, I suppose. And it's time we moved on."

"Yeah," Silmaria agreed softly. "We still have to go find our answers."

"Yes," Rael nodded. "And one night sooner is still too long away for my liking. Let's go."

"Yes, Sir."

Rael opened the door leading out into the inn.

The candles and wall lanterns spread throughout the inn were each and every last one extinguished. The hallways and common room below were as dark and empty as the moonless void outside. 

The inn reeked of death, a coppery tang in the air of fresh spilt blood.

"Get back," Rael hissed.

The knight took a single step back, one hand motioning behind him as the other reached for the hilt of his greatsword at his shoulder.

Before his fingers could wrap around the hilt, a curved blade plunged into his back.

***

I am NOT dead, I promise! 

Seriously though. My sincere apologies for the much, much too lengthy wait on this chapter to all my regular readers. I hit a whole bevy of snags and changes and delays. Life got away with me for awhile. I will do my sincere and honest, absolute best to not take so long on the next one! I may manage to get the next chapter out quicker, or it may take awhile again. I can't say for certain. 

But what I can say is this! I WILL finish this story! Even if it takes me longer to get the remaining chapters out, I will not let this story go uncompleted! So please, everyone, bear with me as I move forward in this work!

Thank you so very much, everyone, for the continued support and encouragement on my work. I sincerely appreciate every one of you! And I hope everyone enjoys this and it was at least semi-worth the wait while I got back on track!

P.S. Cliffhangers may very well be my new addiction. Just sayin'.



DarkFyre Ch. 22



***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission. 

***

The inn's stillness and quiet was unnerving, the blackness of the halls and common room below an ominous contrast to the noise and bustle and light that should have been coming from downstairs this early into the night, just a few bare hours after sundown. Even with the flickering light of the candles at their bedside, the dark outside their room was so complete it left even her sharp eyes momentarily unable to pierce the gloom. 

The smell told her the danger first. Silmaria took a deep breath, and her nose wrinkled at the thick coppery scent that could only be freshly spilled blood. 

"Get back," Rael said in a quiet hiss, and his hand went for the hilt of his greatsword.

Hardly a moment after he spoke the words, before Silmaria fully registered the unsettling strangeness they found themselves in, a black blur shot past her from behind. Moving with all the silent grace of a whispered death, a man wrapped all in black leapt, his footfalls as utterly silent as her own. He pounced onto Rael's back with his blade leading the way. Silmaria let out a startled gasp as the blade sank into her love's back.

Rael let out a roar, half pain and half rage, caution forgotten in the surprise of the attack. He bucked, thrashing, his huge body wrenching back and forth as he reached fruitlessly for his sneaky attacker. The black-clad man clung to Rael, his legs half wrapped around the larger man's waist as he held tightly to the short blade he'd shoved into the Knight's back.

It took only a moment for Silmaria to react, but she was cursing herself for that moment even as she lunged forward, one hand yanking her dagger from its sheath at her waist, the other baring her claws. Before she'd even taken the scant strides across the room to reach where Rael stood at the door, a second man had come rushing from the darkness of the hall, leading with his blade. Rael's own dagger came whipping out and he parried the stroke of his attacker's sword. The big Knight pushed forward, driving his dagger against the sword until the cross guards locked, and then using his weight to bear down on the man, forcing the smaller, dark figure back even as he carried his first attacker with him on his back. 

Remembering some of the lessons and guidance that Rael had been teaching her, the Gnari girl lunged forward, hooking her claws into the shoulder of the assassin clinging to Rael's back. She brought her dagger up and drove it brutally into the shadowy man's back, right where his kidney would be, and again, and again, her blade tap tap tapping in and out of the man's flesh. The man's body convulsed, rocked, and releasing his hold on Rael, he dropped to his feet. 

Silmaria expected the man to go down with a cry of pain, but no sound left him aside from a soft grunting of air being expelled from his lungs. Worse still, the man didn't crumple in the agony of shock and a looming death. Instead he tried to whirl to face her. Silmaria's claws being sunk so deeply into the man's back saved her, and she was yanked along behind him. Silmaria shifted her body quickly to slip around under his arm as he tried to whip it out to strike her. She stabbed upward again, up under his ribs this time, sure she had punctured a lung or worse. 

Still, the man did not go down and did not scream. Not slowing to wonder, Silmaria skipped behind him, using her claws and her dagger in the man's side to steer her body behind him as he whirled and jerked and tried to get ahold of her. 

Rael drove the man before him out the open door to their room and into the hallway. He slammed him into the wall, his dagger pressuring the man's curved short sword back until it was wedged against the man's chest. Rael brought his knee up savagely between the man's legs hard enough to lift his attacker bodily off the floor, but the man simply let out a light wheeze and fought on. The assassin freed his blade and brought it up in a quick, tight slash at Rael's neck but the Nobleman ducked and brought his arm up to push the hooded man's sword arm up over his head, pinning it to the wall behind him. Rael brought his dagger in and plunged the blade several times into the smaller man's gut. 

The hooded man reacted with no more surprise or pain than before. Instead, he braced his back to the wall, brought his legs in tight into the small space between them, and pushed hard. Rael went rocking back a few steps and nearly topped back into the room, then regained his footing just in time to dart to the side as the man came at him with the deadly curved blade once again. The Knight's found himself cornered in the dead end of the hall just beyond their room. Thinking quickly, he grabbed at the large painting, likely a piece done by one of the more artistic Tower Brothers, and ripped it from the wall, smashing it into the shadowy man. It did no damage, of course, but the man reacted nonetheless, raising his blade to cut through the painting.

The small miscalculation was enough. Rael brought his dagger up under the man's exposed armpit and drove it in, striking the cluster of nerves and slicing through muscle and sinew. The man brought his blade forward in a stabbing motion aimed at the Knight's heart. Rael sidestepped, ducking, to slip past the man, wrenching his dagger free as he spun and grasped the killer's cloak. Rael gave a mighty yank, the muscles in his arm bulging as he jerked the man clean off his feet with the force of his sudden pull. A loud crack echoed through the quiet inn as the assassin's skull smacked into the scuffed wooden flooring, and the man landed in a heap. Rael slammed his booted heel down onto the man's sword arm, pinning it to the floor, and brought his own dagger down to slash across the cloaked man's throat. Blood welled up in a wet, coppery rush. Unsure at that point if the man would, could even die, Rael slashed his throat open again, and again. His dagger wobbled and swayed as it thudded against the man's spine, and only then was he finally convinced the man was well and truly dead.

Rael had no time to savor the victory. "Silmaria," he gasped. The Knight quickly snatched up the dead man's short sword and dashed into the room.

Silmaria couldn't believe that the man she fought could possibly refuse so adamantly to just lay down and die! She stabbed him, again and again, and nothing seemed to stop him. She knew from her talks with Rael that some men were so heavily coursing with adrenaline during a battle that they would not go down to a simple stab wound, but this was ridiculous! The Gnari used her fear to keep moving, always shifting to stay ahead of the man and continue to work her dagger into his flesh.

She couldn't keep it up forever, of course, and eventually the man wrenched free of her, spinning too hard for her to keep up with and tossing her aside. Silmaria skipped back, trying to put as much space between them as possible. But she overestimated the space in the room and smashed into the table arranged under the window, very nearly going pitching out of it. She stared, fearful and disbelieving at the man. Blood poured out his wounded side from the slashes in his dark garb where bloody flesh showed, stark crimson against snow white skin. 

Silmaria glanced up at his face, what little she could see under the shadows of cloak and cowl. His eyes were all she noticed, the same vivid red as the bright blood spilling from him all over the ground. 

The man came lunging at her. Silmaria kicked one of the chairs by the table under the window at him. He leapt around it, but it delayed him just long enough for Silmaria to leap to the left and up onto the bed. The man spun, grabbing for her legs. Silmaria sprang agilely up, and kicked out, her heel smashing the man in the face. It did nothing to hurt him, but the force made him tumble back, his hood falling away from a face that would have been completely ordinary except for the multitude of intricate, intertwining runes burned into his flesh around the eyes and brow. 

Before the man's back even thunked into the wall Silmaria was in the air, leaping in a desperately reckless, instinctual attack. She stared into the man's eyes, redder than the sun, redder than the clay of The Reach, redder than a bloody death and as empty. The man's eyes were hollow pools of nothing. Dead eyes.

And then they were dead eyes truly as Silmaria's dagger plunged with all the force of her body propelling through the air into the man's right eye. She felt the blade scrape and grind against the man's eye socked, catching in the bone, but it didn't matter, her force was too great, and the blade plunged in true, killing the man.

Silmaria didn't think about the blood spurting hot and sticky onto her hand. She tried to tug her dagger free once, twice, and then gave it up.

"Silmaria!" Rael called, panic making him forget all notion of secrecy or stealth.

Silmaria turned and rushed to him. He caught her in his arms, crushing her in his embrace. "Thank all gods everywhere, I thought I'd lost you," he murmured into her ear, relieved, and he was shaking as much as she was.

Silmaria clung to him, and then her eyes widened with remembered panic. She pulled back and stared wide-eyed up at him. "Me? What about you! Your back, Master! The blade!"

Rael winced, then, as if just in that moment remembering the short sword still stuck in his back. He glanced around for a moment, then, moving swiftly, he grabbed one of the chairs and moved to the door, shutting it firmly and wedging the chair under the doorknob, hard, to keep it pinned shut.

"The window," he nodded. Silmaria moved to quickly shut the window, shuttering it.

Rael gave a soft grunt and sat in the remaining chair. He nodded to her brusquely. "There are bound to be more of them waiting to take us. We have to move quickly. Get it out."

"But..."

"Now, Sil. We don't have time!"

Silmaria bit her lip and nodded. She took the blanket from the bed and cut it into strips before moving behind him.

"It's..." Silmaria began, her brow furrowing.

"Stuck. I know," Rael nodded. "It caught on my pack. Probably what saved my life. What did get through caught my shoulder blade. Kept it from hitting anything vital. But I think the tip is in the bone. Get it out, Sil, quickly."

Silmaria swallowed and nodded. She couldn't do much to get his pack off with the blade stuck in it, so she pulled it away from his back as well as she could and stuffed the wad of cloth between the pack and his shoulder, wrapping it around the blade as well as she could. 

"Ready?"

Rael grabbed one of the pillows, bit down on it hard, and nodded.

Silmaria yanked the blade free. Rael's body went rigid with pain and he let out a hard edged roar, muffled into the pillow. Silmaria applied firm pressure to the wound, holding the wadded clothe in place while Rael took several shaky, deep breaths. He swallowed, and then gave another nod. While Silmaria held firm pressure on the wound in his shoulder blade, Rael used his dagger to cut the sheets into a few more long strips, which Silmaria used to tie the wadded cloth into place on his back, a shoddy solution to the wound, but the best they could manage just then.

"Master, those men...who the hell are they? What are they? The man I fought...he wouldn't stop!"

"I know," Rael nodded as he moved his right arm slowly to test how well it would work with the wound. "The same with the man I fought. It was like he felt no pain. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't tire, not until he was fully dead. It wasn't...natural."

"It was like the men at the manor, but worse. So much worse..." Silmaria choked softly.

Rael turned and gripped her shoulders in his strong hands, giving her a rough shake. "Focus, Sil. We can fall apart later. Right now we have to get out of here. Do you hear me? This is not the work of two men, not even two such as these. There's more danger here, and we'd better be gone or whoever else is here will finish the job!"

Silmaria swallowed softly, stared into her beloved's eyes, and hardened her resolve. She nodded, setting her chin firmly. "Yes, sir."

Rael moved to scoop the dropped blade from the floor. He'd expected the tip to be bent where it had stuck in his shoulder blade, but the short sword was made of good, sturdy steel, and the point was fine and deadly still. He handed it to Silmaria and nodded.

The Knight glanced down at the man Silmaria killed, and he couldn't help but note the runes burned into the man's face. He knelt to take a closer look, running his thumb slowly over the burned, scarred runes. 

"Like the men at the manor," he muttered softly. "But more of them. More intricate and complex. What the hell do these runes mean?"

"I don't think he's going to tell us anything," Silmaria said tensely. "We can speculate all we like when we're out of here!"

"Right," Rael nodded, rising to his feet. "Check outside. Your eyes are better than mine. Can you see anything out there?" 

Silmaria and Rael both went to the window, standing tense and at the ready, and Rael pushed the shutters open wide. With no threat presenting itself, Silmaria peeked outside, her eyes scanning the land outside and the yard below their window.

"I don't see anyone," Silmaria whispered. "There are some horses over in the stable that I didn't notice earlier today. But I don't see any sign of anyone outside."

"Could still be out there," Rael said grimly. "And they're almost certainly downstairs in the inn."

Almost on cure, the doorknob quavered, clacking, and then there was the meaty thudding of someone putting their shoulder into the door. The chair shimmied and flexed, but held for the time being.

"The window it is, then," Rael sighed.

"I'll go first," Rael said, or started to at least, but Silmaria was already slinking lithely out the window before the words were fully formed. Rael cursed and lunged for the window. He stuck his head out, his heart pounding in his ears as loudly as the pounding on the door, expecting to see Silmaria on the ground below.

"Here!" she hissed, crouched low on the balls of her feet on the slanting roof to the left of the window. 

A crack snapped through the air like the lashing of a whip behind him. The chair would give at any moment. He had to buy them time, even just a few moments.

Quickly, Rael grabbed the bed and yanked it over in front of the window. He stabbed down into the straw mattress with his dagger, ripping it open and exposing the matted straw within, then grabbed the candle from the bedside table. He thrust the candle down into the bed. The dry straw caught quickly and the fire spread through the mattress, catching at the linens. As Rael went scrambling out the window the fire was spreading quick and hot, racing over every inch of the bed, spreading along the backboard, licking down the sturdy wooden support legs, and flickering up the wall behind the bed, quickly catching at the cheap wool draperies hanging by the window with voracious appetite.

Silmaria helped Rael pull himself up onto the roof. "Is that a fire?"

"That's a fire," Rael confirmed. "It'll buy us some time. It also means we better get the hell off this roof."

Silmaria looked around quickly. Already the acrid smell of smoke stung her sensitive nose, and the flickering orange brilliance of the flames inside the room below went streaming from the open window out into the blackness of the night. Memories of the Manor flashed through her mind, startling and fearful and unwanted. Silmaria pushed them aside, and a few moments later pointed off to the left. 

"There's a pretty big eave over there over a door leading out of the first floor. There's a clearing and the stable yard is nearby. We should be able to drop down there."

Rael gave a curt nod, and the pair went scurrying across the roof, Silmaria sure footed and quiet, Rael less so, his heavier weighted footsteps sending clay shingles sliding off the edge of the roof. The eave overhanging the door below was large enough for them to stand upon. Silmaria hopped quickly down onto the eave and then to the ground without a problem. Rael slipped down as lightly as he could, but his booted foot went smashing through the roof of the eave with the distinct shattering of clay shingles and broken wood. Rael grimaced, dreading the attention the loud noise echoing into the night might bring. He hoped fervently whoever might be lurking downstairs in the inn had run upstairs to investigate the fighting and the fire.

The copper haired warrior yanked his foot free and leapt into the yard below, half expecting the door behind them to burst open at any moment. Instead, men soon came striding from the shadows outside, encircling them in the inn yard. Some crept from the stables a few yards away to their left, some from the darkness of the open land surrounding the inn, and even from the courtyard behind the inn and the buildings beyond. 

"Up! Up, now!" Rael growled, grabbing Silmaria and steering her toward the eave at their backs. Silmaria grit her teeth, swallowed the multitude of protests rising to her lips, and put her foot into the step Rael made with his cupped hands. He boosted her up easily and Silmaria scrambled onto the eave once more.

Knowing Silmaria was out of reach made the vice grip of fear clutching Rael's chest ease somewhat. His shoulder throbbed where the dagger had bit into him, and he was acutely aware of how precarious their situation was.

More than anything, though, he was angry. Angry at the neat little trap they'd fallen into. Angry with himself for falling into it. Angry that even here, now, this far away from their homeland, the assassins doggedly pursued him with a seemingly endless reach. 

He stared out at the gathered men, who slowly shuffled closer, closer. Quiet feet barely scuffling in the night and the smoke and the dirt. It was hard to distinguish them in the shadows of the night, but the fire in the inn was spreading and catching quickly and the overcasting of clouds above was clearing away, letting enough moonlight for him to make out detail here and there.

Enough to show him the dozen and more men arrayed against him. Several wore the dark cloaks and hoods and inky garb matching the clothing of the dead assassins up in the now burning inn.

And enough for him to see that the rest of the men wore the distinct ceremonial gray robes and navy blue mantels of the Brotherhood of the Tower, complete with the speckling of small crystals set in the mantle to represent stars in the blue firmament of a night sky. They came, side by side with the assassins in their midst, and they grasped the same curving short swords the black-garbed killers held.

Rael thrust his pilfered short sword into his belt and withdrew his greatsword, finally having the room to wield it freely. He tested its weight in his hands and rolled his shoulders, testing the wound at his shoulder blade. He grit his teeth at the tug of pain; it would hold well enough. It must.

Rael bent his anger and fury into will and determination. His hands gripped at the leathered hilt of his greatsword, drawing reassurance from its weight and balance. He tasted the night air, the red dust of stirred earth, the smokiness of the fire quickly consuming the inn. The tang of death done and death to come.

The whispering twang of the bowstring came moments before the fierce, cruel thud of an arrow buried mortally deep into the meat of a man's chest cavity, and one of his adversaries went down. 




DarkFyre Ch. 22



"There! The girl!" Barked a voice, and another man was already down by then as Silmaria notched her second arrow.

Rael recognized Ricard's voice immediately, though he couldn't pick the man out of the crowd just then. The Brother's voice and tone was entirely different now, strangely so, twisted by anger and hysteria, high and cracking and quavering. He sounded like a broken thing, a man gleefully walking on the precipice of something dark and cavernous and unknowable, and delighting as the razors edge cut his feet to fleshy ribbons.

Ricard. Bloody fucking Ricard, with his constant delays and avowals of aid.

The betrayal laid bare, Rael's rage was fed, and intensified to a roaring blaze.

The men came, intent on reaching him or Silmaria, Rael neither knew nor cared. The Knight burst forward in an explosion of muscle and violence and his greatsword arced out, cleaving through the night with its tremendous reach and fierce power. The first Brother met his end, his arm half severed and his chest opened. Another step forward and a quick whirl of the huge blade brought Rael's sword around in an upward cut, reaching under the man's guard. A second body slumped to the ground, the dead man nearly cut in half. His third attacker came rushing out of the night to his left and Rael lunged back, his blade coming up to block and parry his attacker's assault, but the man never reached him, going down with an arrow through his belly. 

Then the fighting grew too thick and frantic for Rael to keep track of, the men rushing him two and even three at a time. He spun and lunged, slashing and whipping his blade about wildly, keeping the assassins away with the reach of his sword and the potency of his rage. He fought like a man possessed, prodded to anger too great to be contained. His movements remained quick and agile, his blade moving faster than any lesser man could have managed, and one by one he cut the Brothers and the shadowy assassins with their flesh-burnt runes with the force of his skill and his rage, until his blade shone bloody red in the firelight.

The assassins proved as resilient and unyielding as their brothers in the inn had been. The first Rael caught across the middle with the tip of his greatsword, slashing the man's belly half open, but the killer did not succumb until Rael ran him fully through and his blade stuck many inches through his back. Silmaria's arrow caught another assassin in the chest and, after a momentary stumble from absorbing the force of the shot, the man came relentlessly on even as he bled out. Rael parried the man's persistent strikes before skipping back and bringing his greatsword in for a low arcing slash, severing the assassin's right leg just below the knee. The shadowy man still did not go still until Rael finally brought his sword down across the prone man's neck, severing his head before rolling out of the way as his next attacker waded in. 

Silmaria soon had to abandon her perch on the eave. The fire spread rapidly through the inn, the flames consuming and twisting through timber and cloth in an ever widening path of crackling, feeding destruction. She fired off another arrow into the back of a Brother trying to circle in behind Rael, bringing the man down. He tried to reach back to grab at the arrow, screaming in agony, flecks of bloody pink froth dropping from purple lips stretched in a grimace of mortal agony. He was not like the others. Not like the assassins. He was like all the Brothers; he was very much a man, and he felt every agonizing moment of his death pains.

And he was trying to kill them.

Silmaria hardened her heart, and turned away.

With a creek and a crash the door behind her burst open. From the inn itself came streaming and screaming several brothers, their robes and mantels ablaze, their hair and faces wreathed in flames and quickly melting like the wax of the candle that started this whole fiery mess to begin with. Silmaria backpedaled as one of the men came right at her, screaming like he was in the hells already. He probably wasn't really after her; more than like he was crazed out of his mind with the pain of burning alive, and she just happened to be in his path. Either way, he was running for her, bearing down on her, a big mass of seething fire and the flames on him as greedy as any fire she'd ever seen, seeking wood and clothe and flesh and bone and anything in all of existence to fuel its fiery glory. 

Silmaria put an arrow in the man's chest, cutting short his suffering and forward momentum all at once.

This is too much, Silmaria thought grimly as she looked around the clearing where Rael still raged and fought and killed. So many. How many can there be? The entire sect of Brothers? And how many of the cloaked ones that refuse to die? This is bad!

Before she could nock another arrow, one of the assassins managed to catch Rael with a grazing slash to his upper thigh. Her fierce dear one bared his teeth and let out a roar, and his greatsword arced through the air in great cleaving cuts. A quick flurry later and another of the black-shroud assassins lay at his feet with his skull rent down the middle. But Rael paid for it as he caught another cut in his right bicep from one of the traitorous Brother's while he tangled with the Assassins.

The Brothers were no warriors, not truly; their skill did not compare to the Assassins in their midst. But at the rate the men were emerging to bear down on them, it wouldn't matter. They seemed content to throw themselves into the fray and be cut down, relying on their greater number to eventually be too much for even Rael's might to contend with and the sheer number of his attackers became his undoing.

And at this rate, they'd succeed in exactly that soon enough.

Smoke billowed as thick and black and choking as the night itself. The fire was raging in full now, consuming the inn, blazing forth and bathing the surroundings in ever shifting, undulating oranges, flashes of brilliance, and deep reds to match the blood on the killing field Rael had turned the inn yard into. The smoke stung Silmaria's eyes and punished her lungs. She tasted soot and burnt out wood and heat. The hint of roasting meat rising from the inn made her gorge rise.

She pushed the sick feeling in the pit of her belly down along with all thoughts of death and carnage, from within the inn and without. She slung her bow back over her shoulders, pulled her short sword from her belt, and sprinted off around the inn yard and to the stables. There she crept along the stalls, as slow and cautious as she dared, half expecting someone to spring at her from the flickering shadows at any moment. It seemed all attention was on Rael just then however; the Stables were empty aside from a number of horses. Most of the beasts were clearly terrified, spooked by the carnage of battle, blades clanging and crashing in a sharp steel whine as they met. Men screaming and dying. The smell of smoke and blood on the air, and the fearsome fire tearing through the inn, far too close for comfort. 

A few of the horses penned at the end of the stables were calm though, or as close to calm as she had any right to ask for. They were still saddled, and were likely the mounts of some of the men trying to kill them even now. The impressive beasts were not relaxed by any means, but neither were they driven to near madness like some of their brethren. A simple glance would tell anyone these were no common horses meant for plow or cart or bearing travelers along long, dusty trails. These were horses of action, and purpose, there was no questioning that. Between their capable, strong appearance and relative calm, they were her best chance.

Silmaria went to quick work unlocking all the horses pens, throwing the doors open wide and refusing to dwell on her mad plan. The panicked horses went fleeing out, crashing into one another, neighing shrill and desperate as they escaped the stables and went charging in all directions. Silmaria hoped they trampled a few of the Brothers on their way to freedom. She tried not to consider that she could possibly be freeing them to run down her Master instead. 

The copper tang of blood was on Rael's tongue. He wasn't even sure if it was his own. It didn't matter, then; blood was blood, and it was flowing, on him and in him and, increasingly, out of him. He was deep in battle and bloodlust, caught in the hot rush of the moment, but Rael felt himself fatiguing and his strength began to ebb. He was wounded in several places and he'd already cut down a dozen men and more. Worse still, more Brothers and Assassins were coming from the shadows by the moment, fresh and ready. Rael soon found himself twisting and spinning, sidestepping and circling about, all offense forgotten as he focused his full effort on just keeping the men arrayed around him from ending him. 

Soon it wouldn't be enough. Another sword stroke got through, a cut into his left forearm, and he nearly dropped his greatsword before recovering and cutting open the man who drew blood on him. Rael struggled through the pain, but he knew at any moment, despite all the strength of his body and power of his resolve and the steel of his will, he would be unable to fight them off any longer.

A high, piercing neighing split the smoky night sky, and the inn-yard turned battlefield erupted into even deeper chaos as horses came bursting into the clearing, panicked and frightened and aggressive in their terror. They bucked and reared, bolting along and sending the Brothers scurrying out the way of their mad dash while the slowest of them fell screaming into the dirt, the horses smashing into them to trample them underfoot without hesitation. 

"Master!" Silmaria called. Rael looked up and caught sight of her riding astride a powerful, bold horse. The beast was all shifting, bunching, powerful muscle working in perfect harmony under a glossy midnight coat, its mane and tail darker and more lustrous than the night sky overhead. She held the reins to lead a second horse as remarkable as the first, this one a dappled gray with white spattered through its coat and a flaxen mane and tail. 

Silmaria's eyes blazed green fire and determination, and she purposefully set the horse she straddled to ride down two of the Brothers closest to Rael, her curved short sword lashing out to cut one of the stunned men down while the other scrambled frantically away from the horse's driving hooves.

A surge of hope filled him, lending renewed strength to his arms. Rael lunged forward, cutting down one of the brothers in his way, and then striding to his love and the horses with an exhaustedly hurried stride.

"No! You cannot escape! My Master will have your head, I've sworn it!" Brother Ricard's voice howled in outrage, the tone of a wild thing gone unhinged. The man scurried from the right to interject himself between Rael and the horses. His burgundy eyes were red-rimmed and wide, bulging with desperation and denial.

"You. You traitorous bastard! This is your doing!" Rael snarled at Ricard.

"Why! Why couldn't you have just died! You were supposed to die!" Ricard accused. Rael's nostrils flared, his jaw set tight, and he was on the smaller man in an instant. To his credit, Ricard stood his ground and struck at the Knight with the dagger glinting in his clawing hand. But even with Rael weakened, the traitor Brother was overmatched. Rael sidestepped the stab and was on the man, grabbing a fistful of the Brother's robe and slamming his knee into his gut. Ricard doubled over, wheezing and choking on his own spittle, helpless. Rael slammed the pommel of his blade into Ricard's temple, and the vile man went down, blood seeping from his head.

"What the hell are you doing, Master?" Silmaria shouted, and she wheeled her horse around and struck at a nearby attacker with her sword. "Get your ass on the horse and let's get out of here!"

Rael was already moving as she spurred him on, jerking Ricard's limp body from the ground. He tossed the man across the withers of the riderless horse. The Nobleman then scrambled up into the saddle, taking the reins from his Gnari love. He laid about with his greatsword at the few men who hadn't dispersed when the crazed horses came rushing through and kicked his horse forward, crying, "Go! Go!"

They burst into the night, undulating blurs rushing through the dirt and dust and rocks of The Reach. The silver-tinted reds of the land sped by as Silmaria's horse surged out in the lead with Rael's lunging after its heels. Rael let the girl lead, as she could see their way much more clearly than he. His attention was at their backs, his eyes ever watchful for any sign of pursuit. His hand was cramped and numb where he gripped his greatsword, but he dare not sheath it yet. Even as the blood leaked from his wounded forearm, spilling down his fingers, dripping in little crimson droplets from the pommel of his blade, he would not let go.

For her part, Silmaria's heart beat so hard that she could feel the pressure of the blood hammering in her temples, threatening to drown out the beating of their horses' hooves. She felt certain that at any moment pursuit would be on them and they'd be ridden down. She honestly didn't know if they would manage to come out of such an encounter alive this time; Master Rael was as stubbornly defiant as ever, but she knew he was wounded and his strength was fading. She'd seen it when she came upon him with the horses, and saw it every time she glanced back at him riding now. He sagged visibly in the saddle like he was bearing some enormous burden, and though he refused to sheath his blade, she saw the toll it took on him just to keep the greatsword naked and gleaming in hand. If the Brothers and the strange, deadly Assassins came on them, Silmaria honestly didn't know how long her Lord love would be able to endure. 

Or she herself for that matter. Silmaria felt near numb with fatigue and she hurt all over. She'd escaped any major injury, but she felt as if every inch of her body was bruised and bumped. The adrenaline of the fight and the flight was beginning to fade now, leaving her shaking with exhaustion. She was also made acutely aware with every bump and rise and fall the horse found over the frantic ride just how long it had been since she'd last ridden a horse.

After they'd put what must have been several miles between themselves and the burnt out inn of the Brothers of the Tower, Rael brought his horse up beside hers. 

"This is far enough," he called. "Find us a good spot behind some rock formations, some trees, any kind of cover away from the road where we can settle in until dawn."

Silmaria nodded, and scanned the area for a moment, before returning her gaze to her Master worriedly. She nodded to the unconscious man still lying across Rael's horse. "What about him?"

"He's going to give us answers," Rael said shortly.

"I don't think he's going to be very free with his information," Silmaria returned.

"He'll talk," Rael replied. His voice was clearly weary, ragged and torn where the wind rushing past them snatched at the edges of his words. But there was determination, too. Determination, and the promise of danger. 

"He'll talk."

***

"You're going to talk."

Ricard looked up with baleful burgundy eyes. He was sprawled rather uncomfortably at the base of one of the many emaciated, tough trees in a small cluster that could hardly rightly be called a grove. He'd woken here securely bound with his arms behind his back and his feet hobbled together. The gnarled roots of the tree were digging into his spine where they rose all around him at the tree's base. Spindly limbs stretched out overhead, clawing and ripping their way upward, intermingling with the reaching branches of the other trees around them to form a net spreading out to the sky in a vain effort to hold snatches of starlight captive. 

Ricard spat into the dust.

Rael was undeterred. The big Nobleman sat before the bound Brother, legs crossed, with his short sword resting across his knees.

"What will you do with your sword, Lordling?" Ricard challenged. His voice was mocking, his tone a gleeful sneer "Kill me?"

"If I must," was Rael's simple reply.

"I think not," Ricard grinned. "You'll never have your answers then."

Rael ran his thumb slowly along the edge of his blade. His intense, ethereal silver eyes never left Ricard. "I will kill you if I must," he repeated, "But I'll have my answers first."

Ricard let out a bark of laughter and it was harsh and ugly. His expression was made all the more macabre by the dried blood caked thickly to the side of his face and matting his hair so it stuck up in stiff clumps. "Answers will gain you nothing, Lordling! It won't matter if you have every last one that you seek. You'll be dead ere long."

"Who do you serve? Who wants me dead?" Rael asked.

"Why, Sren, of course," Ricard replied, his lips twisting into a madman's grin. "Haven't you been paying attention?"

Rael stared into the man's unnerving burgundy eyes, so very different from the utterly mundane, ordinary brown they'd been every other time they spoke. He cuffed the Brother, a vicious open-handed slap that left Ricard's ears ringing and the taste of rust from his split lip.

"Who do you serve?" Rael repeated. "Who wants me dead?"

The mad grin didn't falter. "You know, Lord-Dead-Man, this is all quite pointless if you won't listen to me when I speak truth. May as well kill me now and have done with if you don't want to hear what I've to say, hmm? My Master, all Tower Brothers' Master, is his holiness Sren."

Rael pressed his lips into a thin line and decided to try a different question. "Why do the Tower Brothers want me dead?"

"Oh, not all the Tower Brothers do," Ricard explained blithely. "Only the ones who Sren has chosen. The ones Sren allows to hear his true voice. More of us join his inner circle every day, but not near enough. More's the pity! If more of Sren's inner circle had been at the compound, we would have had you, without need of The Empty!"

Rael cuffed him again. "You're speaking in riddles."

Ricard spat blood at Rael's feet, and gave a bark of laughter, grim and cruelly taunting. "I speak in truths! Small wonder it smacks of riddles, then!"

"You're insane," Rael said, and for that brief moment his mask of cold, deadly control slipped, and his words came out in a disgusted growl.

"Sane, insane, god touched..." Ricard gibbered. "Does it truly matter? I've the only answers you've any hope of getting, Lord Corpse, so you'd better hope I'm more sane than not!"

Rael took a deep breath. He found the small, hard knot of cold wrath inside him, and used it to be calculating and controlled once more.

"The runes burnt into your arm," he nodded to where the Brother's forearm was exposed and bound tightly to his side. "What are they?"

"My pretties...my beautiful promises? Ah, they burn so, even now, no sweeter burn there ever was," Ricard sighed, dreamily almost. "They are the mark of claiming. That which makes us Sren's chosen, those who hear his true voice and serve his will directly. It is the tongue of the gods', which no man may speak. It is our salvation, and your doom!"

Rael half wondered for a moment if the blow he'd struck Ricard had ruined his mind. Clearly the man was demented. He seethed with frustration as this precious answer, so close it was within his grasp, seeped through his fingers. Those were the same runes. He knew they were! The same runes on the arrow, and on the assassins. Ricard knew what they meant, somehow, somewhere. He only had to make the man tell him.

Rael asked the Brother about the marks again. And again. Both times, he made a very convincing case for why Ricard should tell him the truth. But though Ricard howled and struggled and cursed him, he also laughed in Rael's face as he bled, and his story did not change.




DarkFyre Ch. 22



"Who put these runes on you, Ricard," the Knight asked, though he knew what the madman would say already.

"Sren," Ricard rasped through dry, blood caked lips. "Sren, my Holy Lord, he of the twelve. Sren of the Tower, where he is ever watchful, ever mindful of the roads and comings and goings in the world..."

"Why would Sren want me dead?" Rael interrupted the man's tirade.

"Why does a god ever want a mortal dead?" Ricard mused, and would have shrugged were he not bound so tightly. "Because you're a threat."

"How could I possibly be a threat to a god?" Rael asked. He felt foolish, asking the demented Brother questions to which there could be no sane answer, but part of him clung to the hope that he could tease out some thread of truth in the fools ramblings.

Ricard loosed a cackle of laughter. "You're right! My mistake! Maybe Sren wants you dead for a different reason, then. Maybe you're cursed! Or he just decided to do it for the fun of it! Gods are fickle, you know! 

"Or maybe," Ricard went on, "Maybe you fucked one of his daughters! It happens, you know, Sren has lots of them, little she-bastards he makes with the mortals who come to visit his Tower seeking his shelter and succor. You never even know who they may be!"

Rael narrowed his silver gaze at the man. He knew, just then, that he didn't want to hear what would come next, and he gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.

"It could be her, you know," Ricard said, nodding over Rael's shoulder to where Silmaria approached them from the darkness. "There's just something about her, don't you think? Something different. Something special. She could be the half-holy little she-bastard that has the whole of the twelve questing for your head! And she'd never even know!"

***

Silmaria stayed away as long as she could stand. 

Rael had expressly forbidden her from coming near while he talked with Ricard, ordered her to wait on the other end of the copse of trees, out of sight. She'd done as she was told, obeying her Master because she trusted him, and because obeying was what she did. 

She tried to busy herself at first. She tended the horses, both of whom were beautiful creatures of strength and endurance and intelligence. Silmaria was no equestrian; she didn't know much about horses aside from how to ride passably well, and the general ins and outs of their care. But even she recognized the beasts as unique and exceptional creatures. She hoped they would be able to keep them on their journey forward; she wanted to get to know the horses better, to learn of them, and they could prove absolutely invaluable on their journey forward.

Silmaria tied their leads to a nearby tree on the offhand chance they decided to wander, though they seemed content enough. She stripped off their saddles and rubbed them down with handfuls of grass, scrubbing at their coats, and left them to graze at the thin grass and bits of scraggly shrubbery around the tree. She wished there was more plentiful greenery for them to enjoy, but right then, this was the best that could be managed.

There were tasks to be done, still. Camp needed to be set up, and she really ought to get some of their supplies out for cooking some food; both she and Lord Rael desperately needed to eat after all the chaos of the night. 

But she was too upset to be hungry. Too upset, and too worried. So Silmaria climbed up into one of the trees and found a spot to settle in a crook between two sturdy branches. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and waited, staring out into the darkness of the night without really seeing anything.

She was scared. Scared for her Master. Scared for what was happening, over in the trees just a hundred yards away. She could hear their voices, muffled by distance, and the occasional, chilling bark of Ricard's laughter. His voice sounded totally different. The tone and pitch of it made her pelt rise with unease. When he began to wail and scream, Silmaria flinched, and she shuddered as his shrill laughter mingled horrifyingly with his screams. She did not want to think about what it was her Master did, or what it cost him.

Most pressingly of all, though, she feared for Master Rael's health. Even as he drug Ricard off to the other side of the clearing and forbade her to follow, he looked awful. His face was drawn and sallow, and even as pale as the man usually was, he seemed colorless just then. Blood was crusted all over his clothes and his body, seeping from more wounds than she cared to count. His posture spoke of fatigue unto death, and she knew only his stubbornly defiant will kept him on his feet at all. She'd said her thanks to the gods that Ricard had been unconscious and then bound and secured before he began to come to; she felt sure that even he, weakened and injured and no fighter to begin with, would have been able to fight off her warrior love just then.

And so, Silmaria waited. She waited, and she stewed, and she agonized over her Lord's condition, and the things he did that she didn't want to see and didn't want to know. It would be okay, she told herself. He did what he had to do, in search of the answers they so desperately needed. Cruelty was necessary sometimes. She knew that. Had known it as a hard truth for most of her life.

That didn't help her feel any better about the work her kind Master's harsh hands did that night. She just wanted it to be over, and then they could leave Ricard and his malice far behind them and be long gone before he or his brethren could muster their forces to find them.

So she waited. Silmaria reached up to brush the thick tumble of her hair from her eyes. She caught sight of the fur on the back of her hand matted with dried blood. Her Master's dried blood, smeared across her grasping hands when she'd helped him down from his horse. Then she couldn't stop thinking about his blood. On her hand. On his clothes. In his horse's coat, where she'd had to scrub it away with her handfuls of grass.

She fought the impulse, the fear and the anxiousness, as long as she could. In the end with a hundred terrible possibilities racing through Silmaria's mind, it was too much. She could stand none of them a moment longer. The Gnari dropped from the tree and walked with a false-calm she didn't feel over to where her Master interrogated the traitor Brother. 

Initially, Silmaria was relieved when she saw that Ricard was still bound and Rael sat upright still, apparently unharmed. Then relief turned to a tight, queasy knot in her belly when she saw the blood soaking into Ricard's robes. She beheld the ruin that was a man, and felt her gorge rise.

Oh, Master... what have you done? What terrible thing has your answers driven you to?

"...And she'd never even know!" Ricard was saying, and his words ended in a coughing, cackling laughter that. He was looking at her with his fanatical, unnatural burgundy eyes, staring right at her and into her. Silmaria didn't know which made her feel more unclean, his gaze staring right through her, or the state her lover had put the man into.

"Shut your mouth, Ricard. Shut it or you will speak no more, I swear it," Rael said in a tone of quiet rage, the sort of rage that was vastly more terrifying than any explosion of white hot anger.

But Ricard just laughed all the more, long and cruel and free. Then his face suddenly went empty, and his disturbingly hollow eyes focused, and he was looking at her, staring through her all over again, his piercing gaze meeting her eyes and no matter how she tried, she could not look away.

"My god will find you, Lordling," Ricard said, though his gaze never left hers. "Sren will find you. He will find me. He is ever able to find his chosen. It's only a matter of time. And even if not, what does it matter? He'll find her, of course. He knows all his children. Every one of his bastards. She'll lead him right to you, and when he finds you, he'll cleave your skull from your shoulders, and take her, too. Gods are meant to be with their own, after all. She'll be his, and they'll make more beautiful divine bastards together."

Silmaria had no idea what the lunatic was talking about, but she felt a surge of uncomfortable dread rush through her anyhow, a spike of all-too real, primal fear that she couldn't name or understand.

Rael came to his feet shakily, and it broke her heart how unsteady her unshakable Lord was just then. He looked over at her with eyes full of uncertainty.

Silmaria watched him, confused and afraid.

"She'll writhe for him, you know," Ricard said with a devious little sneer. "She'll writhe for him, god-struck and willing, and beg to make more little godling bastard babies, just like her..."

Silmaria would have been horrified by his words, would have been outraged, and sickened, and demanded to know what the sick, broken man was talking about. 

But she never had the chance. His words didn't even fully register past the sound of her own screams when Rael quite literally cut Ricard's hateful words short by lopping his grinning head from his shoulders.

***

I want to say a big 'thank you' for all the encouragement and positive feedback that I received after my long absence before the last chapter. A lot of you expressed relief that I hadn't disappeared and let the story die! I'm deeply appreciative to my readers and their support, and even though this chapter took me longer than I would have liked, I'm just glad it wasn't as long as last time.

As some of you know, I wasn't very happy with Twenty-One. I am much more pleased with this chapter, and I hope that it showed an improvement to all of you, because to me at least, it feels worlds better. 

As always, all questions, comments, critiques, and other forms of feedback, good and bad, are welcome, encouraged, and needed! I love to hear from you guys and grow this story into a bigger and better thing with all of your help! Thank you everyone for continuing to read and enjoy with me!

On to the next!



DarkFyre Ch. 23



All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

Even as the evening crept on the heat was palpable, a smothering blanket of energy sapping misery, dry and acrid. The only reprieve from the heat was the caress of the wind sweeping down the crags and valleys and rock formations, swirling along the brief stretches of flatlands that reached out between the red stones, or whipping along jagged, flinty corners of standing stones, clustered cliffs, and miniature mountains. The wind whistled a plaintive lament through the land's many cracks and crevices. The small places that sheltered the hidden things, the creeping things, the shy things. Things that no man wished to behold maybe. Or things that all men coveted perhaps. But no one could know, for the cracks and the crevices in the stone and the rock kept their own counsel, and the wind's voice, shrieking whistle-whisper that it was, never could find the words to express the visions it beheld.

The sun was a white-hot ball of fire plunging down to clip the edge of the world. It collided with the rim of the earth, so far off in the distance that it was ever unreachable by mortal hands, and where sun and earth met the sky exploded in vibrancy. The color of glittering, precious rubies here, the rich maroon of a dark, good wine there. Oranges and canary yellows piled in, rubbing elbows as the sky became cramped with colors. Beneath it all, bogged down by the weight of the other colors and shades until it traced the very edge of the horizon was the blotted purple of an aging bruise. The setting sun cast long shadows through the rocky landscape cast off by the many rock formations. They shaped mismatched pillars, resplendent with all forms of harshly cutting edges and protrusions of prickle-pointed outcrops, looking all the world like malformed limbs and jaggedly shattered bone.

Lounging on a flat, broad rock set low to the ground was a small group, no more than five, of Sanguis lizards. The large reptiles gathered on the flat stone, drawn to the warmth of the rock baking out in the sun. The Sanguis were so named for their blood-red scales and eyes. They were as long as a large dog, with short, blunt heads and long, curling tails. They were wide and flat and slinked with their bellies low to the ground, and their claws were long and hooked and strong, perfect for digging between rocks to climb and shimmy through the stone filled lands they made their home. A multitude of small spokes and horns sprouted from the crest of their back, and their sides, and around their eyes, intimidating and fearsome looking, but ultimately more useful in scaring away potential predators than serving any kind of harmful purpose. 

Sanguis were quite common in this part of The Reach but the average traveler didn't have the eye or focus to spot them, even as large as they were; in the ever-present crimson shades of the red, rocky land, the reptiles blended in seamlessly. Soon they would all slink off to find a cave or a hollow or a crevice or a crack; someplace to spend the night unseen. But for just that moment, even as the shadows of nearby crags fell across their sunning stone, the rock held enough residual warmth to keep them lingering awhile longer.

The reptile's peaceful basking ended with the violent cracking of an arrow shot into their midst, and in a frantic whirl of panicked activity, the Sanguis' scattered in all directions, fleeing into the rocks and stones clustered all about.

"Damn all," Silmaria hissed fiercely as her shot went awry. She sprang off the back of her horse and sprinted over to the lizards' sunning rock, bow in one hand and her dagger in the other, hoping in vain to come upon one of the creatures before every one of them bolted off to shelter. But she was too late, and not for the first time that day, she came up empty handed.

"And another arrow down, to top it all off," the Gnari girl sighed as she retrieved the shattered remains of her arrow, the shaft snapped where it was fired into the rock. She took the arrow head and examined it, thinking maybe she could salvage that, at least, but the tip was bent and cracked.

"Cheap steel," Silmaria shook her head. "Thanks, Ricard."

She put her weapons away and returned to the horse she'd ridden out, the dappled gray mare with the flaxen mane she'd named Nemiah. Though both the horses were well trained and calm, she had a sweeter temperament than the dark stallion. Silmaria dubbed him StarChaser for the way his coat and mane reminded her of a starless night sky. She took Nemiah's reins and walked with the patient mare, who hadn't seemed at all bothered by her rider's sudden ejection from the saddle.

Silmaria walked toward camp, the powerful horse clomping along beside her, lost in thought. As if conjured by the speaking of his name, the images of Ricard's final moments flashed before her mind's eye: the man's battered body, the damage done at her Master's hands, only half-glimpsed but troubling. His mad, frantic eyes glowing with their strange burgundy fanaticism. His bloodied mouth a twisted rictus. His expression didn't falter, even as Rael cleaved the man's head from his shoulders. She still hadn't sorted through the weighty tangle of feelings and emotions that came with Ricard's death. Since that night, her heard was wrapped tight in the crushing grip of so much confusion and worry, hurt and doubt, she didn't even know where to begin with it all.

The sun was nearly down in truth now, but Silmaria didn't mind; she could see perfectly clearly in the fading twilight's bare light. After a few more moments of walking along Silmaria at last swung up into the saddle. Her flicking tail draped off the horse's side, idly skimming back and forth along the leather of the saddle and the mare's solid flank. Silmaria gently nudged the horse in the direction of camp with her knees. Nemiah needed no further direction and walked at a relaxed pace back to their camp, leaving Silmaria free to spiral deeper into the swirling vortex of her thoughts. Her mind raced about, spinning in every direction possible and dragging her along for the ride.

Ricard had seemed a perfectly normal, agreeable man. Reasonable, and kind even. A good example of a pious man living in service to his god and others. Silmaria couldn't fathom the incongruity of his sudden change into the hateful, conniving, and clearly mad traitor he showed himself to be. How could a person transform so completely? How could they be so fooled? And why would a seemingly ordinary Brother of the Tower have anything to do with the Assassins hounding them? It made no sense to her.

She would never be able to discover Ricard's motivations now, of course, because the man was dead.

That, more than all her questions and fears and confusion about the Brotherhood and the Assassins, bothered her most of all. No matter how much Silmaria told herself it was necessary, no matter how many times the Gnari girl reminded herself that Ricard had tried to kill them, was involved in a plot to murder herself and her Master, Silmaria just could not come to grips with the brutality of the traitor Brother's death. 

And, more pointedly, her Master's part in it.

Ricard's head, bobbing along the ground, rolling in the dirt and the dust to come to rest at her feet. His eyes no less mad in death than they were in life, they were open and staring. She'd been sure they saw her still, then.

Hazy, blood-rimmed windows into something dark and terrible.

Rael lifted the head by its short brown hair, and hurled it into the copse of trees around them with all his quickly fading might.

Somehow, in her heart, Silmaria couldn't reconcile that. She couldn't understand how the kind, loving, protective man she had given herself to so completely could have done those things. Oh, she knew Rael was capable of violence. She knew he was a man of war, and battle, and death. She even knew he could be cold and calculating when he deemed necessary. But never had she thought him ruthless. Never had she imagined him cruel.

But was what he did truly cruel? Silmaria didn't know. Her mind reminded her, again and again, that Ricard was their enemy. That Rael did what he did out of necessity. The man could surely have been a threat to them, even then, and there was no mistaking the hate and malice that shone in his eyes. A malevolent mien glinted in his grin, seeped tangibly from every pore in his skin. But he was quite obviously crazed as well, demented. His mind was a broken thing. 

She'd been too far to hear but the very last scrap of their conversation, and the brief, mad ravings he'd spouted before Rael silenced him. They were strange, taunting words, but they did not seem the sort of thing to kill a man over.

And that was what made her heart twist; not understanding. Not understanding what was wrong with Ricard, or what had driven her Master to such extremes. The man had seemed a lame thing to her, twisted and unhinged. She had difficulty seeing the man as a threat in that light. He was bound and defenseless. Yet Rael had done dreadful things to him. Tormented him. Tortured him. Silmaria wasn't certain how; she'd seen as much evidence as she cared to, and wished she'd not seen even that. But it was clear enough that Rael knew how to make a man talk when he needed. 

Silmaria bobbed along as Nemiah carried her between the hills and rock formations. She saw the road, in the distance to the west, winding its way southward. But it was not but a tiny ribbon along the horizon, and she'd never have made it out if she didn't know it was there already. Their camp was far from the road and nestled in a sheltering alcove of rock and stone, hiding them well away from prying eyes. 

Her love had tortured a man. Tortured him and killed him. And he wouldn't tell her why. For all the days following, as they raced and fled away from the carnage at the Tower Brothers' inn, Rael refused to speak of Ricard, or the things that happened that night. His focus was bent solely on escape, and in the small snatched moments of rest, he'd either been too exhausted to speak of it, or unwilling. Silmaria told herself he did what was necessary. That it was Rael's strength of will and unyielding stoicism that kept them safe and alive when faced with difficult decisions. But her heart said it was cruelty she hadn't thought him capable of. Rael could have let him live. He could have shown mercy.

And what of me? Silmaria thought to herself harshly. Have I never done something cruel and unnecessary in the name of survival and self-preservation?

Perhaps, a voice that was her own whispered in her ear. It was reproachful, and afraid. But have you ever murdered someone as they were bound and defenseless? That man was a deranged fanatic. He was more deserving of pity than death.

"It wasn't like that," Silmaria said in a harsh whisper. "There was a reason. There had to be a reason. Master wouldn't kill someone for nothing. He's a good man. A good man."

Silmaria repeated this, in her mind, over and over again, as she swayed gently in the saddle. She knew it was the truth; even though her doubts remained, nipping at the heels of her mind, leaving her confused and conflicted and awash in more emotions than she could name, Silmaria believed her mantra. Her Master was a good man.

It was a slim thread of hope, a shining strand to cling to in the darkness of fear and doubt and uncertainty. But it was all she had.

For just then, it was enough.

***

The Gnari girl lacked the luxury of dwelling on doubts when she arrived at their camp. Rael was moaning faintly and thrashing about, spending the precious little strength he had left. His blankets were kicked away. His face was a mask of death; sweat-slick and sallow, his cheeks were sunken so deeply he seemed almost skeletal, as if he'd been languishing near death and starving for weeks instead of a few feverish days.

Silmaria nearly tumbled out the saddle as she rushed to him. She had no time to unsaddle Nemiah or tie her reins to a nearby stunted tree. The horse would wander off, or she would stay. Silmaria was too focused on her love to care. She knelt beside him as he writhed about in twitches and spasms. She laid the back of her hand to his sweating brow and was near scalded by the heat pouring off him like an inferno. His jerking was nearly bowing his body from the ground, then. He clawed at the air above him, clutching at something unseen and unnamed. His hands shook tremulously, and the backs of them were ropy with veins and tendons like an old man's. Silmaria reached up and gently pushed his hands and body down onto the pallet she'd made for him. Making his body comply was pathetically easy, frighteningly easy.

Rael's body was preparing itself for The Mending. His fever raged out of control, his body too hot to touch comfortably as his body shed water from sweat faster than she could put it back in him. He was dehydrated despite her best efforts, and he was losing weight and vitality at a horrifying rate, as if his body was consuming and syphoning off every last bit of fuel and resource it had to stoke the fire that would eventually burn through him from the inside out.

After their escape from the inn it had taken three days of hard riding before Rael succumbed to his wounds and his exhaustion, and fell from the saddle. It had been an absolute nightmare to get him slung across StarChaser's back, and Silmaria only succeeded at all because the intelligent horse had cooperated with the process. They rode on, searching for an acceptable place to settle and rest. By the time Silmaria found a spot secure and hidden enough for her to feel comfortable making camp in, Rael's fever had begun in earnest. Peeling back the dressings she'd bound over his wounds had nearly made her gag; every last wound was badly infected.

In the following days, Rael's condition declined rapidly and his wounds only became worse. Despite every effort on Silmaria's part to keep his injuries clean, despite using every trick she knew for treating infections with the limited supplies she had available, the wounds were festering and purulent, especially the deep wound in his shoulder blade. Silmaria felt certain the bone was fractured and there were bone fragments loose in his back. But she had no tools to remove the shards, and she was no surgeon to begin with.

Silmaria changed his dressings and made a simple poultice from the leaves of a Grey-Root tree. It was not a potent remedy, but she wasn't familiar enough with most of The Reach's plant life to make a more effective one. Despite her efforts, the infection continued to worsen by the day. 

At this rate, Silmaria wasn't sure what would kill him first; the infection raging through him, the fever cooking him alive from the inside, or his body simply cannibalizing itself until he had nothing left to give. Looking at him now, drawn out and scoured by agony and suffering, Silmaria imagined any of those possibilities being more likely than his making it to The Mending.

At last Rael grew quiet, simply too feeble and exhausted to struggle or play out his fever dreams any longer. He fell into a sleep that was at once frighteningly deep, yet never truly restful.

With a heavy heart and troubled mind, Silmaria cleaned and re-dressed her Master's wounds and wiped away the sweat soaking his body. She poured as much water into his slack mouth as she could, and settled him comfortably on his pallet. Telling herself she'd done all she could for him just then, she went about tending their camp; she unsaddled and brushed down Nemiah, who'd wandered over to sand complacently beside StarChaser. She fed the horses some of the wild nuts she'd gathered from the low hanging branches of a Zeal tree, munching a few of the crunchy little morsels herself before feeding the horses handfuls of the dried, sun-withered grasses she'd gathered up for them.

The mounts tended and fed, Silmaria took some short, gnarled branches of Witherwood and piled them into the firepit she'd dug into the dirt and clay. She started a modest fire, keeping it small to minimize the chances of any unfriendly eyes taking notice of it. She set one of the battered tin pots onto the fire and filled it with water from her skins. She would need to retrieve more water from the nearby spring she'd found in the low hills at the foot of the rock formation to the west tomorrow morning.

Once the water came to a boil, Silmaria took the soiled bandages she'd just removed from Rael's wounds, and dunked them into the boiling water. She let them soak for roughly five minutes or so, and pulled them out. She dumped the putrid water, refilled the pot, and set the new water to reach a boil while she vigorously pounded and scrubbed the linen dressings on a nearby rock before returning them into the boiling water once more. She repeated this process three times. It was far from ideal; Silmaria would have far preferred to use fresh, unused bandages every time she changed them, but if she'd done that she would have shredded every bit of clothing they had to use for bandages by then, and she still would have come up short. There was no help for it, and wishing for things to be different would change nothing. So Silmaria did all she could with what she had, and prayed to gods she didn't particularly believe in to see her love through once more.

Silmaria stashed the pot she'd used to boil the bandages and took a different pot, placing it over the fire. She took a few slender roots she'd gathered from the Grey-Root tree, chopped then up fine with her knife, and threw them into the water to boil down into a tea known for its fever reducing properties, the third batch she'd made that day. After letting it cool, the Gnari woman propped Lord Rael's head on her lap and poured as much of the thin tea into him as she could manage, rubbing his throat gently with her free hand to coax him to swallow. He didn't get near as much down as she would have liked, but she hoped it would keep his fever from going any higher than it was, at least.

After working for several more moments to get some water in him as well, Silmaria let out a sigh of utter exhaustion. That was it. There was nothing else she could do just then, no matter how desperately she wanted to help ease her love's suffering. There was only so much she could do. She swept her long black curls, which had spilled rebelliously down her back and into her face, into a messy pile atop her head and bound it there with a leather tong. She sank without any of her usual grace onto her backside beside the fire, and reached for the pack with their food and rations. She pulled out a stiff heel of bread, two turnips, a carrot, and a strip of dried and cured venison. 

The heel of bread was probably hard enough to crack some of the rocks around her. Silmaria cut up the vegetables and tossed them into her small cooking pot, along with half of the venison strip, some water, and a small pinch of salt from the pouch they'd picked up from the inn. She chewed what was left of the venison strip while she waited for her dinner to cook. She stretched out her lithe limbs, and then let out a soft moan of misery as her joints all seemed to pop and crackled at once. Her bones held onto a deep, throbbing ache, and Silmaria felt aged far beyond her years.

Leaning back on her hands, Silmaria cast her feline eyes upward. The sky was clear as fine glass tonight, openly expanding into infinity with nary a cloud to obscure the view. The stars were out in stunning abundance, a gallery of the heavens finest hosts, shining with the sort of brilliance that made the heart swell and spirit soar. They glittered in multitudes of multitudes, a challenge, a promise, an entreaty. Forget the petty squabbles and insincere pains of your world down there on the ground. Behold splendor unimagined! The unattainable beauty that is our very existence! Watch us dance, and slide, cavort and race and soar as we go spiraling through the ether. We stars, we jewels, we truest of souls, we whose ethereal effervescence rivals the gods themselves.




DarkFyre Ch. 23



It was a sky to reach up and touch. To be drawn into. To lose oneself in, for a night, or a lifetime.

The night was filled with the chittering and shifting and quiet calls of nocturnal things prowling and sneaking, shifting and slithering through The Reach. There were Shadow Specters and Black Divers, the nighthawks that made their homes seemingly everywhere south of The Teeth, from the Johake Grasslands to The Reach and beyond. They pierced the sky with sharp, sudden screeches before the wind whistled high and vibrant where they pass by, small and sleek and on the hunt. The horses snorted softly where they slept on their feet a short ways away, dreaming equine dreams. The fire popped occasionally, and the air was filled with fresh burning wood and the wafting smell of bubbling soup.

A good night.

A perfect night.

Except her love lay a few feet away, dying. 

Silmaria choked back a sob, even as the tears rushed down her cheeks, soaking into her pelt. She curled her knees up to her chest and rocked slowly on her heels, her arms wrapped about her drawn up legs. Lord Rael was wasting away. He was worse this time, Silmaria knew. His fever and infection had progressed quicker, and he seemed even more drained and racked by sickness than he'd been in the cave. 

She doubted he would last another full day. 

The moments tick by, ponderously heavy. Each moment arrived weighted with tension as she waited for her Master's Mending to quicken, each moment passed crushing with the burden of disappointment.

It wasn't fair. To lose him now, after they'd been through so much! After so many miles, dangers unending, and enough heartache to lay the most stoic man low. It wasn't right that after finally finding love in his arms, that she should lose him now. She was hurt, and confused, and he was supposed to be there to make those things go away and to protect her. He was supposed to care for her and love her. She was lost without him, and worst of all she doubted what he'd done, and he was dying, and her guilt and shame swirled in with her sorrow and grief, mingling, making it all the more potent. And as much as she hated herself for it, she couldn't help but doubt still.

And all this, for what?

For a traitor-madman, who had no more answers than sense.

After a time, either a flickering instant or an unnoticed eternity, the Gnari woman swallowed her sorrow. Set her jaw hard, as she'd watched her Master do so often. She let her pain overtake her sorrow, then. Let it burn inside her, hard and needling her insides until she was raw with it. The pain was easier than the sorrow, or the loss to come, or the confusion. 

She clung to her pain, focused on it, and Silmaria began to pray. She didn't know to whom she sent out her wordless entreaties; she'd never held much stock in The Circle of Twelve. The old gods? Though they were the gods of her long lost Mother and the Father she'd never known, Silmaria held no bond with them, either. In the end, it didn't matter. The Twelve. The old gods. The Highest Holy. Hell, the fucking stars themselves, even. She would pray to the birds and the sea, the earth, the ether, the fire boiling her soup over if it made a difference!

Please, she thought, a silent call to all things of power in the world. Spare my Master. Give him strength to pull through. Give him strength to Mend. If there is anything of the Twelve or the old gods or goodness and purity and life worth living, let him live.

Or, said a small corner of her heart, a dark little hollow where a small lump of hate had festered, Give me the strength to bring the cowardly bastards who have wronged us to their end. If they take my Master from me, then let me take everything in all the world from them. If there is any justice left in the world, do not let their wrongs go unpunished.

If any gods, old or new heard her plea, they kept their counsel silent. 

The stars glimmered and shone, blazed with brilliance, but no more and no less than usual.

Nothing stirred or moved, and no voice issued forth to her demands.

Nothing but the rhythmic, mesmerizing crackles of the fire, quiet and comforting. It was all she had.

For just then, it was enough.

***

The scream that ripped through the night was a loathsome thing, the kind of sound that makes a quivering knot wrap up so tight in the pit of your stomach that it feels like something must surely rupture under the pressure of it. A shiver-shake sound. A raucous horror-call, the voice of the unspeakable given tremulous tenor. Agony souring in the gut and vomiting forth from lungs too full of suffering to contain it a moment longer.

Silmaria came awake with a scream of her own. Though gripped by heartache and worry, she'd been simply too exhausted and fallen asleep sitting up beside the softly glowing fire. Now, frightened and disoriented, she groped for her short sword before she realized the horrid screaming was coming from Rael.

The Nobleman was writhing in his blankets more violently than ever. It was clearly no fever that caused his outbursts, however; Rael's blankets and bedding, his clothes, and his flesh were all wreathed in silver-white flames. The fire burst in great blazing gouts from his wounded flesh, crackling and hissing and shining brighter than all the stars above. Rael's howls of agony continued as the fire consumed him, burned away his bedding, his clothing, his flesh, consumed him from the inside out. His hands gripped at nothing and his face was a terrible mask contorted in sufferance. The sinews along his thick neck stood out starkly, veins defined and distended as if pumped full with liquid fire.

"Master," Silmaria said in a trembling voice. She wondered if anyone had ever been so relieved and so horrified all at once. "Hang on, my Lord, just hang on!"

Silmaria reached for his tangled blankets but quickly drew her hand away, the heat pouring off the bedding and the man both too intense for her to get close. She desperately wished there was something she could do, but until the Mending played itself out, she was helpless.

A sharp neighing brought Silmaria's attention to the horses, who were beginning to shift and stamp restlessly. She hurried over to the mounts and patted them, murmuring reassuringly to them. Though rigid and tense, the horses didn't bolt as Silmaria assured them and soothed them as best she could. She pressed her face into Nemiah's mane, her arms around the horse's solid neck, drawing comfort for the beast as she waited for the ordeal to be over.

It seemed a lifetime or two before Rael rose, naked, on quavering legs, and the Mending was complete. He sported new scars where his wounds had been, fresh additions to the multitude. His body, though nowhere near as gaunt and sickly and failing as it had been during his fever stage, was more slender and drawn than Silmaria had ever seen it in health. 

When the Nobleman regarded her his silvered eyes were those of a wild thing, disoriented and hostile.

Silmaria stepped forward slowly. Rael tensed, and he bared his teeth.

"Master, it's me," Silmaria said gently.

Rael responded by snarling like a beast, and lunging near on top of her.

Silmaria stood her ground, though her heart was fit to crack a rib from the inside with the way it pounded within her breast. 

"It's me, Master," she said again, and she held her hands up, just a bit, with her palms open and turned upward. She met his eyes and struggled to be calm, but firm. "It's Sil. I am yours, my Lord. I am your servant, your companion, your love, your servant."

The wild thing in man-flesh before her stared down at her, primal, fierce. Yet she could tell by the leanness of his body and the way he shook ever so slightly that he was exhausted and utterly drained by the Mending. Rael began to circle her. He was full of wariness, and uncertainty, on the edge of snapping into an animal rage at any moment. He was lost in this primal aspect of himself. He was fearsome, and spent. Depleted beyond all reason, and supremely dangerous. 

"You are Rael," she told him, keeping her voice even and calm, almost soothing, but with an undercurrent of strength. Weakness would do her no favors here. "My Rael. You are my Master. My Lord. My love. My man. My warrior and my protector. My kind, comforting strength. My stoic guide and teacher.

"You are a Knight of The Dale," she went on, her words a steady, soothing stream. She wound her words into a cocoon, wrapping them around the almost feral Nobleman, letting her words form a foundation for him to hang his identity upon. "You are a man of swords and leather and steel, pens and books and ink. You are a man of learning and intelligence. A soldier, and a leader of men. You are a man of violence, and of reason, and of love."

Rael had stopped circling her, then. He stood in close to her, looming over her, and the heat radiating from his always warm body was still intense enough to make her break into sweat, even without touching him. The fierce Knight leaned in and drew in her scent. 

Silmaria wondered, for a moment, if he were going to take her as he had last time. She could not stop him, of course; and she would not have wanted to. She was his, and she loved him, and she would gladly give him the comfort of her body to help him come back to himself if that was what he demanded.

But he did not take her. He simply stood there, staring, with a scowling, uncertain look creasing his brow. So Silmaria continued her quiet litany, watching him all the while. 

"You are a tender, caring man. A man who sacrifices and gives to others, even those beneath him, because that is what you believe is right. You are a survivor, my Master. You are indomitable of will, and unbreakable of heart. If not for you, we would both be dead many times over."

Even displaced under the layers of whatever unreasoning presence overtook him after a Mending, Rael was still there, deep down. And just then he seemed to find an anchor in her words. Silmaria slowly sank to the ground, tucking her legs beneath her and letting her tail curl about her waist. 

Rael stood unmoving for a tiresome long while before crouching low, and then settling back on his haunches, listening, his eyes unwaveringly focused on the movement of her lips. Silmaria spoke on, hardly even aware of what she said, simply letting her words keep the Knight's animalistic aggression at bay.

Her Lord was alive.

For just then, it was enough.

***

Rael's strange eyes flew open. His pupils were vast black pools, his iris' thin outer slivers of pale starlight. He sat bolt upright with his hands groping about for weapons, curling into fists. He heard a hot, harsh sound, the sound like small wet stones grinding together, slipping and rubbing and hard. After a moment, he realized the sound came from the snarl rumbling about in his chest and throat. 

Ricard. That bastard. Traitorous. Mad. Deceiving. 

Dangerous. 

It was another moment before Rael remembered he'd cut the mad Brother down. His immediate memories were painted with confusion, hate, and even fear. All stemming from the ravings spat and sputtered like bile from Ricard's bloodied, grinning lips. The Nobleman's memories came in a slow trickle of recollection. He executed the man. He was defenseless, and viscous, and as dangerous as a cornered viper, small and coiled and ready to strike. 

There was the terrible, frantic flight through the days that followed. His rapid decline and weakening, though he bent the fullness of his will toward pushing on. He'd known then that his wounds were festering, and his body too badly weakened from the battle to keep their frenzied pace up for long. But his fear of the inevitable pursuit catching up to them kept him driving Silmaria and the horses hard to put as many precious miles between them and the Tower Brother's compound as possible. Then, though he fought it with all his might, he succumbed and went sliding off into a darkness so deep it had seemed the very world had terminated around him.

A quick study of his flesh confirmed the Nobleman's suspicion that he'd gone through a Mending. His wounds were freshly scarred, burned away by the fires that used every bit of his body's reserves. Rael felt a fragile swell of energy and vigor, the sort of unsteady hale feeling one gets after emerging from days of illness. It was a strange blending of vitality and fatigue that made him mindful not to ask too much of his body too quickly. More than anything he felt plagued by a gnawing hunger that threatened to consume him as surely as the Mending had. 

Willing himself to ignore the ravenous, uncompromising demands of his belly, Rael glanced quickly about in search of his Gnari love. He found her curled up a few paces away and sleeping so deeply that she'd kept sleeping right through his rough awakening. Her face wore the exhausted worry and hard work of getting him through the Mending. 

As always, his memories were hazy at best during those first feral hours coming out of the Mending. Like always, he was stuck, stranded on that distant shore with its gray sands, and empty waves, and the bleak sky that opened out to the void at the edge of his mind. He'd stood on that shore with his senses bled dry. There was no smell, no sound. It was an awful, lonely place, a slice of existence locked within his own mind, while something else that was him yet not took up the whole of his existence. All was cold, and all was gray. And every time he Mended and the other piece of him that was not a man took over, the lonely shore was grayer, and colder, and less alive than before.

Then she was there. Silmaria. His Silmaria. The scent of her, familiar and cherished, yet stronger than ever before. He could smell a thousand nuances to her scent, little unperceivable notes and fragrances he'd never noticed before. He could smell the scent of her flesh and fur, a gentle, pleasant, clean musk that was feline and wild and somehow undeniably female. A fresh, earthy tone, subtle and warming, the smell of life and growing things. The distinct scent of her hair, like midnight lilies. The lingering copper of his own blood lingering on her hands. And the salt of her tears, dried on her cheeks, like fresh droplets from the ocean.

The smell of her melded with the sound of her voice. The sweet melody of her words, familiar and solid, a symphony to his ears, every note and tone, every word and syllable precious and meaningful and sweet, a beacon of light and life in the mundane miasma of gray nothingness he'd been banished to in his own head. Her words and her scent mingled, twining, coalescing into something real that he could hold to. It was her, his love, and she was there in that place with him. The texture of her kindness. The scent of her love. The flavor of her fire and the vividness of her laughter replacing the dust on his tongue. Her warmth surrounded him, a balm, a blanket, a boon that warmed him in this place of unrelenting cold.

Rael knelt beside her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest and she slept. He reached out to brush away a curling tendril of midnight falling across her brow. Her pointed ears, laid flat to her head in slumber, flickered, but she remained asleep. Not for the first time, Rael wondered at his good fortune, to find such a strong, loving, devoted woman to share this journey with. To share his life with. Now more than ever, he would have been lost without her. 

Quite literally, in this sense. It seemed as if every time he went into a Mending, he was lost within himself more and more deeply. The savage, bestial other aspect of himself came to the surface, stronger every time. Could he have come back out of it, this time, without her to anchor him and guide him back? Honestly, he didn't know.

And what of next time? What of the time after that? Rael didn't know how many Mendings he had left, before the whole thing consumed him utterly, and whatever that... thing inside him was, became all he would ever be again. 

He had to tell her. Silmaria had to know. She deserved to know.

... But not yet. Not today. Today, it was too much.

Letting her sleep, Rael rose and went into their packs to find some clothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and stuffed his feet into his boots, leaving his chest and upper body bare to soak in the early afternoon sun's warmth. He tore off a fist sized chunk from a dry, crumbly wedge of cheese, took a strip of dried meat, and forced himself to eat both slowly, one bite at a time. 

A small rise to the east afforded him a better view of the area around their camp, but only slightly. He didn't recognize the area their camp was nestled in, but then with how fever addled his brain had been recently, that was no surprise. There were rock formations rising on three sides, and the plains stretching out and away from them on the remaining side were flat and gave a clear view from their position. Their camp was settled in a gently dipping depression with a few thin-limbed trees at their backs. They would have seen any unwanted visitors long before anyone spotted them. Rael was pleased, impressed even. Silmaria had chosen well.

Rael went to where the horses stood at the foot of the trees. They were picking at the scrub of parched, unappealing grass nestled between the roots of the trees, gnarled little knots that fanned out like spreading gray toes. Both horses lifted their heads to regard him as he approached. The dappled gray horse dropped its head to the scant grasses after a moment, seemingly at ease. The ebon horse continued to stare at him with watchful equine eyes.

"Easy," Rael murmured to the black horse, which he recalled with some difficulty was a stallion, while the spotted gray was a mare. He came closer and slowly raised a hand palm up. The stallion remained alert, but was more-less docile. Rael gently laid his hand on the horse's warm, powerful flank. The horse allowed the contact. His midnight tail swished, whip-like.

"I barely remember the days after our escape," Rael told the proud beast, his hand slowly rubbing along the horse's gleaming black coat. "But I remember you carrying me without complaint. You flowed across the land like a black tide, as swift and effortless and dark as a midnight current."

The horse watched him with a liquid, attentive gaze brimming with intelligence. The stallion had a wariness about him still. But he seemed to like the petting, and Rael felt a bit of the tension go out of the taut, bunching muscles in the horse's shoulders as he moved his hand there. The mare seemed at ease completely, more interested in twisting some grass from between the tree roots than him.

"You and your friend are something else," Rael went on in a smooth, calm voice as he walked his fingers along the horse's withers. "Any stable master would give his right arm for even one of you. I'm no horseman and even I recognize you. You two are Vrien stock, through and through."

"His name is StarChaser," Silmaria said softly just behind his shoulder. Despite her arriving on silent feet, Rael wasn't terribly surprised. He was well used to how quietly she could move by then. Silmaria moved to his side and laid a slender hand along the dark stallion's rump, patting him soothingly. "The mare is Nemiah."

"Good names," Rael nodded. He moved his hand up to where the horse's neck met his immense head. The stallion acknowledged him fully for the first time, dipping his head to butt lightly into Rael's hand.

"You're a strong one, StarChaser," Rael smiled down at the horse.

"What's a Vrien?" Silmaria asked after a long, quiet moment.

"A breed of horse. They are bred far to the south, by the Elves in the Leftin empire. They are the most valued and sought after horses in all the land. They are stronger and faster and smarter than any other known breed, and possessing of great stamina. They are equally suited to racing and to war. Leftin Elves have been known to put entire villages to the torch if they find them harboring horse thieves. Vrien are sold, very selectively, and very costly, to outsiders. I don't even want to guess at what price a pair of them would fetch."




DarkFyre Ch. 23



The mare, Nemiah, noticed Silmaria and came to her. The Gnari girl dutifully began to brush her fingers along the horse's dappled gray coat. "What would horses like these be doing at a simple traveler's stop in The Reach of all places?"

Rael turned to regard his love, who was staring down at Nemiah with a pensive expression. "I don't know. I didn't see anyone who looked to be a Noble or anyone of means while we were staying there. If I had to guess? They belonged to some of the Assassins. Which means whoever is trying to kill us has even greater resources than I'd imagined."

Silmaria frowned thoughtfully and stroked Nemiah's muzzle. "They didn't seem to mind being stolen. They let me take them without any fuss."

"They're smart horses," Rael replied, patting the crest of StarChaser's long, thick neck. "Vrien can be loyal, in the way of trained beasts. But if their former owners weren't good to them, I wouldn't be surprised if they were agreeable to better company. Lucky for us, I'd say. They certainly saved our asses back at the Brother's inn. And they will be an asset in the journey to come, there's no doubt of that."

Silmaria nodded slowly, and then bit her lower lip. Rael saw then how tightly controlled her body language was, how rigidly tense the set of her back was. He peered at her close, studying his love, and when she at last turned to face him and tentatively raised her verdant green eyes to him, he could see how precarious her control was, teetering on a precipice.

"Come here, Sil" he said to her softly, and he opened his arms to her.

The girl hesitated, uncertainty creasing her brow with a touch of apprehension. Then she rushed forward, throwing herself into the security and comfort of his embrace. Rael wrapped her up in his arms, cradling her slender, smaller form and holding her tightly. Silmaria shook against him, and he felt the liquid warmth of her tears on his bare chest, but she said nothing and her cries were silent. 

"It's okay," he told her firmly and quietly. She continued to shake as he held her close, and his knowing hands stroked along the small of her back reassuringly. He could only guess at the roil of emotions all tangled up inside her. He could feel them crowding, jostling for room, volatile and potent and overwhelming, and even if he didn't know just what she was struggling with, he felt her struggling, and that alone made his heart ache for her.

Silmaria burrowed into him, her small hands gripping at him hard, and more tears soaked his skin. Rael brought one hand up to smooth her thick, black curls back, soothing her, comforting her as he willed all his love and his protection and his strength into her. 

"You're okay, my girl. You did well. So well. You're so strong, Sil. You're okay."

His words were a balm to the raw, ravaged edges of her, and she soaked them in as much as she soaked in the warmth and solidness of his body. He felt wrong in her arms. Too small, too slim, too spent. But he was alive, alive and whole, and he would live on. Nothing could be sweeter than that. Silmaria clung to her Master as the dam on her emotions gave way. She didn't sob, or whimper, or cry out. She was able to keep that much at bay, at least. But she couldn't stop the violent shaking, or the tears.

"I thought I was going to lose you this time," she croaked at last in a voice thick with emotion, and she struggled not to sob on the words. "I thought you were going to waste away before you could Mend. It was so close. So close. It was worse than in the cave. I almost lost you."

Rael's arms tightened around her, and for a time, he simply held her, rocking her in his steadying arms. Then, he took her lovely face in his hands, and raised it up, and leaned in to kiss her deep and sound, his lips pressing firm and warm against hers. Silmaria met his kiss eagerly, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck. Rael claimed her mouth with a kiss strong and soothing. Silmaria melted into the kiss, melted into him, surrendering to and accepting the strength and comfort he offered.

When Rael broke the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers and stared down into her slitted eyes. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, my love. I'm sorry you had to go through it again. But I will not leave you. I promised you that, remember? I'm not going anywhere. We are going to finish this journey together. We are going to find out who is behind all this and bring them to justice. Do you understand me?"

Silmaria stared up into his eyes, her own still bright with shed and unshed tears. She listened to him, and nodded slowly to his words. "Yes, Master," she said at last, and let out a shaky breath.

"I love you, Silmaria. I love you, and I won't let you be alone. Ever," Rael told her, and pulled her into another crushing hug that nearly made her ribs creak.

Silmaria clung to him, and kissed him again. Though her doubts and misgivings about Ricard and that awful night were not gone, they were buried under a rush of love and relief, for she was grateful just to hear his words and feel his hands and be surrounded by his warmth again.

The rest would wait. She had her Master's love, his protection, and his devotion. She had his strength, and his good heart, and their ever-deepening bond.

It was enough. For just then, and for always.

It was enough.

***

A big thank you goes to Medik_4_7, who offered some insight and advice on this chapter, as well as helped with proofreading. Any mistakes left over are my own, not his. A big thanks also to Kent and Becky, who let me pick their brains on some issues I needed clarified. 

Thank you as always to my patient readers. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Questions, comments, and critiques are as always much appreciated.



DarkFyre Ch. 00



Prologue

Rain fell in a sporadic icy deluge. No true storm, it was nonetheless a persistent enough spattering of ice and water to make the battleground a wet, slushy mess of melting ice, frigid wind, and watered down puddles of mud and fresh blood steaming in the dawning light. 

It was miserable conditions, even for the already miserable enterprise of war waging. But if the barbaric Haruke cared at all, they gave no sign. The warriors were far from the plains of their people, having journeyed east and north across the sweeping Johake grasslands and crossing the treacherous mountains of the Teeth that formed a barrier between their homeland and the southmost reaches of DarkFyre Dale. This they did with the fierce single-minded determination Haruke warriors were known for. A bit of sleet was nothing to them.

A Haruke raiding party had launched an incursion against the FrostFall warcamp just before dawn. As the sun crested over the craggy mountains at the camp's back, the battle was full underway. The barbarian raiding party was small but efficient, moving quickly and ruthlessly against their enemy, who heavily outnumbered them.

The Haruke made up for their numbers with ferocity, fighting with a tenacious intense spirit. There was no uniformity to their arms and armament; Haruke warriors wore the talismans and tokens of their individual tribes. Their weapons were largely of rough hammered cold iron. Well notched long swords, cruelly curved axes, hefty wooden cudgels with iron caps, menacing war hammers and blood stained spears were seen most often. Some warriors carried steel weapons they'd pillaged in past battles. A few warriors wore padded clothe armor or leather tunics, but most of Haruke tribesman fought bare chested, boldly daring their enemies to strike them down, if their blades could find them. 

They came at the defenders, dark eyes wild and hair streaming out behind them, wet and writhing in the wind. Bones, beads, charms and tokens of their tribe were twined in their untamed locks. Soaked through by the rain, intricate war paint said to be the bones of their felled enemies ground down to powder ran in pale rivulet from their faces and chests.

The Dalemen held the advantage of terrain; their encampment was arranged on the elevated hills that rose at the eastern foot of the FrostFall mountains. The mountains formed the westmost borders of DarkFyre Dale land. FrostFall rose at their backs with its menacing, jagged points of white capped teeth piercing the sky. SkySpear towered across the Dale miles to the east, the tallest mountain in the region and the namesake for the chain of mountains all along the eastern border of DarkFyre land. The Teeth stood to the south, and DrakeSpine ranged to the north. The camp was positioned well, with the high grounds in the defenders favor and the sun rising at their backs. The Haruke cared not and charged the Dalemen, reckless and relentless.

The Dalemen met the barbarian's ferocity with discipline and steel. Where the Haruke were swift and wild the men of the Dale were steadfast and immoveable, enduring. Pikemen were set behind earthen bulwarks around the parameter of the camp, ready to fend off any Haruke that advanced beyond the joined battle just outside the camp's border. 

Foot soldiers armed with sword and shield and clad in fine chainmail met the Haruke warriors, steel blades flashing in the weak dawning light. They held their ground as the barbarians pressed them hard, the opposing forces meeting in a savage clash of bodies and sweat and blood.

Knights of the Dale clad top to bottom in gleaming plate mail waded into the fray, shouting orders to the soldiers as they met the barbarians with steel in gauntleted hands. Their standards were emblazed on their surcoats and shields, the proud coat of arms of their respective noble houses. House Vahlar, with its red tipped spears crossed above a gray helm. House Argyle, of the great rearing black bear. House Dorn, displaying its proudly striking lion in gold. A multitude of other banners and surcoats proclaimed the knights joining the fray.

Rael was discernibly different from his Brother Knights. Though a Noble of the Realm and a Captain of the Knighthood of DarkFyre Dale, Rael carried no shield, and wore no surcoat with his family arms upon them. He did not wear a suit of full plate, instead favoring a hauberk of steel scale mail covering his torso and arms down to his forearms, his hands clad in leather gauntlets with steel plates covering the back of his hands and running up his wrists. He preferred the ease of visibility afforded by neglecting to wear a helm, and he left his cloak behind for the benefit of unencumbered movement. 

The Nobleman favored a tremendous greatsword that he swung in great cleaving arcs. The Captain's swordplay was surprisingly swift and precise for the size and heft of his blade. He circled, stabbed and slashed tirelessly as he stepped around and between his foes. Perhaps perceiving the worth of the young Knight, the Haruke warriors pressed in, eager to test their mettle against him.

Rael bared his teeth as he met the Haruke head on. His blood was rushing high and heavy in his veins, thick with a heady cocktail of adrenaline, a dash of battle lust, and a pinch of hatred. He saw the same euphoria reflected in his enemy's eyes. They understood it better than any of his own people ever could. The knowing expression on the tribesmen's faces frightened him. Angered him. Yet he could not deny that part of him embraced the drumming of war in his blood as well. Rael never felt quite so alive as he did when he stared death in the eye and cut it down with his blade.

A twist of his greatsword sent a Haruke's heavy axe spinning free from severed fingers. Rael lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the big man before him and knocking him back enough to bring his blade whistling in an upward arc to flay the man's chest and throat wide open. The Knight turned, dropping his weight and bringing his greatsword flashing out as he spun, catching a second barbarian across the belly in a cut so vicious it near tore the man in half. 

Before the corpse even met the earth Rael circled to his left as another Haruke lunged at him. A heavy necklace of wickedly curving predator's teeth hung around the Haruke's neck, trophies of his tribe, clink-clacking, clink-clacking. He swung a blood-stained war hammer with killing intent. The man's eyes were wide and his lips drawn, his feral grin mirroring Rael's own, the grin of one overjoyed to at last face a glorious death. Rael moved with the man, his body turning and spinning as the barbarian hammered at him relentlessly. The power behind each blow would have been enough to shatter Rael's bone, pulverize his muscle and crush his heart in his chest if any had been able to find him. But Rael moved with speed surprising for such a large man, and his blade shot up to parry when the Haruke threatened to close.

Finally, Rael took an opening as he hit a high parry, dropping his weight and sending his greatsword slashing in a horizontal cut across the tribesman's lead leg. His cut bit deeply into the inside of the man's leg just below the knee. As the barbarian let out a savage bellow and stumbled, Rael continued his spin, raising up to his full height. He whipped his heavy sword out in a backhanded cut as he came around, neatly severing the Haruke's head from his broad shoulders.

Similar death and carnage surrounded him on all sides as the armies engaged. Men slipped and slid as the grassy hills churned into a muddy mess by too many boots while sleet mixed with blood and rent flesh underfoot. Sharp screeches punctuated the screams of the dying as battle axes bit deep into shields and metal armor crunched under the weight of hammer and mace. Though more skirmish than a true full-fledged battle, the fighting was intense and savage.

Rael whirled among it all, a man utterly in his element. His blade and gauntleted hands ran red with blood, and he did not slow. Common soldier and Knight alike rallied behind the young Knight Captain, and soon the Haruke were routed. The barbarians were slain, down to the man. None surrendered, and none retreated.

The morning sun crept over the sprawling FrostFall Mountains at their back, obscured by the overcast. The sleet continued in a lackluster, insincere fashion, too weak to wash away the blood spattering the hillocks and slopes below.

Rael stood on a small rise above the field, breathing deeply as he willed his pulse to slow and the frenzy seething inside him to cool. Tendrils of steam rose from his overheated body. He rested his bloodied greatsword across one powerful shoulder and gripped the hilt until his fingers were nearly numb. His eyes, a strange, ethereal silver, stared out over the bloodied fields as he struggled to find calm. His gaze fell on his men, who glanced furtively at him from under their helms, their expressions a mix of awe, respect, nervousness, and fear. No man would speak it aloud, but no matter how many times they witnessed it, the Captains ferocity in battle was an unnerving sight even to his hardened and loyal soldiers.

The young Nobleman pulled himself together, viciously quelling the roil of emotions inside him and burying them deep. There was no time for any of them, not the rage or the frustration or the sorrow at more of his men's blood spilled, which only served to feed the anger burning in his gut all the more. He was a Captain, and this warcamp was his to command, and no matter how deep his emotions ran, he had a job to do, and they would only complicate it.

"Stanys," Rael called. His voice came out thick and gravely. He cleared his throat and tried again, hailing one of the pikeman standing nearby. The soldier dipped an informal bow and leaned attentively on his pike. "Send for Morell and StoneSinger at the physician's tent to tend the wounded. Put any of the Haruke left alive to the sword. Burry our dead in the graves on the north embankment. Then gather the Haruke's dead and prepare them for transport to the truce ground to be turned over to their envoys.

"M'Lord," the soldier agreed, and hurried to be about his orders.

Rael slid his blade into the baldric slung across his back and tugged off one gauntlet from his hand. He wiped the sweat and rain from his brow and pushed the copper hair that came loose from its bindings out of his face. A wind began to whistle over the hills, a mournful sound. A more superstitious man would have taken it as an ill omen. Rael was grateful for it; despite being soaked right through his scale mail by the earlier falling sleet, his body was still hot and flushed as it always was after battle.

Sir Galin, one of his Knight Brothers, came to stand beside him. His plated armor clinked with each metallic step. His surcoat was torn along the left shoulder, a macabre bloodied red skull being crushed beneath the swing of a red warhammer. One meaty hand grasped the weapon that was his family's coat of arms, the other holding his plumed helm. His bald pate shone in the sunlight, and his shag of a beard grew more gray every day. A lumpy scar creased the left side of his cheek, just below his coal colored eye, and disappeared into the wiry forest of his beard.

"Don't see why you bother with the sodding truce ground. Should burn all the bastards until their bones are ash," the Knight harrumphed as he spat into the ground. 

"They say two things drive a Haruke warrior's blade. Facing a glorious death on the sword of a worthy enemy, and the chance to collect the head of a man without honor," Rael spoke as he turned to face his Knight-Brother. "You know the Haruke hold their rites for the dead sacred. Interfering would ignore the basest notion of honor and humane conduct in their eyes. We would be lower than murderers and rapists to them."

"Not saying much, them being murdering raping savages already," Galin protested.

"The Haruke have already fought us to a near stand-still for nearly forty years," Rael continued with a grimace. "And that without the added insult of us violating their dead. That's what they would see it as, make no mistake. I'd rather not see how lighting that fire under them would turn the battle."

"Don't see how it makes much damn difference," said Galin as he scratched at his beard with a bloodied finger. "We kill more of the savages every day. War'll over and done with soon."

Rael's eyes were flinty as they turned back over the bloody killing grounds on the slopes below. "They said the same a score of years ago. And a score of years before that. Who knows how much longer they'll be saying it."

"Can't be much more of the sodding bastards left."

"They've been saying that for a score and more years, too," Rael pointed out. "Doesn't seem to be much fewer of them from what I can tell. Damned sure are fewer of us, though." 

"Doesn't matter. We'll win. And in the meantime, it'd do some good to piss on their collective heads. They'd never let it stand. It would make them reckless."

"They're already reckless," Rael countered. "Driving their fury isn't the way to approach this enemy. Hate makes some men strong."

"Well now, and you'd know, wouldn't you?" Galin snorted, flashing a grin that had a few too many teeth missing to be handsome. Rael stared daggers at the old soldier, but Galin just laughed at him all the more.

"Don't look at me like that. 'S not my fault you're the wrath of the old gods themselves one minute, eyes all wild and full of blood lust, and the next you're playing at being the King's own strategist in the make."

"It's less strategy and more common sense," Rael protested. 

"Mm. Well, Mister Common Sense, you've got the bits of some poor barbarian sod in your hair," Galin smirked.

"Go do something useful, damn you," Rael growled at the man. Galin laughed, flashed the Captain a mocking salute, and strode back to the camp.

Rael should have been livid, enraged enough to spit at the man's gall. But his order hadn't had much in the way of teeth behind it, and it was Galin after all. A sour old veteran, Galin was battle hardened and worn and grizzled, having long past earned the right to gripe and complain and say whatever he damn well pleased. He was also one of the few men Rael trusted implicitly and was a war friend of his father's. 

It still felt odd, to be in a position of authority over the rough old man. Galin had been a Knight nearly as many years as Rael had been living. If he'd never taught Rael much about strategy and tactics and how to command armies, he'd taught him much about the world, and how to make men respect you, if need be fear you, and which end of a sword to stick in someone trying to kill you, and how to do a damn good job of it at that. For his part, Galin seemed content with the chain of command and wanted nothing more than to serve, fight, and complain. And, of course, to needle and taunt and poke at his Captain at every opportune moment. Thankfully, the Knight, while a complete pain in his ass, had enough propriety to maintain proper recognition of rank when they were within earshot of others.

Barely.

Rael realized he was sporting the barest of smiles as he reflected on his old friend's behavior. And as quickly as it came, it went, buried under the bile in his throat and rage in his belly. The Knight didn't like to think of himself as an angry, bitter man but no matter how he tried, there it was, a hard knot of hatred that burst into frenzy whenever he crossed swords.

In a black mood, Rael trudged through the camp toward his tent. His day would be full as he received reports on the dead and wounded. Then he would divvy up the duties and assignments of his remaining forces. He would send a missive to the Lord Knight Commander reporting on the raid and subsequent results. Additionally he needed request replacements for the fallen men and hope there were troops to spare in the main garrison to send to his outpost. Then he must oversee arrangements for the death rites of his men according to their beliefs and station. He would send letters of condolences to the fallen's families and arrangements for them to be taken care of as well as could be managed with the meager resources left at his disposal. He would then inspect any damage to the camps supplies or defenses. If he were lucky, he would be able to get started on his regular duties once all those were seen to.

He made sure the flap to his tent fell closed behind him before he let out an agitated groan. While running the list of tasks over in his head had quieted the lingering vestiges of his temper, it only served to make him tired. Rael felt old, a weariness settling in his bones that had nothing to do with age, or even the fatigue of the morning's battle. He was a young man, hearty and hale. Yet just then with the full weight of command in this seemingly endless war resting on his shoulders, he felt ready to join his Lord Father in retirement.

***

Thanks for getting started on my little tale, hope you've enjoyed it! To clear any confusion or misconceptions, yes, there will be erotica in this story. Lots of it, in fact. There may not be erotica in every chapter. But, I assure you, it'll be here.

Please feel free to comment/critique/praise/crucify my work. I will absolutely read anything and everything sent to me, and will do my best to reply in a timely manner.

More to come soon(ish)!