With his nation caught before the rapacious empire of Goscaire, Anders Welsodon, the Hermit Lord of Validurm, is forced to decide if he can commit the ultimate sacrifice to spare his people from the worst of conquest.

The Late Hermit Lord of Validurm
by Arcie Emm

Seeing him trudge home along the barely existent path, his tattered, brown robe trailing in the dust, it would be easy to assume that he had failed in his declared mission. That assumption was correct, Learic, the second son of Emperor Burthin had been no more willing to listen to his entreaties of peace than he had been willing to listen to those of Madorn, or neighboring Samendolia, whose territory had shrunk significantly after the arrival of the invaders. Nor had he expected the prince too, why would Learic listen to the voice of a tired old man, when he had ignored the ambassadors of countries so much greater than his own. After all, when the now tired old man had been younger, he would not have listened, had not listened.

So impossible peace had never been his true mission, but now he feared that in that too he would he fail. He worried that the imbecile, sitting on his fancy throne, would be too dense to see beyond his last words. Learic probably only heard the threat in which they were couched, something entirely possible, for the old man worried he had probably gone overboard in his final speech. Still, even now, as he remembered it, he found himself smiling.

“Hear me Learic, Accursed Son of the Emperor Burthin, Despoiler of Fair Madorn and invader of Peaceful Samendolia. Fear me Learic, ill-begotten spawn of the Empress of Goscaire’s accursed womb. Hear me. Fear me. Know that I, Anders Welsodon, the Hermit Lord of Validurm, am your bane. Know that I swear by all that is good and right to end your evil, returning you to the deepest hells from which you sprung. Know that I will lead my people against you, that they shall never bow their knee while I yet draw breath into my body. Hear me Learic. Fear me Learic. Know me for your doom.”

Yes, it had definitely been too much, but then he had always had a weakness for the dramatic, the theatrical. Thus he had lifted his speech, almost word for word, from a play that he had loved as a youth, one long since forgotten by all but himself. It had not been a good choice, he had seen how tempted the prince had been to call for his death. Fortunately he was not sunk so deeply into folly as to willfully kill an ambassador, no matter how seriously that ambassador pressed his luck.

Now he wondered if the prince, or any of his counselors saw the out he offered? Or had he walked these long leagues to no avail?

Feeling the slight tremor from the ground upon which he walked, he received his desired answer. Yet the only victory in that knowledge was to provide a reason to stop walking, to give into the tired old man he appeared to be. Turning in the direction, from which he had come, he watched their approach, satisfied that rather than some motley squad of regulars, his death was to be delivered by a company of elite bodyguards. Mounted upon matching chestnuts, they were not as exotically dressed as some he had seen in the enemy camp. No helms shaped like the heads of animals nor did they carry weapons that only the largest of men could wield, instead they wore plain helms, plumed to matched the surcoats and cloaks of green, upon which danced a symbol of red flame, over their fine, steel chain mail. They exuded a professional competence that he admired, leading him to wonder to which of Learic’s captains they belonged.

As they thundered to a stop before him, he saw they had no need to look outlandish, leaving it to their leader, the Sorceress Feraleen of Goscaire, who was the most exotic of all of Learic’s captains. Though at this moment, sitting side-saddle in her green, velvet riding habit, a ribbon of like material fastening long, red hair into a ponytail beneath a jaunty, feathered cap, she seemed to be a normal, well-bred lady out for a ride. He saw nothing of the vixen who had worn no more than a filigreed, gold bandeau and matching belt-like skirt as she had lazed on cushions at the feet of the prince, watching him with fiery green eyes.

Her own captain, leaping from his horse, scurried over to lift her down from her mount. Yet he did not move to follow her as she approached the brown clad figure, her swaying saunter and saucy manner in which she removed her gloves giving lie to the demure nature of her dress.

“Do you know how close the folly of your final speech came to bringing ruination upon your plan, Hermit Lord?”

“Aye, Lady Feraleen, I do.”

“I believe you. For one who would take the entire enmity, of my lord, upon his own head, willing to sacrifice himself, thus providing his people the option of honourable surrender, without him to lead them, would know how useless such a sacrifice would be if it came under a flag of truce.”

Nodding his head in agreement, he said, “Well reasoned.”

In answer, she offered a smile and a mocking curtsey.

That smile undid him. Not that he broke down in tears, crying mercy, and falling to his knees. Instead it burned away the constraints in which he had chained himself, through decades of solitude and meditation. His true self unbound, he realized that it was not in his nature to willingly sacrifice himself for anybody’s betterment. Life was precious to him, at least his own. Not that, now that he thought about, the existence he had been living was a worthy to be called life for one such as he. Instead of attempting to play shrinking violet before that idiotic pup on his throne, he should have sent him to bed in a cold grave and taken this bewitching temptress as his own. Now it was too late. Rather than warm his bed, she was here to kill him and that he could no longer allow.

Somehow she noticed the change in his demeanor, maybe saw it in the eyes, which rarely could hide the truth from those practiced in the deception of magic. Frowning she asked, “How do you wish your sacrifice to proceed, Hermit Lord?”

“Actually, Lady Feraleen, I think I have changed my mind.”

“What is this, Hermit Lord? Do your knees now grow weak at what you have set in motion? Do you forsake your noble goal to save your people? Were your brave taunts of my lord, only those of a coward protected by the rules of diplomacy?”

“Aye, all of which you accuse holds some of the truth, but not all of it. You ignore all that I have to lose; to never feel the warmth of the sun on my face, to never be again bedazzled by a beautiful woman’s smile, to never again play the games we humans play. This and more I would lose, if I followed through with my mad plan. I can deny myself no longer.”

“We both know it is too late to return the wine into the bottle from which it was poured. Again I offer you choice. Shall my men fill you with arrows? Or will you bow your head to my Captain’s blade?”

“Ah, if you only knew the trouble I have found myself in, always being unwilling to bow my neck to anyone.”

“Arrows it is.” She answered, pitching her voice louder.

Her men reacted instantly to the words. Bows, which were already stringed, soon had arrows knocked, then in a seemingly orchestrated motion they aimed and loosed those arrows. However, before they could rain down in his death, the Hermit Lord made a gesture and murmured a word, causing Feraleen to flinch aside as she felt a rush of great power, like a desert wind passing her by. Startled, she saw a crystal dome form over the two of them, shielding him from the arrows and her from her bodyguard, who leapt forward in worry, though neither they nor their shouts reached her.

“I thought it would be best if we did not muck up your fine fellows while we settle this matter. Don’t you agree?”

Spinning back to the brown-robed figure, she worked to bring surprise in check, before saying, “So the rumours are true, you’re a magician.”

“I have dabbled.”

“What is your school?”

“School? Oh no, I never confined myself to one area of study.”

Instantly her arrogance returned. Wariness replaced by the contempt of a specialist when encountering a generalist, the disdain of an aggressor that he had reacted defensively, even with the advantage of surprise on his side. “Well I practice demonology.”

“Of course you do.”

Her eyes blazing at the implied mockery, she began an incantation. Resulting in a burst of lava, from which arose a monstrous figure, looking like some ancient stone statue of a knight, its horned helm scraped the roof of the dome, which had expanded to accept its new inhabitant. The beast looked questioningly at her, baleful eyes glowing through slits in its helm.

Pointing to her opponent, she said, “Slay me this vermin.”

From scabbard or hook it took a great weapon into each hand; a sword, a lochabar axe, a barbed whip, and a spiked morning star. Turning to its prey, it lumbered forward a step, but then it stopped as if startled, crashing suddenly to its knees and face, to grovel on the ground.

Stunned, she shrieked, “What are you doing you lummox? Get up and do my will.”

“What do you think your erentian sees, to make it act so?” Her opponent lazily asked.

Ignoring him, she stepped for to kick the monster, hardly feeling the stubbed toe as she exhorted it to do her bidding.

“The poor thing seems out of its wits with fear, maybe if you speak to it in its own language it would be more likely to respond. For I heard they don`t properly understand ours, only responding to gestures that mesh with its desires to kill.”

Almost snarling, her rage robbing some of her beauty, she responded with a hiss. “I do not speak its language, you doddering old fool.”

“You don’t? My how delinquent of your instructors. Well I guess it is up to me. Ochk il baur velnic Baurdinan?”

Not looking up, the monster rumbled its response. “Desamnble Fralen Meurtin, ba kodf syr pled hi gos baur. Fasa, il syr hellin bau.”

“Allow me to translate, it said ‘Great Lord Meurtin, I did not know it was you. Please, do not destroy me.’ How curious, what do you think it means?”

Feraleen’s face grew even paler than normal at these words. It was almost in a whisper that she said, “Great Lord Meurtin? It was Master Meurtin who founded our school, but he has been dead for centuries. Why...”

Her voicing trailing off, he finished her question for her, “Why does your erentian think I am the dead founder of the Academy of Demonology in Goscaire?”

Fearfully she asked, “Yes?”

His face lost its grand-fatherly smile, replaced instead by one of ancient wickedness, as he continued to toy with her. “Maybe the creature is mad? Why else would it accuse me, Anders Welsodon, Hermit Lord of Validurm, of being Siglindel Meurtin, son of Issingle and Manfuerd Meurtin. Next thing you know it will be calling me Ashide the Necromancer, Dinal of Falinquin, or maybe even Fruderick Vontonel of lost Dissidel.”

No longer did Feraleen of Goscaire look at him with saucy superiority. Instead that had disappeared behind the fear that grew greater with every terrible name he conjured from the past.

“Maybe it will even accuse me of being Feraleen of Goscaire?”

It took her a moment to realize that this time she did not hear his words, instead they reverberated in her mind. She screamed.

They always screamed at this point, thought the last Mind Master of Dissidel. Even the late Hermit Lord of Validurm had screamed, and Anders Welsodon had been more at peace with himself, readier for death than any of his prior victims. Which was why Fruderick Vontonel had chosen him, hoping to quench his own fires in the man’s purity.

He spared a thought as to how close he had come to intentionally losing himself. But only a single thought. Distractions and memories of his own past were hindrances as he rummage through the memories of Feraleen’s past. He needed to work quickly to understand her essence, her past. Nor did he have time to feel pity for the abuses that had led her into his clutches, not that pity was ever an emotion he nourished. He ferreted out her secrets, her fears, her dreams, her very being. And when he had taken all that she had to give, he raced to her centre, where a green flame anxiously flickered. Then, as casually as a child tasked with putting away the supper tables candles, he snuffed out the flame.

Feraleen of Goscaire was dead.

Instantaneously, in place of the green flame, a white one flared. Brighter, stronger, it denoted new ownership. Once more, a Feraleen of Goscaire was alive and she had duties to perform before she could collapse into needed slumber.

Speaking, in the language of demons, she said, “Get up Soldier and slay the Hermit Lord for me.”

From its belly, it rose to its knees, looking from the brown robed man to the green dressed woman, finally it settled its gaze upon the woman and in confusion asked, “Master?”

“Mistress now, apparently. Do my will Soldier, slay that useless carcass, so that its death can bring success to my earlier plan. Then I can search for a new goal.”

Growling agreement, it clambered to its feet. Taking two long strides it swung its sword and brought an end to the body, which now lacked the awareness to know it was finished. Crumpling to the ground, its death caused both the demon and the crystal dome to disappear, allowing the cheering men of Feraleen’s guard to rush towards their mistress as she smiled, apparently in victory. They had no way of knowing that her amusement sprung from the knowledge that being who she had become, so very different than anybody she had ever been before, it would be perfectly acceptable to dramatically feint, falling into the arms of her onrushing captain.

So she did.

***

Angry shouts brought Feraleen awake, finding herself to be gently rocking in a make-shift litter of green cloaks, strung between two horses. Shouts that exasperated the throbbing in her head, which always followed the possession of a new host, as centuries of memories, experiences, and knowledge flowed into unused portions of the new brain, finding residence wherever each may. And just like exercising muscles never used, the result caused pain that could only be combated by time. But first she needed to find the cause of and end the shouting. Tentatively, finding it difficult to find purchase in her hammock like bed, she tried to sit up. Frustrated in that effort she began to listen the ruckus.

It seemed to be an argument between voices which were familiar, but that she could not yet recognize. It was always thus, every mind processed information differently, requiring her to find her way along its pathways and slowing her reaction to those who she should know. Fortunately it was something that could be explained away by the exhaustion and headache, during which she familiarized herself with a new shell.

“Thrice cursed fool, what madness possessed you to allow her to leave the camp?”

Loud and angry, cultured and cruel, even fearful to a degree, she took in all these clues from the man’s question and found him within her new memories, sure that the hazy figure in her mind would become real as soon as she set eyes upon him. Duke Blaise Tormaer, who wore of many hats. Some were official, such as; Duke of Solden Valley, Son of Arch-Duke Dorthon, Nephew of Emperor Burthin, Cousin to Learic, and Commander of the two regiments of the Imperial Guard accompanying the army. But it was the unofficial roles, implied or whispered behind closed doors that made him such an intriguing and feared personage; maybe an explorer, adventurer, spy, adulterer, murderer, but definitely the throne’s chief problem solver.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but I do not command milady’s steps. I follow in hers.”

This voice she found even easier, having fallen into his arms moments after rebirth. Captain Abnar Deloiut had been gifted to her, along with his company, by Learic after she had become his concubine. Loyal, competent, professional, and more than a bit in love with her, worthy of her trust. But she also knew how ill-suited he was to match wits with the duke.

“So you merrily follow her into enemy territory to confront a powerful wizard on his own grounds.”

“A wizard she easily defeated. You should have seen her, Duke Tormaer, commanding her mighty demon to tear him apart.”

“Spare me your misbegotten pride, you imbecile. Think what would have happened to you if that had not been the case? My cousin would have had your skin flayed from your bones and used for a drumhead.”

“Nothing would have happened to Lady Feraleen while my men and I drew breath.”

In response, she heard a hissing sound, a snap, and a man’s shout. Realizing her captain had just felt the sting of Duke Tormaer’s scourge, she decided it was time to make her presence known. In a querulous tone, she asked, “What’s going on?”

Two faces appeared above her, the bearded one bearing three cuts across his face and clean shaven, handsome man. It was he that spoke. “Lady Feraleen, how good of you rejoin us. Your Captain Deloiut was just telling me how you single-handedly defeated the Hermit Lord of Validurm. Brava, Lady, brava.”

“Duke Tormaer?”

“Yes it is I. Apparently slower of wit than Your Loveliness. For by the time I discerned the true offer behind King Welsodon’s words, you and yours had already left. But now that I learn that he was a magician, I see how fortunate I was that my cousin had no need of your special services and that my tardiness allowed you to corral the man before me and mine stumbled upon him. I really cannot wait to hear more of your adventures, but it may be best to wait until we arrive back at camp so you can relay it to all, particularly Proctor Veldorme.”

The name seemed familiar. A moments thought found him in a cesspool of memories from her days as a student at the Academy of Demonology. The man held pride of place in the horrors of those times and, despite her recent detachment from past hurts, she instinctively reacted as if he was her hobgoblin, rather than the prior occupant’s, she squeaked, “Proctor Veldorme?”

“Aye, he and his coterie arrived just after you left. I am sure that he, if my cousin can spare you further, will be interest to hear how you defeated the Hermit Lord.”

Suddenly she realized that she was in no better shape to match wits with this urbane lord than was her captain. She did not understand enough to know why he would have conjured this spectre of her past. Furthermore, trying to navigate memories of the murky political world in which she found herself, caused her head to throb more deeply, bringing a hiss of pain to her lips.

Hearing this, the duke, falsely solicitous, said, “Lady Feraleen, your captain did not tell me you were hurt.”

“Not hurt, Duke Tormaer. Only exhausted from my battle, which has left me with a head in which our army’s smiths seem to have taken up residence.”

“And here am I engaging you in mindless banter. For shame. Harlan, where is Harlan, to me man, the Lady Feraleen is ill and has need of your services. Fear not Lady, we will soon have you in greater comfort than this humble litter can offer.”

True to his promise, the Duke’s personal doctor soon took her in hand. Feeding her a drink, with a bitter taste she recognized as the extract from the root of the doa plant, he then had her carried from her litter to a sumptuous cart. Pulled by four horses, its accompanying the duke showed that his tardiness could in part be explained away by better preparation than Feraleen’s. Inside, alone with the rather small Harlan, she began to relax as his fingers pressed to her face and skull, relieving even more pressure. Wishing the man had been available for her prior rebirths, she found herself able to evaluate her situation.

She did not like what she found.

Through the years she had discovered that though each possession was different, there were similarities. In particular, she had always been male and, more often than not, one with power. Now she was female, stereotypically female, and owned less power than she had assumed, little more than the horses the prince also rode. Never had she been anybody like Feraleen of Goscaire.

Now with time to explore, she delved deeper into what she had brushed against in her rush to possess. She relived the moment of pride when, as a teen-ager, she had been granted entry into the Academy. How that pride was crushed when a schoolmate’s necklace was found, somehow planted deep within her personal chest. The deal that followed, private dishonour in place of public ruination, as she offered her nubile body to Proctor Veldorme in return for making the accusations of theft disappear. The years as his apprentice, study often interrupted to satisfy whatever perversions the man dreamed up. In the end she had been so ready to be free of him that she had willingly accepted the gifting that had placed her between Learic’s sheets, uncaring what favours the man bought with her body or that her ordeal had resulted in the public humiliation she had once sought to deny. Eagerly did she accept the title Whore of Goscaire, if it meant no longer being Veldorme’s toy.

Further soul searching led to understanding that her pursuit of the Hermit Lord had been an act of rebellion. An attempt to prove that she could do more than slake the deep thirsts of Learic. Now having accomplished that goal, she worried what would be the result. For a moment she thought it may have been better to have been caught by Duke Blaise, but then realized the duke may not have triggered her desire to continue with life. And was it not better to be alive in chains than free in death?

She hoped the answer would continue to be yes.

***

By the time they reached the army`s camp, early the next morning, her headache was gone and she had fully became Feraleen of Goscaire. Completely entwined were their destinies. At least they would be, once she determined what those were to be. Much would depend on the reactions to her return.

Inside her sumptuous tent she met the first judge. Aliena Koehl, Feraleen’s supposed maid-servant, in actuality the proctor’s warden, ever since Feraleen had come under the man’s sway. During that time the woman had been the mistress of the petty indignities of Feraleen’s life, while Veldorme contented himself as the master of the gross. Judgment came quickly as the maid met Feraleen with a slap to the face, calculated perfectly not to mark, and said, “Stupid girl. What possessed you to run off, forsaking your duty, to play the heroine? Surely Prince Learic was filled with rage at your abandonment, you will be fortunate not to end up back in the Master’s household.”

Guessing that it was not the old maid she needed to please, Feraleen saved her energy, accepting the admonishment with bowed head and meekness. Watching her, to see if she would need to quash protest, Aliena finally nodded in satisfaction and clapped her hands, summoning her assistants, Dinine and Solange.

“Hurry girls, we must prepare Lady Feraleen for this afternoon’s council session.”

What followed was a whirlwind in which Feraleen served little purpose other than to be the focal point of their activity. Stripping her of the riding habit, she was helped into a steaming bath, which had been waiting her arrival. After the removal of the road grime, she laid upon a table to receive a massage with aromatic oils, leaving her skin glistening with health. Something that would be apparent to all, after she was dressed in three golden, silk scarfs, barely wider than her hand. Two attached to a silken rope, tied around her waist to form the most inadequate of skirts. The third looped around he neck and crossed her torso, straining over breasts, nipples puckering the thin material, before being knotted at her back.

The simplicity of her garments were offset by the decorations that followed. Toes, fingers, and lips painted red to match her fiery mane, gathered into a long, thick tail, held in check by seven golden rings, through which a man’s fist could pass, and matching those that hung from each ear. Her eyes, darkened with kohl, shone forth like the emeralds at her forehead, dangling from the ring in her navel, and glistening at the end of the stud through her tongue. Looking at herself in a sheet of polished brass, Feraleen could only stare. How different she appeared than only the day before. Then she had sought to make herself a sacrifice, now she appeared as one. And once again, she would be forced enter the command tent as a bare-footed supplicant.

Stepping forth from her tent, Feraleen was reminded of an old adage, imparted by one of her first instructors in Dissidel, ‘Knowing something, believing in something, does not make it real. Living it does.’ The lesson had been meant to temper a young man’s belief that reading something meant he understood; however, she had found its truth many times, a person’s memories meant little until she lived them. For example, despite knowing she was female, dramatically so, she did not begin to understand what that meant until she left the safety of her tent.

Like a pack of wolves, spotting a wounded deer, each man’s heads swiveled in her direction. Goose bumps forming beneath the weight of their combined leers, she quickened her pace, scurrying along the street towards the central square and the command tent. Those stares offered further proof, not that anymore was needed, of her status. Such gawking would never be allowed if she was seen as anything other than a repository for their general’s lust.

Arriving, Feraleen was greeted by Learic’s smug major domo who asked her to bide until the prince could see her. There, under the appreciative watch of the tent’s guardsmen, it finally dawned upon her as to what she was meant to do the tent. She was to give herself to Learic, to do with as he may, and if he did not have the imagination of the proctor, memories warned great enthusiasm, which she had often matched her with own. Recognizing this, a battle exploded in her mind, as parts, holding memories of identities who had taken the most pride in their masculinity, triggered disgust at the idea. In turn, those that had belonged to the prior Feraleen, tried to deny the feelings of shame from this self-judgment, protesting why she found Learic desirable.

For the Feraleen, who had once been Fruderick Vontonel, the argument was little more than background noise. With most new lives, she had often experienced act that seemed unnatural to her composite beliefs. Some had been benign, such as the fasting required as the Hermit Lord, while others had been horrible enough to start wars and dwarfed, in darkness, the idea of opening her legs or lips for a man. Each time Feraleen had accepted it, just as she would not accept it this time, while hoping that remembered pleasures would continue.

However, during that afternoon she was not given a chance to find out, for she was never called into the tent, though any men, officers or messengers, entered or exited during the time she stood on display. And while each took notice of her, their expressions running from lust to disdain, the smirking major domo never again looked her way. Not even when the meeting broke up did she see Learic, his own quarters being joined to the back.

Back at the tent, Aliena Koehl took great delight in hearing what had happened, casting dire prediction upon dire prediction about what it meant for Feraleen. Working herself into a cackling frenzy, worthy of the mad Oracles of Costagar, it did not take long before she had her supposed mistress living as a disease plagued whore, on the streets of the capital. But Aliena could have saved her breath, little of her ravings penetrated the mind of her target, who instead focussed upon the immediate affect of the afternoon’s punishment, the agony of sunburn.

Lovely as her fair skin had appeared, glistening in bold display, Feraleen’s lengthy stay under the sun’s brightness had left her skin competing with the redness of her hair. Every time she brushed anything, even the silken and satin pillows that filled her tent, it brought a hiss of pain to her lips. She could not sit or lay down, yet the result of standing the entire afternoon, posed as was expected of her, left legs begging for relief. Still continuing to stand was preferable, given that her sweat, natural in the warm, stuffiness of the tent, seemed to bead in the inside of her elbows, between toes, at the back of her knees, and in the creases of her neck causing every movement to feel like sand rubbing against her sensitive skin. And despite owning knowledge and skills that had caused the world to shake, she knew nothing to help her now, having never studied the arts of healing or becoming one who had. She was helpless before this simple foe. She needed help.

So interrupting her very own Priestess of Doom, she asked, “Aliena, could you send for a healer? This sunburn is unbearable.”

“Send for a healer? Don’t be ridiculous girl, you will never learn your lesson if you so easily discard the punishment.”

“Do it.”

Feraleen’s command, through gritted teeth, caused Aliena’s head to snap around in surprise. Eyes blazing, she moved toward her charge, and with a familiar slap, she said, “What was that, you slut? Do you think to give me commands? You don’t give me commands, you follow mine.”

Such an attack would have, had in fact, cowed the Feraleen of the past. But she was no longer the same person and she had decided she had enough. So her slap was not calculated to only sting, instead it slashed against her tormentor’s face with full power, causing the older woman to crash down to the ground, a bruise already growing on her cheek.

In shock, her hand reaching up to touch her cheek, Aliena looked up at her attacker. Pain, dampening anger, she said, “Whore, you forget yourself. Master Veldorme will hear of this and you will wish that...what are you doing?”

Feraleen did not answer, knowing the woman would not like anything she had to say. Besides, she did not think it necessary to say how she was tired of being afraid or that, though she did not have the power to change her situation with many people, she did have it over the maid. Nor did she feel it important to ease the woman’s fears. No, it would be better to just to act, so with the power Feraleen had always owned, but with knowledge newly added, she cast her spell.

This situation did not call for an erentian, so rather than lava, the carpets buckled up, the sod beneath flowing overtop to disgorge a manlike figure, a wine cup in hand. Black bearded, horns sticking through its hair, legs of a goat, and with a tuffed tail, it wore no clothes. Something that became obvious when it spotted Feraleen, attired in nothing more than her reddened skin. Immediately its look of confusion was replaced by a nasty leer and its, or better to say his, manhood engorged to obscenely jut forth, drawing both women’s eyes. Aliena gasped with horror, but Feraleen only smiled. The satyr exceeded her expectations, the fact that he would be clever enough to understand human speech, unlike the erentian killing machines, made it even better. After all, if Aliena could not understand what was spoken, how would she understand the threat Feraleen planned to make?

“What is your name, Satyr.”

“What does Pretty want of Egilo?”

However, clever they may be, satyrs were far from smart. Ruled by their vices, they readily believed lies offered to them. “Greetings, Egilo, I called you here for my maid. She was just bemoaning the fact that she had never been had by one of your kind.”

“What?” Shrieked Aliena, all her normal calm shattered.

Egilo, in turn, looked between the maid on the ground and Feraleen, before answering. “Egilo don’t want old one, want Pretty, with skin like succubus.”

Feraleen smacked his reaching hand away, pointed at Aliena, who had begun crawling to the door. “Stay there, you old prune, or you will regret it.” Again looking towards the satyr, she said, “I am too much for you to handle, Egilo. If I were to take you, the pleasure would be so great that your pride would wilt and fall off.”

Nervously looking down at his now, slightly drooping member, he puffed up his chest, and stated, “Egilo can handle you.”

“But that is not why you were summoned, so if Egilo is not interested in my offer, then beg...”

“Wait, wait, Pretty. Egilo want old one.”

“Feraleen! No!”

“So old one, you no longer want Egilo?”

“Feraleen, please no. I will do anything?”

“Would you get a healer?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Please, Feraleen, please?”

“Egilo not understand. Can he take old one now?”

“It is too late Egilo. The old one was insulted that you did not want her first and so no longer wants you.”

“Me not hear her say that.”

“Of course not, she spoke in the language of woman. You could only hear it if you were to become one of us, is that what you wish?”

“No, no, no. But I see you only joke, like Egilo joked that he did not want the beautiful maid. Of course he wants her more than red skinned woman. No, no, no. Who could look upon her and not want her? Just look at how her grey hair dankly flows down past wrinkled neck almost reaching proudly drooping breasts. I must have her.”

“A noble apology Egilo. Still Aliena is not yet ready to forgive, but do not give up hope, she may still change her mind. In fact if she ever mentions meeting you to anybody else, that will be a sign that she has fully forgiven you. If I were you, I would watch for such an occasion and take her immediately before she changes her mind again.”

“Egilo can do that. But not now?”

“No not now, but wait. I see you carry a mug, is it full?”

Surprised by this question, the satyr looked into the mug. Frowning at what he saw, he tipped it over, and sadly shook his head. Snapping her fingers, in response to this, she said, “Aliena, some wine for your guest. Now please.”

Nervously, face flickering from face to groin, Aliena approached the grinning satyr, bearing a skin of wine, which Feraleen’s distraction had kept her from drinking. Filling the mug, she stood, watching in disgust as it was greedily emptied, wine running into beard, before it was thrust forward again. Again she filled it and again Egilo drank it dry. But the third time, Feraleen stopped him before he could drink.

“Remember what I told you Egilo, now begone.”

Disappearing faster than he had arrived, caused Aliena to slump. Turning accusatory eyes to Feraleen, she asked, “He won’t really be watching, will he?”

Feraleen just smiled and said, “Hurry along now, Aliena, and get me a healer. Although a word to the wise, I would not scurry off to tell tales to Proctor Veldorme if I were you.”

With one last, fearful gaze the maid scurried from the tent. Whether it was to get a healer or seek vengeance, Feraleen did not know. Though for both their sakes, she hoped it was the former. For with the fury, she felt during both the encounter with Aliena and Egilo, gone, she now felt the pain of her burn more deeply. Though that pain was nothing to what her former tormentor would feel if she spoke of what had just happened, for Egilo would be watching, he would watch until the old maid took her final breath. And if given the chance, he would eagerly take what he considered his.

As the wait grew longer, she began to think Aliena had tempted fate after all. And so began wondering what it would mean for her and feeling frustrated that since she had been approached by the previous incarnation of Feraleen she had been reacting blindly to everything around her. It was an unwise approach, so unlike her usual methodic approach, which required her to learn as much as possible about a person, before taking over their life. So easy, now, to misstep when all she had to work with were her instincts, but on this, her second eve, they served her well. For when the tent flaps opened next, it was to allow entry of a apologetic Aliena, who explained away her delay and introduced the Brother of Leyrl who accompanied her.

Like his brothers and sisters, he would be a wandering monk dedicated to the worship of the Goddess Leyrl. Normally he would find himself moving between small villages and farms, offering his Goddess’ healing to those who had nobody else. But his kind also seemed drawn to war, and Feraleen knew his skills would probably serve her better than one of the great sorcerer mages.

Apparently he had been briefed by Aliena, as he hardly looked at Feraleen before spilling out ten flat, white rocks from his pouch and ordering the maid to fetch him a pail of water. Having his patient turn her back to him, he took a stone in each hand, knelt down, pressing the rock to the back of each of her knees and began to sing a song, seemingly without lyrics. Together, the stones and music, worked to draw the heat from her skin, before dropping the two stones into the pail in a burst of steam. Taking another two rocks, he repeated his actions on her ankles, then the crease between her buttocks and thighs, and so on until he had drawn the heat from her back side. Finally able to get off her feet, she followed his command to lay upon her back so he could work on her front. Nor was she disturbed by how intimate were his touches, for his actions brought more relief than the most caring of lovers. And when he eased sore legs, with a wonderful massage, she doubted a single one of her voices would complain if she took the Brother as such.

But that was not possible for either of them. Instead Feraleen paid him with a meal and a bolt of white cotton, which would serve him and his fellows well the next time the army found itself in battle. Delighting in the freedom from pain, she ensured Aliena kept the man’s plate and cups full as he attempted to defeat a seemingly bottomless hunger. Only when his pace slowed, did she ask, “Excuse me, Learned Sir, is there a way to prevent sunburn?”

Not looking up from his plate, he said, “Stay out of the sun or wear more clothes.”

Losing many of her positive feelings towards the man, at this obvious piece of advice, she held her temper and said, “Sometimes that is not possible.”

“Oh right, like this afternoon.”

With those words, Feraleen knew how quickly her humiliation had spread, despite futile hopes it would not be worthwhile gossip. “Yes like this afternoon. Tomorrow may prove no different.”

“I suppose coating yourself in mud is not an option?”

“Of course not!”

“Umm, I smelt lavender oil, if you wear that, you could crush some dolantine berries in it, that would be good. That is if dolantine berries were readily available in these climates. Therefore, I would recommend fox aloe, crush a handful of leaves and add the resulting paste to the oil. That may work, if not I will stop by tomorrow night to see if you need my assistance again. Now I must be off to see who else needs my assistance before I seek my bed.”

“Thank you, Learned Sir. Be well.”

***

As she expected, Feraleen was given a chance to learn that the fox aloe did indeed help, requiring only short work by Brother Brien, during his nightly visits, to have her skin back to its creamy norm. The next day to go forth again, barely dressed, coated in oil, and bade to wait on Learic’s pleasure. And each day, the summons did not came.

By the end of the third afternoon, her fear of what may come had begun to dwindle. She found it difficult to fear someone, rich in power, who would devise such a feeble punishment. Nervousness, gave way to curiosity about the prince. with he massive army, did not move to finish his foe.

Interest perked, Feraleen began seeking knowledge about those who surrounded her. One source was the discussions amongst the officers who, like her, often waited to enter the command meetings, particularly as they grew used to her presence and became less careful with what they said. Their information was supplemented by the gossip of her maids and Brother Brien, during his nightly visits. She learned enough to give her an outline of the situation.

However, she needed to find the details herself. This she accomplished via the use of tjeets, summoned in the night while she was alone. Tiny demons, no bigger than her longest finger, they needed to be smarter than their larger brethren in order to survive. This intelligence, along with their ability to hide, made them the perfect spies. Not only to listen to conversations thought private, but even to read letters and missives, allowing them to weasel out most information she sought.

What Feraleen discovered led her to realized the army existed for no other reason than to gather the Empire’s troublemakers and potential troublemakers into an easily controlled group, while also expanding the borders. Worse, the entire army understood this, including their supposed leader, Learic, the empire’s top potential troublemaker. Thus they did not make for an idea invasion force, instead they moved only when the pillaging needed for their massive camp drained the surrounding countryside of all resources. And because of their size they always won; however, it was never with elegance, instead brute and bloody force brought victory. Often their casualties were as bad as their enemy, requiring the Empire to find more problem children to replace any losses. Morale was always low, leaving the army being better described as a mob. The Hermit Lord had made a terrible mistake to give in without fighting, it would have been interesting trying to stamp out this scourge of locusts.

It was hard to believe that this band of buffoons controlled her fate, but she could not easily take someone else’s place. During, or even after, her current punishment, it would be impossible to arrange a private meeting with anybody other than the prince. Even if she could, her resultant death would make for an uncomfortable reception for her new self. Besides she did not see a worthy candidate, even Learic held less power than everyone pretended.

So for the moment she accepted the context of her situation. Trapped in her silken prison, she fought boredom by participating in the creation of the silly outfits she wore. Her unique past, as the recipient of the pleasures provided by those like she had become, offering a different viewpoint.

Nearly two weeks after becoming Feraleen, while wearing one of her own designs, a barbarian slave girl look consisting of three triangles of rabbit fur and leather thongs, something finally happened. Again she found herself waiting upon Learic’s pleasure, trying to ignore the invasive nature of her costume’s bottom, when she saw a company of Imperial Guard approaching with their commander, Blaise Tormaer. Having learned, through her tjeets, that the duke was the true commander of the army, granting Learic only figure-head status, she found it strange for the council to be meeting without his presence. Spotting a familiar face, from her Hermit Lord past, riding beside the emperor’s man, she guessed why he was only now arriving.

Pilar Graneet was the perfect choice to represent Validurm, now that her old self was dead. Having used his wealth to buy into old nobility, Pilar had disagreed vehemently with fighting the empire’s forces, unsurprising since his businesses were based upon exports to Goscaire. He probably had been clamouring even louder for surrender after their lord’s death, in fact she was surprised it had taken this long for him to get his way.

However, before guiding the man the final steps to his glorious surrender, Duke Tormaer steered him towards Feraleen. “Sir Graneet, allow me to introduce you to Lady Feraleen, the Prince’s companion. It was she who defeated your Hermit Lord in sorcerous combat.”

Taken aback by her brazen appearance, he momentarily was tongue-tied by the lust of a man married to a homely wife who he feared. And Graneet lived under no illusions that if he were to stray, his would divorce him immediately and rob him of the title and status for which he had paid so much. Yet he quickly regained his aplomb, his riches having come from the dexterity of his temporarily tied tongue. Offering her a short bow, he said, “Lady, what a great gift you have given the people of Validurm by ridding us of that senile old fool. He would have led us all to our doom.”

The very sound of his voice, little alone what he said, reminded her why she had always despised Pilar. Yet it was now too late, and too early, to do anything about it, instead she only offered the man a full, court curtsey, rather mocking in her state of undress, and said, “Sir Graneet, it pleases me to know that you and your people also benefit from the gift I sought to offer His Highness, the Prince Learic.”

Foolish, but not a fool, he caught something in her tone and looked questioningly at Duke Tormaer, watching with a smile on his lips and a frown in his eyes. Decided not to rise to her bait, he said, “It was a gift for all, Lady Feraleen. But please excuse us for the moment, as Sir Graneet is about to finalize the delivery of your gift. I am sure someone will let you know how His Highness receives it.”

Even with the reminder of her status, Feraleen smiled at being allowed a subtle strike. It made her wish for more, so while the surrender occurred inside the tent, she found herself plotting revenge upon Pilar, considering seducing him and letting his harpy wife deal with the man. But it was only fantasy, she could not stand the idea of his touching her. Not because he was a man, that hurdle grew lower every day with disgust being replaced by curiosity and a competitive urge to prove to Learic what he was missing. No she would not let Pilar touch her, because he was a hideous slug.

The two men were not in the tent long enough, particularly to surrender a nation, before exiting. This time ignoring her, they mounted their waiting horses and returned in the direction from which they had come. Watching them leave, she did not sense the approach of another man, his satin smooth voice surprising her.

“I thought I would save your tjeets the work and let you know that Duke Tormaer has been made Governor of Validurm, at least until the Emperor finds a suitable replacement for the prize you dropped in his lap.”

Spinning, she saw Proctor Veldorme. Younger and better looking than the bogeyman of the same name, who resided in her head, Feraleen hid her surprise at his knowledge and silent approach with a quick dip, holding none of the mockery in the one she had offered Pilar Graneet. “Proctor Veldorme, I do not know what you mean by sheets.”

“Tjeets my pupil. Tiny demons, wonderful at sneaking about and gathering information. I spotted one a couple days ago and set about discovering who was its master. Imagine my surprise when I learned it was yours.”

“But Proctor, that is not possible, you never taught me about these tjeet things. How could it be mine?”

“Such were my thought as well, my lovely Feraleen. Yet everything I learned pointed in your direction and makes me ask what truly happened between yourself and the Hermit Lord?

“We battled, he defending and I attacking. Honestly, I was lucky to win, for the Hermit Lord had my erentian under his control, I think to prove he was stronger. Proctor, he let me win, he decided to sacrifice himself for his people.”

“Yet you now have the ability to call upon tjeets, something that not a single member of my coterie, all of who received instruction you were denied, can do. You walk with confidence, even in garb you abhor and while under threat of punishment greater than being put on display. You do not shrink away from me, and when was the last time I could approach you without your knowing, your lovely skin goose bumping by my very nearness. What did you encounter that day, which changed you so?”

She was unsurprised that he saw a difference, it was always most difficult to fool those who were closest to those she became. The questions always were, how much did they see? How perceptive were they? Doubtless the devious proctor was amongst the toughest audiences to which she would ever play, in many ways being Feraleen’s creator. Yet he should never guess what had happened, because her truth would be something he would not consider possible. Still he could make life difficult, so she needed to plan how best to deal with him. Two options came to mind, either confrontation, which would allow her to shed her feeble shell for one more powerful, or she could give in, at least for now, to her current situation. Recognizing that it was base emotions which clamoured for the first approach, she chose the second.

Bowing her head, before his gaze, Feraleen said, “Forgive me Master Veldorme, I have forgotten my place.”

Staring hard at her, he finally nodded. “Very well, let us pretend that is the truth, at least for now. Though I warn you, that when I return, I shall delve deeper.”

“Do you go with Duke Tormaer, Proctor Veldorme?”

“No, to Goscaire. Until the Duke returns from Validurm, there will be no progress in Samendolia. I will return when he does.”

“May you have a good journey.”

“Why thank you for such pleasantries, my dear Feraleen. With such care for my well-being, maybe it is time for me to quit sharing you with the whelp. Think on that whilst I am away.”

Gladly she let him have the last word, no matter what it may portend for her. Instead she savoured the possibilities that existed with the two men she feared the most gone from the camp, the two who she knew had encouraged Learic to keep her at arms length. Just as she knew that the prince had not found another to drive her scent away from his furs, she guessed that it would not be long before her banishment came to an end.

“Lady Feraleen, the Prince will see you now.”

Learic was even more eager than expected, hardly gone were his watchers and he already giving in to his desires. Ignoring the return of respect, in the major domo’s face, she conjured up memories of the woman on whom she had based her costume. Feraleen could only hope that she could wield as much influence over Learic, as had the sensuous Ilsi wielded over Chieftan Bron, her own self at the time. With the long dead temptress as a role model, she strutted into the tent and prostrated herself before the prince, though not the full genuflection offered to the Emperor. Rather than being flat on her stomach, she had curled forward up her knees, forehead touch the ground and offering the officers behind her a view that would enliven any war council. She held that position, waiting for her target to react.

“Leave us. The council is finished for today.”

During the shuffling noise of the tent emptying, Feraleen remained in her position. Nor did she move when the only sound was that of breathing, deeper than normal from in front of her. Beginning to stiffen, she decided to break the almost silence. “Milord, may I approach?”

A moment’s hesitation caused her worry, but then she heard a sigh and he said, “Of course.”

Only with these words did she raise her head and look at him. Scarcely older than her body, neither having reached their twentieth birthday, he was almost pretty, though his warrior’s build mitigated the possibility that anybody would tell him so. Not shrinking from her gaze, he responded with a look that combined a mixture of confusion, hurt, and lust. Though as she moved forward, still on hands and knees, stalking rather than subservient, the lust ascended over its fellows.

Approaching him, she saw proof of his desires rising within white, cotton trousers. Discarding who she may have once been, accepting the now, she reached out to caress, first just feeling the heat, then what caused it. As it twitched upward to meet her palm, she guessed how hard abstinence had been for him, having never lacked feminine company from the moment he had first desired it. Sensing Learic`s eagerness, she allowed her second hand to slide under the hem of his tunic, to find and loosen the cord at his waist. Understanding her goal, he added his assistance, and between them they soon had his trousers down to his ankles, which he then kicked away. Unhesitating she brushed back his tunic and leaned forward, her pierced tongue running along his length, chasing it, when it jerked away despite the pleasure, to take the head into her mouth. Already she could tell he was ready and knowing that sometimes it was best to release the pressure, she bobbed downwards, pushing him over the ledge. Swallowing she did not let go, instead she readied him for something better for both of them. It did not take long.

Pulling out, he reached down and scooped her up, hurrying towards his quarters, goaded on by her moaned encouragements. Kneeling on pillows and furs, Learic dropped her to sprawl before him, arms and legs open in surrender. Like the finest of swordsmen, he moved quickly to exploit the opportunity offered, her costume offering no protection. He took what she offered and offered what she took.

Mutually satisfied, he finally collapsed, one of Feraleen’s legs still wrapped around him, the other, hooked over his shoulder, trapped along with the rest of her between her lover and the pillows. Momentarily they lay together, panting from the exertion mirrored in their sweat slicked bodies, trying to regain self, to become two instead of one. Her grip relaxed, he gathered a modicum of energy to roll onto his side, propped upon an elbow looking down at her with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Satisfaction and lust definitely, even a tinge of love, but there was also anger, bitterness, frustration, nervousness, and hurt. Once, then twice he began to speak, but stopped himself, regathering his thoughts. Settling upon the simple truth, he said, “You should not have been punished.”

The blunt statement surprised her. “Why was I?”

“Because I am not strong enough to deny Blaise and because he sees initiative as a bad thing amongst those of us banished to this army.”

In the warm glow of what they had just experienced together, Feraleen found herself pleased to find that Learic held no delusions about his own situation. “It that why he off to Validurm, himself? To deny us our victory?”

“Your victory. But yes, you read the situation right. Neither Blaise, nor, for that matter, my father, would like us to acquire a taste for easy victory.”

“Is that why they handicapped you with such poor troops?”

“Ehh? No actually they aren’t too bad, no different than what we have been facing. Some in fact are quite a bit better. The problem is with how poorly Blaise, and I guess myself, have led them. Attacking fortified positions, letting enemy forces link together, never utilizing our numerical superiority with any wisdom.”

“But why?” Feraleen asked. Knowing the answer, but curious to see if he did as well.

“To prove me incompetent. To make it so nobody would flock to my banner if I raised it in rebellion against father or Danaric, once he becomes Emperor.”

“Because even this is less costly than civil war.”

“Yes. Plus, no matter how incompetently, we are expanding the Empire’s borders. They cannot help but win.”

For a moment the two lay in thought. Learic, thinking of what he had finally admitted aloud, distractedly playing the ring in his pillow mate’s navel. While Feraleen, unconcerned by the possessiveness of his touch, found herself re-evaluating the prince, wondering if he was worthy of being her ally and, if so, for what purpose would their alliance exist. She felt it was worth exploring.

“What can be done so that you too, in fact all of us, can share in their victories?”

Snorting a bitter laugh, he said, “I supposed we could prove we are not incompetent.”

“With Duke Tormaer away, wouldn’t now be a good time to do so?”

“Sure, though that would place us even deeper under watch by my father and his real army. Still, it would almost be worth it, better to be punished than be remembered as the idiot prince. But will anyone follow me?”

Steadily Feraleen grew more convinced that Learic would serve her better as a stalking horse than as a host. As her current self, to which she had become adjusted, she would have almost as much to gain from his success as he would have. More importantly, punishment for her, if they failed, would probably not be as harsh. So she nudged him in her desired direction. “I will, Your Highness.”

That he did not break out in laughter or even a smile, raised him even higher in her opinion, as did his cautious response. “It is easy to forget that you were a student of Proctor Veldorme. Harder now after you cornered the Hermit Lord. But I must ask, what more assistance can you provide me?”

His wise question deserved the truth and she almost gave it to him. “I can offer you this, a willing bedmate and ear. Morseo, I can offer you information.”

“What do you mean? What do you know?”

“No, Your Highness, the question is what can I learn.” Seeing his confusion, she said, “To understand what I am about to say, you must first understand that I did not defeat the Hermit Lord, he let me win. Yet before he bared his throat, he first opened his mind to me. His knowledge was overwhelming, much I do not even begin to remember, but some of it made sense and while I was banished from your side, I began to explore that which did. Of particular use is having tiny demons, called tjeets, spy for me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“And what did you learn of the Samendolians that I can use?”

“Umm, I did not think to check on those enemies.”

“Oh?” Then realizing which enemies she meant, he said, “Oh! How very interesting.”

“Aye, Milord. The tales I have to tell. Are you curious?”

“Most definitely, but that can wait.”

“Milord?”

“I think I am ready for more of what you first offered.”

Quickly understanding what he meant, she was surprise how ready she was as well, the chaste and pure life of the hermit had not been for her. Smiling, Feraleen rolled over onto her stomach, wiggled her delightful rump, saying. “Your barbarian slave girl is ready when you are, Milord.”

In the tradition of the best of authors, Learic showed her when, rather than telling her.

***

During the next couple of days, the two spent much of their time in Learic’s tent, seen only by their servants. And though most admired his stamina, it did little to change their opinions of the prince’s ability to command the army. However, what he and Feraleen learned over that period, while they waited for Duke Tormaer and Proctor Veldorme to get well on their ways, changed his opinions on many of them. He discovered who pretended to be his friends and those who could care less about who led them, just as long as they were led somewhere. Furthermore, they surmised who was competent or useless, loyal or disloyal, brave or cowardly, and many other secrets that could be used in their favour.

And not just amongst their own army. Though it proved impossible to slip her little friends into the tents of Semendolian’s commanders, whose own magic users saw them well protected, there are many ways to discover intelligence about an opponent’s army; overhearing conversations, counting numbers of troops, collecting information on supplies, and reading missives being delivered by messengers. It was enough to give a competent planner all he needed. The prince, despite his other faults, had paid enough attention to his tutors to be this.

Not that they were entirely devoted to their scheming, the rumours that were circulating held some truth. For conspiracy is a glee inducing activity, much more so when at the slightest inclination you can pounce upon your fellow conspirator and have your way with her or him.

On the fourth night they were ready to put their plan in motion. The initial step being to invite five of the army’s commanders, those who chafed the most under the current inactivity and yet were not complete idiots, to a supper hosted by Prince Learic. The first to arrive was Senior Colonel Grannar Vorqsin, commander of the 4th Pikes Division, whose lowly birth had caught up to his competence, earning he and his men banishment to this army. He had the most to gain and the least to lose in attaching himself to Learic. Not the case for the next arrival, whose family’s wealth allowed Viscount Kelix Fenslowe too bring a full regiment of household troops. Still, despite being unable to learn which embarrassment to his family had brought him to their midst, they figured he would happily seek a success, allowing him to return to the family embrace. The third invitee was one of the few women of power in the army, an actual volunteer, Druidess Menalle Ginfalclin was the mistress of a new school of nature and illusion magic and hoped her exploits would bring it acclaim, sponsorship, and wealthy students. Then there was old Baron Nilcos Wenron, unwilling to listen to the subtle hints to retire from his post as the Empire’s siege-master, shunted aside to Learic’s army. Finally General Anton Jiacyl arrived, once the Warden of the Empire’s Eastern Armies, he had since run afoul of Arch-Duke Dorthon. Currently the Commander of Horse in Learic’s army and the most respected voice in of the daily council. Any success they were to achieve would depend heavily upon his buy in.

Feraleen, acting as Learic’s hostess, greeted each of them while wearing a pale blue, silk halter and a matching skirt, fastened at her left hip, by a blue enamel pin and left most of her leg bare. Titian hair piled high atop her head and her slender neck bearing a wide, pale blue, satin choker, decorated in chains of aquamarine beads, she guided each to a cushion around a low table, saw that they all had drinks. Then folding down into a kneel, at the head of the table beside Learic, she clapped her hands to summon the servers.

The conversation during the meal was low key, none being close friends and all being unsure as to the reasons for their invite. The talk was of the meal, the weather, gossip from Goscaire, but nothing of their purpose in Samendolia. By the time they finished their final course, a pastry of nuts and honey, conversation had almost stopped.

Taking a sip of his wine, Learic looked from guest to guest, before standing and saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please follow me.”

Sharing questioning glances, each rose to his or her feet, Baron Wenron receiving a hand from Vorqsin to his right. They followed him into the chamber where they met for meaningless sessions each afternoon, where Feraleen guided each to a spot circling a cow’s hide, staked to the ground, upon which a map of Samendolia was painted. Everyone in place, Learic said, “You are probably wondering why I invited you to supper tonight. It is to apprise each of you as to what I see as your roles in finishing our conquest of Samendolia.”

Each looked at him in surprise, Viscount Fenslowe blurting out. “But, Your Highness, Duke Tormaer told us to wait until his return before acting.”

“I am aware of that, Viscount, we are all aware of that. No doubt even the Samendolians are aware of it, given how porous our camp is.”

“Which makes it a perfect time to act. Is that your thinking, Your Highness?” General Jiacyl asked.

“Yes General, that is my intention. Now you will all agree that we have the forces to crush them if we but try?”

General Jiacyl answered, “Their camp is well dug in, but we have the numbers to break it. Though it would hurt.”

“Which is why I would like to get some of them out of that camp. So I propose that Baron Wenron march his siege train for King Guronde’s capital at Clatand, under the protection of a force commanded the Viscount.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying we should be doing all along.”

Ignoring the siege-master’s interruption, he continued. “However, the real goal of this force will be to draw troops from their camp, after what they will hopefully see it as a target. Particularly since the Viscount’s protective force will be woefully inadequate.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness, General Kilsnaft will know its a trap, he’s no fool.”

“But I am, General?”

“Your Highness, in no way did I mean to imply that.” General Jiacyl protested.

“Worry not, General, in this I am quite happy to be seen as a fool. After all, who but a fool would also send his most able commander, along with the majority of his cavalry, to raid Indigelle while he has an undermanned siege train on the move?”

“They’ll see that ruse?”

“But it will not be a ruse. I quite hope you will be able burn a number of towns and guard posts before returning to rescue the Viscount and Baron.”

Again it was the Viscount who protested. “What! We’re not at war with Indigelle, you can’t do that. What will your father say?”

“Oh I am sure he will, when Indigelle’s Ambassador presents him with a petition, spend the greater part of the afternoon mildly upset. But really, everybody knows Indigelle is our next destination, since there is no need to go to Validurm and because father is not ready to have us return to Goscaire. We may as well take this opportunity to surprise them and damage them before they are in place to defend against our future attack. In fact, General, please feel free to leave a regiment, commanded by one of your abler men, to harry the countryside when you return.”

“If you wish, Your Highness. However, I believe this plan is fraught with danger, all depends upon our timing being exactly right.”

“It is a gamble, I will admit. But to mitigate that risk, we will lean heavily upon Colonel Vorqsin, the 4th Pikes, and some guesswork. The guesswork is based upon the route that the siege train will take, crossing the Thrake at Wyland Ford, then heading Southeast, which means that, if the Samendolians wait until they are sure General Jiacyl is truly out of the country, the quickest route to catch the siege train will require them to head for...”

With his questioning pause, the men turned their gazes towards the map, trying to envision the future movements of the troops. Mathematically inclined, Baron Wenron saw it first. “They will head for either Brown Cow Crossing or the Yellow Bridge, probably the first since the bridge will add more than a day to their march.”

“That is my hope, thus we will have Colonel Vorqsin and his men will be there waiting for them. How long could you hold Brown Cow Crossing?”

“What is it, about one hundred and fifty yards? Honestly, my 1st and 2nd regiments would be stacked nearly seven men deep, leaving the halberdiers of 3rd regiment to move about to deal with any cavalry that gets across. And if we have any time to dig in, then we can make a real nuisance of ourselves. My questions are, how wide is the crossing and how likely are they to have archers or slingers?”

General Jiacyl broke in when it appeared the prince did not have an answer. “About eighty yards at the narrowest point. In range for either archers or slinger, but I do not think you need to worry about their threat. One weakness of the Samendolians is how few they have in their army, most will be kept back to protect the main camp. And any they include, if they are being used to from across the river, would funnel their attackers into a narrower attack. In fact, you should hope they are stupid enough to try it. Still, it would be a good idea for you to have some range attack of your own, causing havoc as the enemy cross. Do you agree, Your Highness?”

“Yes, I see the wisdom in that. However, I am not very familiar with those units, do you have a recommendation?”

“I’m thinking the Agimar Sling Company, but would like to check their preparedness before giving a final recommendation.”

“Very well, have your recommendation to me tomorrow. Now as I said, I hope for them to use the crossing, but if their scouts see the colonel’s troops then any pursuit would head for the bridge or return to their camp. This is where Madame Ginfalclin come in. Excuse me, Druidess, may I have your attention?”

The statuesque brunette had barely looked at the map. Instead, as during the meal, her attention was upon the prince’s companion, flailing Feraleen with a look she associated with men. But at Learic’s words, Ginfalclin turned to him and said, “Of course Your Highness, you have my undivided attention.”

“I was wondering if, with your magic, you could hide Colonel Vorqsin and his men from natural sight?”

“Hmm, how many men would that be?”

Senior Colonel Vorqsin answered, “Each of my three regiments have between 700 and 750 men, then you need to add in about 150 slingers.”

“It is doable; however, my disciples and I would not be able to hold the illusion for days on end.”

Outside of pleasantries, Feraleen spoke for the first time, since the arrival of the guests. “Druidess, I will inform you of the approach of any enemy, be they scouts or the entire force.”

Once more the stare turned towards her, causing an involuntary blush that made the Druidess smile. “How lovely.”

Ignoring the blatant flirtation with his concubine, the prince presented his final thoughts. “That is my plan, I know it is complicated, but that is why I have chosen to use the best units in the army, instead of the whole unwieldy lot of us. So I would like you all to take the rest of the night to think about what I have told you and whether you wish to participate? If you do, please evaluate the plan and bring forward with any improvements? I expect your decisions tomorrow morning.”

“I’m in, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for your support, Colonel Vorqsin. I admit that I hope to hear those sentiments four more times.”

“Can I speak of it to my adjutant? I trust him completely and he often sees what I do not.”

“Yes, General. All of you may speak to your closest companions, those you trust. However, other than them, let us keep this quiet. In particular, I do not want word to leave the camp, which would make me very upset. Thank you for your time and please be ready with your answer after we all break fast.”

With the dismissal, the guests filed from the tent, each quiet in his own thoughts or her fantasies. Left alone, Learic asked, “So? How do you think it went?”

Moving into his arms, Feraleen said, “As well as could be expected Milord. They were all interested, but it is too early to say which way they will leap, outside of the Colonel, who we never doubted.”

“I wonder if they will heed my warning?”

“We are prepared if they do not.”

“Uh-hmm.”

For a time neither spoke, each thinking about what they had initiated that evening. However, neither age nor inclinations allowed Learic to stay introspective for long, particularly with a beautiful woman in his arms. Soon his hands began to roam, one dipping downwards past smooth thigh and skirt edge, while the other slid upwards, under a silken halter. Familiarity allowed him to quickly coax forth a moan, even before he began to nibble at an ear, whispering into it. “Did you want Druidess Ginfalclin as much she wanted you?”

“Oh, no. You’re more than enough for me.”

Having felt her twitch at the mention of the name he was not fooled. “And it was the cold in the tent, not her stares that caused such a noticeable change in your appearance.”

“Hm-hmm, very chilly. We needed a fire.”

“I will mention it to my servants, just because it is the middle of summer, does not mean they can shirk their duties.”

“Exactly. But enough of them, let us return our thoughts to the lovely druidess. Although I would never entertain such thoughts myself, if Milord wishes to offer me to his ally, maybe to watch as she satisfies her unnatural lusts, I could do naught but obey.”

“How noble of you.”

“I but seek to serve you Milord.”

“Have a care what type of waters you enter while helping me, Lovely Feraleen. For if the rumours are to be believed, the druidess’ passions are akin to a river’s rapids.”

“Surely if I am in danger, my watching prince would dive in to save me? Maybe he would take this opportunity to show me how he would defeat her passions if she looked to swallow me whole.”

The unfastening of a pin and the feel of silk cascading down her legs, to pool on the ground, was just the start of his answer.

***

As Feraleen and Learic played games that only affected the two of them, their supper guests were caught up in their games that affected all. All found themselves weighing the potential rewards versus the possible punishments, were they to follow the prince. A few confided in trusted companions, while others decided on their own. Some were able to sleep soundly, while some found themselves restless in their furs.

Yet even the most restless earned more sleep than Calbin Denores. He had been the active messenger, before receiving a missive and setting out, with three horses, for Validurm. Having diligently ensured he was rested, in case he needed to ride, he still found himself getting tired just over an hour into a ride. Always the case, the night gloom made it worse. Fighting the brush of the warm air that dried his eyes, he reached into a saddlebag, searching for the small clay jar containing jala leaves. Chewing the leaves was a trick he had learned early in his career, their juices always seeming to perk him up.

Taking a pinch, he returned the jar to the bag and spared a thankful thought that his entire route was controlled by the army. Bad enough to be tired when on horseback, even worse to be tired on horseback and traveling through enemy territory. Particularly on an unfamiliar route, which was still case for anyone traveling between the camp and Validurm, even when guided by the first maps prepared by the army’s cartographers.

Later, as messengers road path, the map would be filled in. For example, a mark would be made designating the statue on the side of the road, just ahead. Maybe on his return he could stop and see if there was a plaque, but in the dark he only saw its shadow. Seemingly some stone knight.

Calbin’s senses were not sharp enough to notice anything strange about the figure, but that was not the case for his horses. Approaching the shadowy figure they suddenly became aware of the danger and crashed to a halt. Calbin instinctively yanked his feet from stirrups, let lose a barrage of curses, and tried to control his launch over his mount’s head, bracing for the ground and immediately tucking into a roll.

His cursing unabated he came to a stop. Trying to figure out what had spooked his horses, he heard a thunk, not unlike the headsman’s axe in Goscaire. And as he turned, he saw was horse’s head bouncing towards him, followed by a gush of blood, the horse’s body balancing upright for a moment. Shocked, he noticed the statue, even though his mind told him it was impossible, swinging a large mace down upon the second horse’s skull, causing it to crash down upon its knees. Disbelieving what he saw, he pushed himself to his feet, ignored the aches and bruises of his fall, and began to run away from the horrific attack on his horses.

He did not get far.

A cord snaked around his waist, bringing him to a halt. The snapping sound following the first touch allowing some unafraid portion of his mind to recognize the sound of a whip. Steadily it pulled him backwards, towards the unbloodied sword. Calbin could do nothing except close his eyes and wish he was asleep in the arms of his wife.

***

After years of denial, Feraleen was again enjoying life’s pleasures, once more appreciating pampering. The joy of a steaming, fragrant bath, the caress of clothing that did not scratch, the flavours of spice, the succulence of meat, the lingering affect of wine upon the tongue, the sensuality of a massage, the luxury of sleeping late, the ecstasy of flesh, it was all so very good. Easily could she get caught in the hedonism, the allure of sloth. Thus, she never allowed herself to forget that such a state held its own dangers.

That thought played a significant role in drawing her from Learic’s furs, before dawn had broken. Knowing it was necessary, before the morning meeting, to discover what was in the pouch of the messenger, who she knew had misfortunately run into her erentian. And though it may be more believable for the messenger to discovered by some random patrol, they needed to know if there had been an attempted betrayal. Besides, death by erentian would be messy, impossible to believe as accidental. Better for her to make the discovery, while out on a morning ride, and control the lies, even if it brought suspicion upon her.

Thus she found herself, dressed in the same green, riding habit into which she had been born, again accompanied by her Captain Deloiut and twenty of his company, riding along the path the messenger corps had determined as the quickest route to Validurm. It was one of these men, despite her being the only one to know the true purpose of the ride, who first noticed something.

“Captain, look!”

Staring in the direction the man pointed, they all saw numerous crows flying in the air further along the direction they were heading. Deloiut immediately brought the troop to a halt and sent a man forward to scout. That ashen faced scout quickly returned.

“Captain, its a messenger, his horses and him have been killed.”

Before the Captain replied, Feraleen said, “I think we better investigate.”

“It’s horrible, Milady. I don’t think you want to see it.”

“Thank you, trooper, but I will try to manage. Captain shall we?”

That worthy frowned, trying to come up with a reason to deny her request. Unsuccessful, he nodded his head and edging ahead of her, road forward. Definitely the sight which greeted them could not be described as an accident, but Feraleen attempted to do so anyway.

“Poor man, he must have set upon by a mountain lion.”

Eyes swiveled to her, none of them, all familiar with violent death, specifically the Hermit Lord’s, believing an animal had any part in what had happened to the messenger. They turned to their captain, to see what he had to say. Quiet for a moment, as many things fell into place, he weighed principles against advancement, and said, “I don’t know, Milady, more likely a pack of wolves.”

“Yes, Captain Deloiut, you’re undoubtedly right. Has anybody seen his pouch? Hopefully our enemy did not happen upon it and learned our secrets it contains.”

“Fenster, look for it.”

The same man, who had scouted earlier, jumped down from his horse and jogged towards the carnage. Strapped to the headless horse he found the blood soaked pouch and brought it to his captain. Deloiut, fully accepting his role as conspirator, opened the pouch,removed a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Feraleen, without looking at what it said. Reading it could have brought a smile to her face, if a smile were not so inappropriate for this place. Instead she settled for the warmth of satisfaction felt when one was right.

“Captain, this missive holds information, about treason, which we must immediately get to His Highness, Prince Learic. Leave some men to bury our brave messenger, and I think his valiant beasts. The rest of us must hasten to camp.”

As early as she had been in the saddle, Feraleen was back in camp well before the morning meeting was to occur. Giving her ample time to report to Learic, before heading for her tent to bathe and change. Made somewhat nostalgic by the morning’s dress, she returned to the prince’s tent wearing the bandeau and skirt that Feraleen, the who she was to become, had been wearing when the Hermit Lord, who she had been, had first seen and admired her.

This morning the five arrived together, rather than straggling in one at a time, each greeting the prince and pledging their support. Accepting the offers, Learic gestured for them to take their previous spots around the map and said, “Before we begin reviewing the plan, there is one matter we must discuss. As the Lady Feraleen discovered it, I think it best if she were to explain.”

Curtseying to the prince, Feraleen said, “Your Highness, my Lords, and my Lady. My excitement about the plan, upon which you are about to embark, made it difficult to sleep last night. Finally, just before dawn, I decided to get up and go for a ride, hoping that such exercise would calm me. If only I had been so fortunate, instead we happened upon a sight that will scar my dreams for many nights. One of the army’s messengers, along with his mounts, had been attacked and killed, by wolves my Captain thinks. From this horrid scene we were able to extract the messenger’s pouch. You can only imagine my further shock when I discovered that inside was a letter documenting all that had been discussed last night. Remembering His Highness’ admonishment that nothing was to leave the camp, I hurriedly returned to get the information in his hands.”

As she spoke, Prince Learic had moved to a table, returning with the bloodied pouch that none had noticed laying there. Opening it, he took the message and handed it to General Jiacyl, who in turn passed it Baron Wenron, and so on until it had returned back to Learic.

“I cannot say how much like a dagger to the heart is this betrayal. However, if whoever is behind it would like to speak, I would be willing to listen to their reason. No one? Let me say, it is no use hiding, I know who is behind it, as the Captain of Messengers knows whose man delivered it, while the Master’s of Scribes recognizes the hand. Well?”

“It wasn’t betrayal, Your Highness.”

“No, Viscount Fenslowe? What pray tell, was it?”

“It was a message to Duke Tormaer. Before he left for Validurm, he requested that I send him updates on any happenings in the camp. Surely there is no harm in keeping the Duke up to date?”

“And what would have happened if an enemy scout had happened upon our unfortunate messenger?”

“Fortunately that did not...”

“Disaster, that is what would happen you fool.”

“Your Highness.” Fenslowe said, in protest.

“Leave me Viscount, while my anger is still in check.”

“But Your Highness.” Seeing the darkening visage, the man stopped, offered a short bow, and said, “Very well Your Highness, I will leave. But please do not see my actions as betrayal.”

Sparing not a glance for the departing noble, Learic said, “General Jiacyl, now that you have had a night to think on my plan, please tell me all the ways to improve it.”

Before the general could speak, they all heard shouts, the loudest recognizable as Viscount Kelix Fenslowe. “What! Unhand me you thug. What are you doing, don’t you know who I am?”

“Ignore the racket General, sounds like some high spirits. Please continue.”

“Yes Your Highness. Despite its complexity, the plan is sound. The most important thing will be communication and picking cavalry units fit enough and competent enough to serve their part.”

Thunk!

General Jiacyl’s grew wide at the sound from outside of the tent, but the prince, unfazed, only said, “A good point, General. We will also need to find a replacement for Viscount Fenslowe as leader of the siege train’s escort.”

***

Eight afternoons later, the Commander of Scouts, surprised to have come under the command of the prince’s concubine, then intrigued by the knowledge she offered, was giving an update about the movements of the two detached units. The remaining members of the army’s commanders, grown wary of the prince after what had happened to Viscount Fenslowe, offered their full attention. “General Jiacyl’s raid continues to benefit from the Indigelian’s surprise and lack of preparation. In the last days, he has ransacked their military quarters in the city of Acdole. While other detached units, have continued to take and burn smaller posts and villages. Nor is there sign that Indigelle is any closer to reacting. Meanwhile the siege-train is progressing at a steady pace. Currently they have only encountered limited resistance, all of which Colonel Ramdster brushed aside. They should make arrive at Clatand within two weeks.”

“Not if the relief force that left the Samendolian's camp, two days ago, has any say in the matter.” Duke Tormaer said, striding into the tent as if an actor reacting to his cue.

“Why, Cousin, what a surprise to see you. What brings you back from Validurm?

“Never mind that, what are you doing, Learic?”

“I am leading the army to victory. Something that never seemed to interest you.”

“You’re leading them defeat, you fool. Don’t you see how ripe the siege train is for picking? Who is going to stop that from happening? General Jiacyl? He’s too busy with your idiocy in Indigelle. You? You’re too busy swiving your whore.”

“Blaise, Blaise, Blaise, you have been away from the capital too long if that is the best you can do for an insult. But, pathetic as it was, it was an insult. And I tire of your insults, I demand satisfaction.”

“What?”

“Go and get into your armour, while I get into mine. Let us meet in the circle and end all insults between the two of us.”

“Surely you will give me time to rest.”

“Spare me. I know you crept into camp last night, just as if you were sneaking into the bed of one of your friends’ wives. Nay, forgive me, I said no more insults and I meant it. Lets just get this over with, one way or the other.”

Staring hard at the prince, Duke Tormaer considered his options. Struck by the inevitability of Learic’s proposal, nodded his head, whirled, and left the tent.

Less than an hour later, Feraleen stood watching from the edge of the combat circle, located at the centre of the camp. This time, not being the spectacle, a job to be filled by the prince and the duke, she wore a simple silk wrap, knotted over one shoulder and draping, all around her, to the ground. Quietly she stood, hating what was about to happen, silently cursing her loss of control over the situation, and her potential loss of the prince. He was proving so useful an ally, a puppet. No, not a puppet, Learic had skills and strengths she had always lacked, ones that had held her back in the past. Together they were better than either alone.

Which made it so insane that all of their planning could become undone by an unlucky toss of the dice. For despite Learic’s protest to the contrary, his victory was not a guarantee, she had seen too many young men learn their immortality to be false. But there was nothing she could do. No tricks of magic, that would lead to tainted victory, serving them no better that the prince’s death.

And of course it had to happen just as their plans began to came to fruition. Things were going well, few knew how well, not even the Commander of Scouts, who monotone reports bored everyone to sleep. as she did not tell him all her tjeets told her. For example, he did not know that General Jiacyl, and all but four of his squadrons of horse, had already crossed back into Samendolia, flush with supplies and remounts acquired during their raid. Nor was he aware that the 4th Pikes, the Agimar Sling Company, and the Druidess Ginfalclin, along with her disciples, were hidden in a wooded bend, near Brown Cow Crossing, awaiting the enemy.

Yet, Learic had always told her that it would be necessary to deal with Duke Tormaer. Thus his plan, their hope, kept even from their fellow conspirators, called for the prince to slay the duke in a duel. An even smaller group, consisting only of her, had decided as a contingency if Tormaer won, to become the Duke. It would not make her happy, she liked Feraleen, but the prince’s death would strip her of all power. The switch would be necessary.

Watching the two men facing each other, she was struck by their similarities, not surprising with fathers as brothers and mothers who were distant cousins. They also wore matching armour, probably from the same smith, used similar weapons, and, when the fight started, fought in the same style. And from what she could see, likely due to their status, their tutors had been readier with praise than instruction. A battle of champions it was not, each flailing away with wild swings, easily blocked by shield or armour. They seemed more in danger from the heat of the afternoon in their heavy gear, than from each other. Yet it was not the heat that brought victory, though it was something just as mundane. A lose strap, on one of Tormaer’s greaves, dangling down to be stepped on, causing him to stagger, throwing his sword arm up, leaving a unarmoured armpit open for a thrust that even Learic could manage.

Surprised silence greeted this, both from the participants and the watchers, everyone shocked that it had truly ended in this fashion, instead of cooler head prevailing. The quicker witted soon began to calculate what it meant, but not Learic, his eyes locked upon his cousin’s, as they dimmed.

Feraleen could not allow him to show weakness, second thoughts at his own actions. She could not let him mourn his cousin or the loss of innocence, that came at slaying a man with his own hand. She needed him confident, natural in victory. It was time for her to be the actress, to stroke his ego, to get him to play his part alongside of hers. So shrieking, a happy shriek, she ran forward shouting. “You did it. You did it. Oh, Milord, you were magnificent.”

Caring not for those who may think her actions were unseemly, she saw the prince’s head turn, his vacant eyes focusing on her approach, a smile breaking upon his face, and Feraleen knew the success of her action. Happy she would not need to knock sense into him by flinging herself into his arms, what with him garbed in armour, she slowed to wrapped her arms around his waist, staring up at him in adoration. His grin growing larger, he held his bloodied sword in the air, drawing first scattered cheers, then more as expedience overtook the dismay felt by the supporters of Duke Tormaer. Basking for a time in the addictive results of victory, Learic’s smile took on a mischievous tilt, as he scooped Feraleen over a shoulder, drawing forth another shriek, and began walking towards his tent.

Thinking that this was not part of her script, Feraleen kicked her legs and banged upon the back plate of his cuirass, shouting. “Oooh, let me down.”

But she was not the only one who knew how to play to play to a crowd. A gauntletted hand, reached upwards to smack down upon her readily accessible bottom and growling, Learic said, “Quiet wench.”

Hearing the laughter, a sound even more positive than their cheers, from the spectators, Feraleen knew that his act was perfect, drawing eyes to them, the winners, away from the body of the loser. So she subsided. Happily would she sacrifice the small remainder of her dignity, in order to push her Learic high enough so he would one day make her his Empress.

Then nobody would laugh.

Epilogue:

The gate guards, in boredom, watched the constant flow of traffic into and out of the Jeweled City of Goscaire. Farmers with grains and vegetables, herders with beasts, traders with goods, soldiers and mercenaries, messengers, citizens, and those who visited out of curiosity. They did not even pay attention to the man, his shirtless torso showing muscles that would hardly be strained by the bastard sword hanging from his horse, when he had entered the prior day. In Goscaire, not even barbarians from the far North were a rarity.

Nor, on the new day, did he garner attention as he wandered the wide, cobbled streets, between buildings of grey and red stone, stopping to study every marble statue he passed. Actually not all, just the female ones, each showing a magnificently proportioned, long haired beauty in all manners of undress. Each carved to represent the same women, the Empress Feraleen the Undying, ruler of the Goscairian Empire for over three hundred years.

It was she, well actually her Takers, who acted upon her will, who had drawn the barbarian to Goscaire. For like them he was a thief, though unlike them he was also a mercenary, a combination that brought him into the hire of Count Evold Danner of the Kingdom of Entona. Employed to recover the most precious of Danner’s possession, his daughter, kidnapped by those Takers. A wise hire, though wiser still if the count had not waited until the Takers were back within their own borders before doing so. Thus the barbarian would have to retrieve her from centre of the Witch’s own power, but he was confident in his abilities.

In fact he had already discovered the location where the Count’s daughter would be found, in the Royal Palace, on the hill in the centre of the city, with the other Handmaidens’ of Feraleen. An order of beautiful women, each with long, flaming, red hair, similar to Anstace Danner’s, who served as the Empress’ deputies and voice throughout the empire. It was a position of prestige, which earned their families freedom for life from taxes. Few protested, even with dark rumours of dead handmaidens and how the Empress Feraleen bathed in their blood to stay young. Rumours the throne had tried to dispel, even going so far as to show some of the corpses, each of whom was whole, no cuts existing to have drained their blood. Yet people still questioned, even as far away as the Kingdom of Entona, leaving the count sure that his daughter was meant to be a victim.

A fortunate thing for the barbarian, Count Danner had paid good gold for an attempted rescue. And offered a king`s ransom for a successful one.

So he gathered information and tried to formulate a plan. By early afternoon he had completely circled the palace, seeking yet finding no obvious weakness to exploit. Finding the high walls surrounding it to be pierced by only four gates, each at a compass point and manned by a sizeable contingent of guards. Satisfied that he would need to seek the less obvious weaknesses, the thief decided to return at night, to look with different eyes. However, before he could turn away, his attention was drawn to a palanquin being carried down the hill, from the palace, towards the gate nearest which he stood. In particular his attention was drawn to the four men upon whose shoulders it rested, heavily muscled, dressed in nothing more than fur boots and fur loincloth, they were as alike enough as to be his own cousins.

The sight of those from his homeland, none wearing the collar of as slave, acting in such a subservient role, left him staring dumbfounded. Something that must have drawn the attention of the palanquin’s passenger, for leaving the gate, it moved towards the fountain, water shooting from the jug carried by the stone statue of the empress, beside which he stood.

Cursing his stupidity, he hoped that the bearers would continue past, ignoring him. He they came to a stop and lowered their burden to the ground. Too late to flee, he decided to play the awestruck barb and gawked at the group. He did not have to fake that look for long, as golden slippers, attached to long, perfectly shaped legs, split the curtain of the litter, followed by magnificent redhead, dressed in small swaths of gold trimmed, green velvet. Involuntarily his head swung from her to the statue in the fountain, drawing forth a full, luscious laugh from the woman.

“Nay I am not Her Magnificence, just one of her humble handmaidens, Inaneura. And who might you be?”

Trying to regain his wits, he answered, “Amra.”

“What brings you to our fair city, Amra?”

Despite the count’s desire, he had not gone rushing off, straight to Goscaire when hired; therefore he could answer honestly. “I served as a guard with a trader who stopped in Jotlin. However, when he returned back the way from which we came, I decided to come on to see Goscaire, never having been before.”

“How do you find it?”

“As everybody had described it, but more. I wish I could stay longer.”

“Why cannot you, Amra?”

“Too expensive, Your Ladyship.”

“Really? You know the palace can always use someone of your skills.”

At this, she slowly cast her gaze up and down his form, her eyes brazenly lingering upon his tight, leather trousers, before looking him in the eyes with an expression that would have been called a leer if she were a man. It allowed Amra to realize what had trapped his fellows. But he knew he was of sterner stuff, so since her offer gave him a chance to go where he needed to go, he unhesitating placed a foot in the noose, springing it.

“Do you really think so, Your Ladyship?”

“Oh yes, Amra. Most definitely. Here, take this and return to the palace this evening, show the bracelet and you will be brought to me. Who knows, you may even draw Her Magnificence's attention.”

Taking the bejeweled, gold bracelet she handed him, he nodded his head in agreement. She only smiled, before turning away, returning to her palanquin, further baiting the trap with how she moved. Offering him his chance to stare.

The End

Afterward:

This story was inspired by the covers of so many books, from authors Kirke (Raven), Rivkin (Silverglass), Cooke (The Lady or Garrett’s Babes), and so many other fantasy paperbacks. Many of which have some gorgeous woman on the cover, wearing the most ridiculous of outfits. In particular, Conan (Amra is another of his names) was my driver for this story, as for some reason I often visualize him with some luscious beauty, in the background, wearing diaphanous garb and lounging on pillows. Though not always the damsel in distress, sometimes they proved his enemy. Such is Feraleen, and I like to pretend that the epilogue to her story could be the prologue for one of Conan’s adventures.

Arcie