The Proceedings of War - Reaconia Chapter 11

Two factions, a father and son, separated by ideals and an entire realm, both take steps to improve their odds in the impending war.

 

 

Eleven: The Proceedings of War

 

In all its glory, the morning sun gleamed through the vents of Kion’s ceiling, blocked only by the smoke that trailed its way up from the fire pit in the center of his room. He did not remember lighting a fire the night before; he barely remembered going to his own bed after leaving Sonayla’s chamber. Maybe it was she who lit him a fire; he knew he would not have slept through Ironeyes trying to light one; or perhaps it was Waldene. Pulling up a fur around his shoulders to block the chill he gave himself a mental note to find out who did it and thank them.

What time was it? It felt as if he had been asleep for hours, but the angle of the sunbeams told him that was not the case. He rolled slowly out of bed and stood, taking his blankets with him, realizing that all his clothes had been removed, and hung out on the wood screen opposite his bed, not remembering how those got there either.

Kion sighed, knowing what the day had in store for him. First, he needed to find Markos, admit that he was right, and beg for his money; then he needed to plead with Stonegate for the use of his orc army. He prayed to Trea that he could get both of those done while the day was still young. There were two things that Kion had always known about himself: he was not a beggar, and he hated being wrong, admitting that he was wrong; and he would have to do both of those things today, which the young lord absolutely dreaded. Especially having to do so to Markos Hightower.

Kion made the decision to speak with Balic first, and see how the recruitment draft was coming. He wanted to start his day on a positive note, with a friend, and a drink.

Once dressed, he made his way downstairs, amazed by the amount of activity going on in the castle; the halls were filled with orcs and men, and construction was fully under-way. Kion took a peak outside and noticed a calm day, cold as ever, but the wind remained at bay and not a cloud could be seen. He ducked his head under a rope truss that supported a large stone pillar, and jumped out of the way of the large creature lifting it, muttering an apology in his best orc dialect, receiving a grumble in response.

He decided to cut through the courtyard across to the kitchens, and stepped outside, relieved to find that the snow had melted some since it fell the day before. A clanging noise caught his attention and he turned in its direction, recognizing it immediately as the argument of two swords. Knowing well that the battle yard was not scheduled for training today, he averted his path to investigate; where there were swordfights, his Commander would be nearby as well.

Kion went back through the hall, carefully moving behind the orc, who had gotten the pillar upright, and to the eastern door that opened to another yard, the practice field of his fort, sandwiched between the barracks, the unfished armory tower, and the massive, looming wall of his throne room. There were indeed men, six pairs of them, engaged in combat. Their swords blunted, but still fierce looking, and blinding when they caught the sun right. They circled around an area cleared of snow, exchanging blows and punches, trying to catch the other off-guard. In the center of them all was has half-orc friend shouting commands.

“Maekar, watch your footing! Gerion, keep your left arm up or you’ll get a sword to the neck!” Balic Add-iron yelled, the commands all the more formidable coming from a seven-foot-tall orc-man. When Balic saw that Kion stood watching, he called his men to attention, all twelve of them quickly going to their knees, in which Balic did moments later, his fist stamping the ground in proper orc fashion.

            Balic stood as Kion walked up to him and to two embraced, “Good morning, friend.” Kion said warmly.

            “Morning?” Balic questioned, “Afternoon would be almost more appropriate.”

            “Fair enough. Sleep would not come to me last night.”

            “Too much on your mind?”

            “You could say that.” Kion whispered under his breathe, and Balic smiled.

            “Ah, I see,” Balic was one of the only people in his castle who knew of Kion’s relationship with Sonayla, “Men, put your feet up, take a moment of rest.” The twelve in the field stood slowly, stretching out before heading to the barracks to rack their weapons and join the other shivering comrades.

            “Walk with me, Balic, I’m headed to the kitchens.”

            Balic nodded, happy to oblige to the requests of his king, and the two left the yard. The moment they were out of earshot, Balic spoke first:

            “You’ll be happy to know, Kion, that I’ve completed the draft of the recruitment letter, and the scribes are ready to make copies… only after your approval of course.”

            “Very good, Balic. But enough of that for now, I want to know who gave the authorization for construction to resume and for the training yards to open.”

            Balic was quiet about that, fueling Kion’s suspicions.

            “Was it Markos?”

            He got a nod out of his orc-friend. “Since his daughter arrived, he wanted to show her how the castle is coming along. He gave the order for things to commence early this morning.”

            Kion gasped, ‘His daughter? Lilias is here?”

            “I thought you knew, my lord! She arrived in the night.”

            Well that explains why I woke without any clothes on. “I should have been notified at once! Nothing was supposed to commence until after this last storm was completely thawed. Who does Markos think he is?”

            They stepped into the kitchens to get even further out of sound and sight.

            “Have you seen her?” Kion asked.

            “Yes, my king, Markos and his daughter were walking the battlements earlier while we were training; they left just before you arrived.”

            “And Sonayla, where is she?”

            Balic shook his head again.

            Bromwym backed into the room, pushing a door open with his backside while he carried a giant keg of ale in his arms. “Little lady left early this morning,” he said, acknowledging the men, “sorry to overhear, but Sonayla came down just before sunrise saying that she saw the Hightower’s caravan coming up the main road.”

            “To say she was upset would be putting it lightly.” Waldene joined in, coming in after her husband.

            Kion stammered in bewilderment. Yes, he knew that Markos had sent for his daughter, but he did not know that she would have arrived so soon, and without him being notified.

            “I have seen her, too,” Waldene said, “Lilias, I mean. She looked very lovely, my lord, but had a different air about her since last she visited; a… queenly disposition, I would say.”

            “And where is she now?” Kion asked.

            “After her and her father had a bite to eat, they said they would wait in the throne room until your arrival.” Bromwym said.

            “I suppose an appearance would be wise, then.” Kion stated, taking a deep breath.

            He grabbed a biscuit from the counter and took a bite, “Might as well resume training while the men are ready, Balic, I’ll be by this afternoon to review the recruitment draft.” He held up the biscuit to his cooks as a thank you, and went to the door. “And if any of you see Sonayla, please tell her to wait for me in her chambers. This is going to be a long day.”

            The halls flew past him as he rushed to speak with Markos and amuse his betrothed, hoping to be done quickly.

Ironeyes stood guard outside the throne room and bowed with a fist to the floor as Kion turned the corner.

            “Everyone is still inside, Ironeyes?” Kion asked, never slowing his pace.

            The ugly beast grunted, rising in a heave to open the door for his human master; the large wooden slab squealed on its cold hinges as Ironeyes stepped aside to let him pass. Kion was startled by the amount of people in his throne room. There were thirteen he counted in his first glance: ten of them were armored men, certainly the family’s escorts, all bearing the Hightower’s sigil, an ivory tower surrounded by the golden rays of a rising sun, on their cream-colored cloaks; then there was Markos himself, still looking puffy as ever, standing by his wife, the Lady Sabella Hightower. The woman had a look of haughty arrogance that had been permanently frozen to her face ever since she arrived in the north, and wore enough furs to where her clothes could hardly be seen beneath. She gave the slightest tilt of her head when she saw Kion enter the room. Markos did the same. The armored men took to the knee with fists over their hearts, their heads bowed low.

            A young lady sat on his throne facing away from him, Kion heard her take a breath before gracefully rising, and in a smooth movement, turned, holding her skirts out from her sides, and dipped. “Good morrow, noble sir.”

            “Lilias, my lady, please rise.” Kion went to her, grasped her by the shoulders and corrected her. He gave a peck to her right cheek and then her left, followed by a caress to the face, lifting her chin to where her lips met his.

            Kion heard Markos shuffle in his place, trying desperately to avert his eyes from the man kissing his daughter; his uneasiness the only pleasure Kion derived from these formalities. Kion pulled away, though Lilias remained with her mouth pursed; she let out a sigh.

            “Oh, I have missed you.” She said, her eyes still closed.

            “I have missed you too, darling. Immensely...” he turned to the girl’s frigid mother, “and Sabella, I am most happy that you could join your daughter, I trust the journey here went smoothly?”

            “Fairly uneventful, my King, there are the dangers of a rogue orc or rimelion, but our attendants here would have stifled any problem.” She said, gesturing to her men. Kion thought he heard his walls crack at the sound of her shrill voice.

            “I am truly glad you had their protection my lady.” He kissed her hand, then stood to face Markos; Kion wanted to punch him for his overconfidence of power with his men and orc workers, but instead extended his hand, and shook Markos’.

            “I was worried I would not see you after our debate yesterday, but I am glad you are here, I have some business to discuss with you that I’m sure you will be pleased with.”

            The balding man smiled back to him, “I would be happy to, your grac---“

            “And you should have notified me at once when your family arrived! I would have been down here in an instant. I was awake until the early hours of morning going over… strategies and plans.” His mind flashed to Sonayla laying in her bed… with only his crown and the cold air covering her…

            “We were happy to wait, my King.” Lilias’ divine voice said, bringing him back to the present.

            Kion looked to her; she stood steps above them, her chestnut hair fell loose to the middle of her back, flowing in waves that matched the deep brown pools of her eyes; she had a small pointed nose and full lips that curved ever slightly at their ends to where she looked to be smiling at all times. The dress she wore was an ice blue so dazzling that it looked white, with metal clasps that held it together down the front until the fabric parted at her knees, letting the wine-red underskirt, which matched her long sleeves, to show through. She truly was a sight to behold. If his love for Sonayla had not been so great, he could find happiness in this match his father had made for him years before.

            Lilias took the two steps down gracefully and grasped Kion’s hands with hers of pure silk, “Must you and father be all about business today? I was hoping to take a walk, my king.”

            Poor girl. The least I can do is indulge her. “I’m sure your father can wait a little while longer.” Kion said to her with a wicked grin, “Do you mind, Sabella? I’ll have her back before sun-down and then we can talk, Markos.”

            “Go, my child,” Sabella yelped to her daughter, “the two of you have been apart for far too long.” She placed both hands on each side of Lilias’ face and placed her thin, pale lips to her forehead.

            “Yes, that will give us ample time to prepare our things at the Inn.” Markos said.

            “Come now, you will all stay here in the castle,” Kion said, knowing full well how Sonayla would feel about that; but if he were to keep the Hightower’s affection, it was something she would have to deal with. “I’ll have your things brought to the quest apartments and a meal will be prepared.” He continued.

            “Many thanks, my king.” Markos said, “You are most gracio---“

            “Shall we, my dear Lily?” Kion said, turning with an inviting arm towards his betrothed, who gleamed, due in part to Kion’s generosity and the sound of his voice when it sang her epithet. She squeezed his arm so tight it was as if she needed his support to stand.

            After a quick bow, Kion turned with the girl linked to him, and they made for the door. Kion in a hurry to be done with the girl.

            The king pounded a fist against the great pointed wooden doors of his throne room and waited for Ironeyes to lumber over and open them for him and his betrothed, which seemed like an eternity. At the sight of the beast, Lilias clutched even tighter to him, clearly afraid; Kion took a step toward the orc, with a hesitant resistance at his side, and gave his demands:

            “Ironeyes, please see that the Hightower’s things are moved, and have Bromwym and Waldene prepare tonight’s feast.”

            “Ironeyes. Will. Do,” came the usual response, and the two bowed.

            “I do not see how you can be around those creatures all day.” Lilias whispered as they moved down the hall. Kion noticed her stealing glances behind them to make sure there was nobody following them.

            “The orc’s in my service are some of my most trusted companions, even more so than the people here,” Kion stated, “I have had to earn their trust, so I know they will respect me and not cause any trouble. Ironeyes there even saved my life once.”

            She gasped at him, “What happened?”

            “When I began my reign here, there were some who were upset, to put it mildly. A band of rebel orc’s had it in their mind to have me killed, and Ironeyes stopped every one of them when they charged me.”

            “I had no idea you faced that kind of trouble.” Lilias said.

            “Almost daily at the beginning. It was better though, than dealing with my father back home on Pyron.”

            “That is why we followed you here, my king,” she rested her head on his shoulder, “Nobody could deny the growing threat in the Fire Isles.”

            “Hopefully not a threat for much longer.” Kion smiled at her.

            “When we heard news of your father’s attacks on the mainland, I knew you would do the right thing, Kion. I could not wait to get here and tell you how proud I am.”

            “I need to speak with Stonegate before anything is fully set into motion. Will you accompany me?”

            She hugged tighter, and the two stepped outside, crossing the courtyard.

            Despite the beating sun, their breath could still be seen and the snow still piled high. Kion cut straight across, but Lilias’ broke away from him, running to the railed edge of the courtyard on the cliff overlooking the city, her dress plowing a path behind her.

            “Oh, I love this view!” she said, “I saw it walking the battlements and wanted nothing more than to come here. And now here I am… with you.”

            Kion walked up beside her, “I wanted a place like this that we could enjoy together,” he lied.

            At that moment, the look in Lilias’ eyes changed, exactly as a wolfs would when it realized it was hungry. A lusting, deep desire filled her and her breathing became excited. She spun him in place and shoved him hard against the courtyard bannister with enough force that he put his hands on the rail behind him in a moment’s reaction in fear of going over the edge. She had him by the folds of his shirt collar, and put her lips an inch from his, making their mixture of breath cloud between them.

            “I am tired of waiting, Kion!” she rasped, “I want to feel you inside me. I want to be your queen. It’s all I think about.” Lilias kissed him with a passion that emanated from her toes.

            It startled Kion more than anything, he grabbed her by the shoulders and peeled her off of him, weary of the eyes that could be watching from their open-windowed balcony vantage; “My Lady!” he exclaimed.

            “Please!” she begged, she hoisted herself onto the balcony’s rail, undaunted by the sheer drop mere feet behind her, and gathered her ruby skirts around her knees, despite the cold; she turned him around to face her, his feet crunching the snow, and pinned him to her with crossed legs, attacking the buckle of his belt.

            Kion reached down to untangle himself and noticed her skin was delicate to the touch, and smooth as a rose petal; and she smelled just as sweet. For a moment, his urges got the better of him and he drank her in. He did not pull away when she kissed him, and the taste of desire on her lips was more intoxicating than any wine. Kion thought he felt the twinge of his fingers on her thigh, the grasp making Lilias’ breath quicken; she let out a moan.

            The young lord’s eyes flashed open at the sound, and he took a hard step back, breaking free of his bonds. Lilias sat on the stone rail, her chest heaving, and her skin was flushed all over, though not from the cold.

            “This is not right, Lilias,” he said, sputtering, “We must do this properly. And I cannot have any distractions on this day,” he added, mumbling his excuses.

            “Whatever you say, my king,” she pushed her dress back down around her knee-high furred boots, and fixed her hair, “Apologies for my bluntness, Kion. I will cherish this moment, it will suffice until the night when I can be with you wholly, as your wife.”

            She stood and took his hand, “Shall we continue to Stonegate’s camp?”

            The two started along towards the castle’s main gate, nary a word said between them as they caught their breath. Complicated thoughts swam their way through Kion’s mind, having for a second forgotten about Sonayla, trying not to focus on how apt it felt to have her hand in his.

            The soft kiss of a small snowflake landed on his cheek, and Kion had not even noticed that grey clouds had rolled in, creating a barrier between his realm and the sun. The air was heavier, a sign that a storm was more than likely; the new feeling of gloom and dread and murkiness an exact replica of his mind.

 

 

            The fabric roof of his tent rose and fell with the sighs of the wind. It was night, but the moonlight filtered through and made everything around him glow softly. He squinted as his eyes slowly opened out of sleep; a soft breathing noise emanated from the pillow next to his and he looked over to see his w***e facing him, her heavy made-up eyelids were closed, and her full lips were parted in almost a kiss. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume, a mixture of scents smeared on over the last few days; she had drowned herself in his favorite, citrus blossom from the Suites, when he called her to his tent; it proved to be too much of a good thing.

            He also noticed when he tried to sit up that her arm was draped over him; picking it up from the wrist, he tossed it aside, to which the woman stirred. Throwing the covers away, he stood, the night air of the Woods a cool touch on his bare body.

            A crimson and gold robe lay tossed on his stratagem table and Merit Schanandore dressed in it, pausing a moment to study the small crimson flame wood carvings that dotted the map of his realm, representing his camps. Most were gathered on the Fire Islands and the southern Woods, but some stretched as far as the Plains and the Drylands. Even a couple garrisons stood across the leather oceans on the Suites and one on the Ice Isles. His marker was the tallest, topped with a wooden crown, and was positioned on the painted trees to the north of the capitol, Lossain, which was marked with the silver token of the crowned sun; the sigil of the false king who sat there now.

            The group of pawns still in the woods began to worry him. Merit and his men were lucky not to have been found as of yet; they had arranged to return to Pyron soon after having made their presence known, and he had already done that and more: he had planned to burn a few villages, take some prisoners, build his riches, and spread panic, which he had done with a blade to the side of an old man from Pilant. But, he had to make use of his dragon trying to leave to leave the city, and caused more destruction and death than had been intended, and even had captured and tortured a squad of Drom Sease’ men that were found combing the woods around the capitol looking for him; both of which were no hindrance, but instead made his plan ever more dramatic.

            Plus, the other dragon that he had seen the night of his attack had proved to be an interesting revelation that he could use in his advantage if exposed in the correct manner. Merit had sentinels dotting every hilltop for leagues in each direction keeping a watch out for any opposing forces of Drom’s men. If any threat had been spotted, Merit could be informed immediately, and aside from the garrison Merit had killed, and a few non-threatening groups of farmers and peasants, they were silent, until word had come of two young girls, both finely dressed, running through the valleys alone. Merit gave no instruction but to have them followed; a command that proved most valuable. His men tracked the girls to an abandoned quarry, forgotten and overgrown by the forest around it. Word was, the girls disappeared into a cave, and minutes later, the other dragon showed itself, emerging from its hidden lair, the maidens sitting atop its head.

            A small knife marked the location of that quarry, having been stabbed through the leather folds and stuck out from the wooden surface underneath. He left it there after he sent a third troop of men to root out the dragon, and for a third time, nobody had returned. It had been ages since last he prayed, but he had prayed after that third outing to the quarry, not for his men, nor their families, but he prayed… hoped… for the other dragon to be killed. It was his only wish, and as of yet, even his best men proved to be ineffective. Another reason he could not yet return home, to Pyron.

            Merit slammed a clenched fist down onto the tabletop at the unhappy remembrances, causing the red pawns to topple and shake. The rustling of sheets caught his attention and he looked back to see the woman roll in place, her eyes still closed; a deep sigh escaped from her parted lips, almost sensuous, as if to coax him back to bed. Instead he parted the flap of the door and stepped outside.

            The night air was cool, and the first hints of dawn were cresting over the mountaintops; every star was still present, and he eyed the sky, hoping that an answer to his problems would show itself in the heavens. A chill crept its way up his spine and made every hair on his body stand straight. Merit did not like the cold, and though the winter months were still far away, it was more cold than he liked to deal with. He missed his castle on Pyron, and its black lava fields and warm stone walls, where the air was always dry and hot. He supposed he would have to get used to this weather, though, if he was ever to rule here.

            I could burn it all and create my own world of fire. The thought brought a cold smile to his face.

            A shadow blacker than black caught his eye and he turned his attention to the trees, having to squint hard in an effort to peer deeper into the darkness. A deep rumble through the ground vibrated his bones, and he heard the leaves rattle and the gust of a sigh moved them and a plume of steam escaped the tree-line.

            “Meraxes, what are you doing in there” Merit whispered, he walked closer, past the fabric walls of his camp. The dragon roared softly, parting its giant mouth only enough to let the glow of its heart-flame shine through, outlining its massive fangs, the light barely more than the coals would be after a campfire. The heat was intensely felt, which Merit relished.

            He pat his beast on its bottom lip, feeling the rough scales ripple under his touch. Merit brushed something sticky, but simply wiped it on his robe.

            “He wants to be near you, always.” A soft voice called out, the dragon lifting its head a little at the sound.

            “I did not hear you coming, Sari.” Merit said, addressing the woman he had left in his bed.

            Only the thin blanket was wrapped around her, the folds accenting her womanly form magnificently, held together by a clenched fist at her waist. She walked to him heavily, seductively, always moving in that manner, her long brown hair nearly touching the ground, hanging free. The only adornment she wore was on her ears; a pair of large ornate ruby and gold clusters long enough that they rested atop her shoulders; she always had them on, having been the first thing he bought her after taking her in; they swayed with each step she took. The perk of her breast was prominent through the thin sheet, showing that she felt the cold as much as he did.

            “Come closer to the heat, Sarienna.”

            “I like the night air, I find it refreshing,” she said, “and you know I cannot stand that creature’s breath.” Still, she scraped her nails along Meraxes’ pointed chin with her free hand. Then she grabbed Merit’s face by the beard and kissed him suddenly, biting his lip as she pulled away. “You know I hate it when you are not there when I wake.”

            He caught a big wave of her perfume, “Sorry, my love, I could not sleep.”

            “What are you thinking about?”

            “That damned quarry, and the other dragon.” He said bluntly, Meraxes let out another growl.

            “Tell me you are not going to send another host of men…”

            “You think me a fool?” he lashed, “I will lose no more men to that beast.”

            “What then? Tell me.”

            “The answer is right in front of us.” Merit said.

            “Meraxes? But I thought…”

            “I know I said that I did not want to use him, but I am beginning to see no other way. If what I suspect is true, that serpent needs to be destroyed, or it will cause us more trouble in the future.”

            “And what if harm should come to your ride, what then?” Sarienna inquired, “Would that also not hinder you?”

            “Aye, woman, which is why I did not want to use him.”

            Sarienna moved to the dragon again, who had pulled itself back further into the trees. “You do not want to fight, do you?” she whispered to the creature’s jaw, running her fingertips along a smooth spike of bone, “Not yet, anyway.”

            A warm wave of air showered over her as the dragon sighed, making her hair flutter all around her; she clutched tighter to her bedsheet to avoid losing it.

            “I think it is a mistake to use Meraxes, if anything were to happen to him, you will never be able to take your throne,” Sarienna said.

            “I know,” Merit spat, “but if I am correct, we can get Drom Sease to help us destroy that other dragon.”

            “How do you mean, my love?”

            “I know that dragon belongs to his daughter. If we expose that, they will have to get rid of it.”

            “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

            “My men have trailed her on many occasions between the castle walls and that quarry�"“

            “It could just be a servant girl, or a merchant’s daughter.” Sari said, and Merit sucked in some air, annoyed at the interruption.

            “Not by the way she dresses; my spies watch her climb the same spot of wall each time, directly behind her dear brother’s grave, where no common man is allowed. And I have seen the girl myself, she is her mother’s daughter, there’s no denying it.”

            “But if the dragon does belong to the princess, there is no way that Drom is going to kill it.” Sarienna stated.

            “His own law states that owning one is prohibited,” Merit said, “and the way the girl sneaks off by herself, there is hardly a chance that he even knows the creature exists.”

            “So how do you tell him?”

            “We will do much more than tell him… We’ll show him.”

            The morning sun was much brighter now and the orange light filtered through the trees, making Meraxes’ scales shine a brilliant jet black, their ruby tips glistening. His men began to stir and clattering was heard in the tents all around them. Sarienna began to walk back to Merit’s tent, and she let her blanket shift drop, exposing herself to anyone who stepped outside.

            “I hope you have a minute before you discuss this with your men.” She teased, swiping her long hair off of her breasts; she tugged the blanket on the ground behind her as she sauntered off.

 

 

            Outside of his castle walls, the drifts of snow were taller than he was. Thankfully, the group of orcs that had come to the castle earlier that morning had trampled a path through them, and Kion walked briskly to Stonegate’s camp, just north of his castle, with Lilias still in tow.

            “We’ll be safe out here?” the girl asked in a wavering voice.

            “My men know to follow me.” Kion said, and Lilias looked behind them to see five armored men, in silver mail with cloaks as blue as the sky, exit the gates in their footsteps; they carried spears at their sides, as well as swords tied at the hip. The man in front carried Kion’s standard, a blue flake of snow on a grey and gold backdrop, which fluttered wildly in the wind. Without the protection of the stone walls, and the clouds overhead getting darker, the wind was increasingly stronger, and Lilias pulled the collar of her overdress tighter around her face, to protect herself from the pelting snow.

            “But there’s a storm coming.” She whimpered.

            “This will take but a minute,” Kion reassured her, “I know how to convince Stonegate to let me use his men.”

            The faint lights of the camp’s fires could be seen, and they marched straight for them, the castle walls disappearing behind them.

            By the time they reached the camp, the path was almost completely blown over with snow, and they trudged through white powder up to their knees. Kion had blocked Lilias’ whining from his mind and focused on his mission, an immense creature stepped out of the haze with a torch in hand, he gestured with a wave of his hand.

            “Kion. Come,” it growled, and the group followed, passing large rough tents that looked almost sunken in the snow. In the middle of camp, though, the paths were better sheltered from the wind and they moved much easier.

            “Is he taking us to Stongate?” Lilias whispered, obviously nervous.

            Kion ignored her, “Where are you taking us?” He would have called the creature by name if he remembered it; there were many orcs from this camp that stayed away from the castle, for different reasons, and not knowing where they were being taken made him tense.

            “Kthumasotha. Come.” The orc never looked at them, he thundered forward, his torch light wavering in the wind, which did nothing to his scared exposed torso, which was either dirty or brown in color; it wore battered sheets of metal that covered its shoulders, nestled amongst the bony spikes that protruded from the orc’s neck and spine.

            “What did he say?” Lilias asked, she looked on the verge of tears.

            “Not to worry, dear,” he reassured her, having recognized Stonegate’s name in the orc dialect; Kion let out a quite sigh of relief as well, “Stonegate must have been expecting us, and sent him to greet us.”

            “It’s cold, Kion.” She said back, and for a moment he felt sorry for the girl, Kion had not thought the storm was to be this bad, and Lilias really was underdressed.

            “We will be inside soon, Stonegate’s tent is just ahead.”

            At the end of the snowy opening, Stonegate’s tent stood taller than the others, and wider, having grown gradually since becoming a captain to Kion. Over the extended doorway, a great wooden orc shield hung, a painted handprint covering much of its surface, marking him as an important member in his camp.

            The orc leading them stepped to the side and pulled open the great animal skin door flap. Lilias darted in out of the wind, but Kion stopped next to the orc, “Your name, friend?” he extended his hand.

            A big ugly face stared down at him, scowling, “You. No. Speak. To. Slatebark. Uipshegar.”

            Kion winced at the word, and a chill flew down his spine. Outsider. Suddenly, he realized he did not have a friend in Slatebark, “Let’s go inside, Lilias,” he said, and stepped into the entranceway. He grabbed Lilias by the arm and hurried her forward.

            “What’s wrong?” she asked.

            “We will be safer in Stonegate’s presence is all, love.”

            The tented hall was much longer than he would have hoped, and wide enough to drive an entire coach and horse team through, with plenty of room to spare, and though they were alone, and his men following in step behind him, he did not feel safe. They rushed passed torches that stuck out of the mud, illuminating their path.

            The second ‘door’ was dyed a dark grey and had the same handprint emblazoned across its folds. One of the armored men hurried in front of his lord and pulled the drape aside, allowing them access. The great room of Stonegate’s dwelling was much like Kion’s orc-made chambers in the castle. A large fire pit sat in the middle, its smoke rising to a vented peak thirty feet overhead, with partition walls dividing rooms around the edges. Stonegate himself sat on a stool by the fire, and had the same rough-looking expression on his pale face, his crown of bone resting on his brow.

            There were others too, a great beast of a woman stood next to Stonegate, filling his large cup of wine. Kion had rarely seen orc women, and was taken aback every time. They looked much fiercer than their male counterparts, shorter and hardier, bare of horns and spikes, but not of brashness. This one was a pale blue color, just as scarred and bruised as Stonegate, with small tusks that protruded from full lips and she had a full head of jet black hair that fell to her backside in a long braid. She wore furs that covered most of her body, but there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant, and her great swollen belly hung almost to her knees. There was no containing her giant breasts either, and one loosed itself from her furs and rolled across her belly as she waddled off. Lilias gasped at the sight of her. There were three other orcs in sight, Stonegate’s friends, and one other, a human girl, with straight blond hair, barefoot, in a small wool dress. All six members in the house stood and bowed their heads when Kion walked in.

            Kion nodded his head in return, but could not take his eyes off of Sonayla, he flashed her a look that asked, ‘what are you doing here?’

            Without moving her head, she subtly glanced to Lilias and then back to him.

            Their wordless conversation was cut short when Lilias bounded forward, “Oh my, Sonayla! It has been too long!” she said, taking the other girl by the hands.

            “Yes, Lilias, it really has�"“ Sonayla said, but Kion went passed them straight to Stonegate, Kion put a fist to his chest and then kneeled and slammed his fist to the ground in proper orc greeting.

            The orc grunted in return, “Welcome. Kion.”

            “Thank you, Stonegate,” the young lord said, “I had hoped to speak with you sooner, but the Hightower’s arrived this morning and deferred my arrival.”

            Stonegate glanced to Lilias, and nodded. He then, swung a hand and hit the orc woman on the behind, “Vudom, saip gmremcsh gumr siakpsh.”

            She rumbled back, “Aiui saip prad aiuimrkaskg aiui sug gumr nuthrems reaipai ug shzep!” Her voice was a much sweeter sound, though Kion could tell the words were not kind. But with another roar from Stonegate, she did as she was told, and grabbed glasses for their three human visitors, filled them, and placed them on the fire pit’s edge.

            As she was next to him, Stonegate introduced the woman, “My. Life-mate. Ravenwillow.” She grumbled, then he pointed to the others, “Whitefire. Steelarm. Bloodbane.” Kion eyed them over, seeing exactly how their names fit them. The first was white as the snow outside, with bright red hair and eyes; the second had arms the size of tree-trunks; and the third did not look his name, but there was a glint in his eyes that told Kion that the orc had caused a lot of bloodshed in his time, at a second glance, his hands looked to be almost stained red by blood. The three orc men saluted Kion as they heard their names.

            Kion lifted his glass with both hands and raised it to them, “Raru,” he said, saying ‘hello’, one of the only words he knew in the orc-tongue. He took a sip of the liquid and was pleased to find it was human-made wine. His captain seemed to have adopted some aspects of his lord’s mainland culture.

            Stonegate muttered something at them and the three got up and left, he then looked to Kion, “You. Men. Wait in hall. We. Talk.”

            Kion waved at them, and the five turned on their heels, exiting after the orc men, probably relieved to have a moments rest.

            He turned back to Stonegate, “My captain, I had no idea that you were having a child.”

            For one of the first times since Kion had known the orc, the beast smiled, “Son. Strong. He will. Be. Mrobamkthuma. Ravenstone.”

            “Well, congratulations. To Ravenstone!” Kion said, raising his glass again, the orc man lifted his and let out a boisterous laugh.

            “Yes, that is just wonderful!” Lilias replied.  

            “I. Know. Why. You here.” Stonegate said, and he gestured to Sonayla.

            “When I saw the Hightower’s had arrived, I came to Stonegate to speak on your behalf, my lord,” Sonayla said to Kion, “I know how desperate you are to get things underway, and I knew you would be busy.”

            “Thank you, Sonayla, I don’t know what I would do without you,” he flashed her his most endearing smile.

            “It was great to spend the morning together, without any business to attend to.” Lilias said, as a thank-you to Sonayla and coax to Kion; she struggled to lift her mug to her lips.

“She. Explain. All,” the orc said, “No. Battle. No. Worth. For. Stonegate.”

“But there is worth for you,” Kion said, and the orcs ears twitched at that, “I can give you a reward.”

“Speak. More.” Stonegate grumbled.

“You yourself told me yesterday that land is the best reward that could be given, worth more than any jewels. Well, once my father is defeated and I am king, with the aid of your men… I will give you the Frost Moors.” Kion gave a pause for dramatic effect.

Stonegate’s eyes showed the only reaction, with just a squint, along with a gasp from Lilias and Sonayla.

“Your kind were forced to this island when man came to Reaconia hundreds of years ago,” Kion reminded him, “I thought you would be pleased with my solution, Stonegate.”

“Stonegate. Not. Understand.”

Kion stood and darted to the painted door, and stepped outside to where his men were waiting. He returned moments later with a scroll in hand. The paper unrolled easily across the edge of the stone fire pit and Kion placed two drinking mugs on either side to pin it down.

The five masses of land that made up the realm of Reaconia were sprawled across the parchment in rich, bright painted colors, and Kion gestured to the northernmost, an icy, pale blue splotch. Stonegate leaned forward, staring intently at the paper; Kion guessed it was the first time that the orc had seen the realm in this way.

“This is Sheezen, the Ice Isles, where we are now,” he pointed to the dot that represented his castle at Hailaze, stating clearly for Stonegate to understand, “Us.”

The orc grunted, nodding.

Kion traced his finger around the northern part of the Canonal Woods, an area painted grey to represent the Frost Moors, “Gift to Stonegate, a victory prize if you help me defeat my father and the king.”

Rotted teeth were bared when the orc beamed a smile like Kion had never seen before, and the page was dotted with spittle when booming laughter followed.

Not sure whether Stonegate was pleased, or mocking him, Kion looked to Sonayla, to which Kion noticed he could wonder the same from the look she gave him.

He snapped back to Stonegate and stood, “Do you accept, my captain?”

Once Stonegate had calmed himself, he stood, bent with a hand to his chest, then went to a knee and slammed his fist on the ground. “Good Reward. Kion. You. Friend.”

“So I can count on your men when the time comes?” Hope made Kion sound more confident.

“Some. Not all want. Help. Uipshegar.”

“I understand that, I found I did not have a friend in Slatebark, and I am sure there are others. I leave it to you Stonegate, to decide those who can be trusted and those who cannot. Those who will not fight will remain here in Sheezen, and their camps and houses will be destroyed. Perhaps that will be enough incentive for them to come to their senses.”

Stonegate wavered at the threat, but agreed, “Stonegate. Will. Do,” his giant hand grasped a mug and he lifted it in a toast, “To. Friends.”

Ravenwillow did the same, and Kion, Sonayla and Lilias followed suit.

“To victory.” Kion said.

“Oh, this is exciting!” Lilias said, and Sonayla nudged her to keep quite.

“I do have one more favor to ask of you, Stonegate.” Kion said, noticing how dark it was. Light could no longer be seen filtering through from outside, and the tented walls still struggled against the howling winds.

Stonegate grunted.

“It seems like the storm will not let up tonight, if you would be so kind, I would ask for a place to stay for myself, my men and my ladies.”

Lilias gasped again.

The orc bowed his head in acceptance, barking another command to the she-orc, who roared and the two exchanged spats. Ravenwillow thundered off waving her arms in the air.

Lilias tiptoed to Kion, “Are you sure we must stay here, my king?” she whispered, never taking her eyes off of the orcs, “The castle is not too far…”

Kion took her and held her close, resting his chin on top of her head, “This is for the best, even the strongest men would barely survive the storm, and we do not want to meet any of the creatures who come out at night, do not be scared…” his eyes met with Sonayla’s, “my love, we will rest here tonight, and head back first thing tomorrow.”

Sonayla nodded, and Lilias looked up to him, “Not that I’m scared, but I know my mother and father will be worried.”

“They will understand, we will meet them first thing in the morning, and Bromwym and Waldene will have a nice hot breakfast ready for us.” Lilias smiled at that.

The she-orc, grumbling as she went, moved one of the inner partition walls and created another room close to the center fire. Ravenwillow then tossed great rough-hewn bedroll onto the floor. It was musty and stained, but the best that could be provided. She tossed one out into the hall as well for Kion’s men; an orc could sleep comfortably on one, which meant it would be sufficient space for his five men.

“We have to sleep on that?” Lilias scoffed, turning up a nose.

“Do not be disrespectful,” Kion whispered to her, “Now how about you change out of your over-clothes and we’ll get a good night’s rest.”

Lilias sulked away to another divided room and Kion went to Stonegate, who moved from the fire.

“Thank you, friend, for your generosity.”

The orc grunted his response, waving Kion away with a wave of his arm, crossing through another painted opening to a smaller side-tent, where the orc’s chambers were.

“We will talk more on the morrow.”

“And what about us?” a female voice called from behind him. It was Sonayla, she sat on the edge of the fire ring and moved the glowing logs with her bare hands, stoking the fire.

“I was hoping to have seen you earlier today, but you were nowhere to be found. I was surprised to see you here, my love.”

“I left the castle when I spotted the Hightower’s envoy coming up the road, figured I would spare us all some trouble.”

“I missed you.”

He walked to her, and, making sure Lilias was still out of sight, he grabbed her hand and kissed it. It was strange; where usually her skin was cold, this time, his lips tingled at the touch of warmth; heated and sooty from the fire.

“You were quiet tonight.” He said to her, “What all did you tell Stonegate before my arrival?”

“Only what we discussed last night. And I was quiet because I do not agree with you.”

He snapped to her, “On what?”

“On giving the Frost Moor’s away to the orcs.”

“And what else do I have to offer, Sonayla? I have nothing else that would interest Stonegate.”

“They are not even yours yet to give away, my king. And what of the people who live there now? What will you do if the orcs try to take more than what they are given, how will you stop them?”

“Stonegate would not let that happen, I would put him in charge of that.”

“If you want him to do your bidding, you better treat Stonegate with respect.”

“He is my captain, he’ll do what I say.” They fought in whispers as to not be overheard,

“He’s also an orc that could kill you with one swing of his arm if he wanted. This plan of yours is on thin ice, Kion, all it takes is for someone to tap their foot and it cracks. You are being rash.”

“No, Sonayla, it is you who was rash to think that you could come here and speak in my place. Nothing should have been said without my presence.”

She was silent, and resorted to stirring the ash to avoid looking at him; she had a way of making him feel guilty in an instant.

Kion sighed, “I’m sorry, my love. I understand why you left the castle, how you must feel ab---“

“I cannot feel anything, remember?” She stood, looking up to him with a ferocity in her blue eyes.

Kion grabbed her by the face with both hands and forced his lips on hers; she was hesitant a moment, but she felt her defenses fall apart and she parted her lips to let him in. They broke away after a spell.

“You’re beautiful when you are angry with me.” He said.

A clattering caught their attention as Lilias stepped back into the room, she had on only her shift and draped her red and pale-blue skirts over her arm. Sonayla sat back down by the fire’s edge and turned away from Kion before the other girl noticed.

“Are you ready for bed, my love? Kion said, crossing to Lilias, who laid her outer clothes onto the bedroll to lie on.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, looking around the ramshackle tent.

“Here, this will help.” Kion said, he removed his Rimelion cloak and handed it to her.

The girl smiled meekly, taking the gift without a word. “Will you join me?” She said after a moment, fingering the heavy blue furs.

“Of course. Let me tend the fire, and I will be right there, my dear Lily.”

Kion turned to the wood rack that sat along the far wall; the logs, though easy enough for an orc to handle, were bigger around than his own body, and nearly as heavy. He heaved one over his shoulder and brought it to the fire, where Sonayla still sat, watching him as he fed the wood to the hungry yellow flames. He then moved to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She glanced over to where Lilias slept, the girl had crawled onto the bedroll with her back to them and had pulled her cloak-blanket up to her neck. Sonayla shifted and turned, going to her knees on the fire pit’s edge so that she was eye level with Kion, and stole another kiss.

“Will you stay the night?” Kion whispered.

She simply nodded, her face inches from his, their breath mingling. Kion smoothed a lock of her silky hair through his fingers; when she placed a cold hand on top of his, he kissed it and broke from her, going to the bedroll before Lilias could become suspicious. As he cuddled up next to Lilias, he subtly patted the mattress on his other side, beckoning Sonayla to lie with them.

Hesitantly, she did so, curling up deftly to not cause a disturbance.

It was easy to pretend that they were alone; Kion had his back to her, and Sonayla saw nothing beyond, focusing only on him. The Hightower girl’s presence was felt though, in her heart, and it pained Sonayla immensely to know that her love had his arms wrapped around her. Taking a simple pleasure, she slid a hand under his shirt and placed it on his back; it was enough just to touch, for she knew that she truly had his heart.

And that was how they fell asleep, with an inescapable tension and the sound of the fluttering tent filling the air, along with the crackling, bursting, popping melodies of the now roaring fire.

 

 

            Merit buckled the armor on himself, beaming with pride at how the man trembled beneath his fingers; the irons clasped to the prisoner’s wrist jingling behind his back as he shook. The pauldron Merit held in his hand was a gleaming silver, with the crowned sun sigil if the Sease-Beauvoir family emblazoned on it, he reached down, looping the strap under the man’s arm, then strapping it to the breastplate of the same luster.

            “Please, my lord, do not do this!” the man let out from his kneeling position, his voice quivering. He was a young man, no older than his long-lost son, Merit figured, but yet, he was one of Drom Sease’s men, a knight that Merit’s scouts had captured. The rest of the party had been killed, and now it was this man’s turn.

            “But you fit into my plan so perfectly.” Merit said.

            The man simply lowered his face to the ground, his fear holding his eyes frantically open. He had not eaten in days, and his hair and beard were dirty and unkempt, and terror only added to his gaunt look.

            Merit buckled on the other pauldron, and placed a helmet at the man’s knees.

            “Make your peace.” Merit told the man before turning to walk away, listening to his prisoner’s silent sobs.

            Sarienna paced to him, “So this is the solution you came to, my love?” She had donned a pale yellow robe after their tryst, and its sheer fabric flowed behind her with each sway of her hips.

            “Brilliant, is it not?” Merit gloated, eying her.

            “Not for him.” She pointed to the prisoner, who had his head bowed to the ground, whispering his prayers.

            “Just a small enemy casualty for a great leap ahead in our victory.”

            “His death will do that?”

            “I do not expect a woman to understand strategy.”

            “You seemed not to mind my strategies when I was on top of you not two hours ago.”

            Merit faltered and scoffed to her, “Meraxes will kill this man. Ansel will take his remains to the capital. He will tell Drom Sease that it was his daughter’s beast that killed him. Her secret is exposed. And by Drom’s own laws, the dragon will be killed.”

            “You seem sure of your plan. That’s all I need to know that you will succeed,” she stroked his ego.

            “The important thing is that they will not be able to use the dragon against us in battle. Better increasing our chances of winning.”

            ‘You’re right, my king.”

            At the edge of the trees, next to the clearing, a stage was set and awnings were being erected, crimson and black fabric with the flame of Schanandore prominent on their backs, which seemed to come alight in the morning sun.

            “What are they doing?” Sarienna asked.

            “That man will go out in quite a spectacle, I thought we’d make a show of it.”

            Sarienna felt a glimmer of dread at the thought, but swallowed it, “I am sure that will be thrilling.”

            “I have been looking for a reason to build morale in the camp as it is.”

            “And when is this to take place?”

            “Just as soon as I can gather my men and see to Meraxes.”

            “I will see you in the stands, then?” Sarienna said to him, pausing. He waved his arm in confirmation as he walked off into the trees. Grabbing a long lock of her hair, Sarienna tossed it behind her as she changed course, heading back to her tent.

            Hers was set at the edge of the camp across from Merit’s, and was nearly as large, with smaller rooms lining the outside, where her ladies did their best work. As she walked inside, she knew exactly what to expect; she had brought to camp four of her best women from Pyron, and one of them was just inside the door, naked as the day she was born, with sleek black hair that fell just past her bosom. The woman straddled one of Merit’s warriors, who she had gotten down to only his drawstring trousers, on the great table in the center room.

Sarienna scoffed when she entered, “To your own chamber, Zhanna, you know the rules! And hurry it along, or you will miss a wonderful show.”

Without breaking her lips away from her partner’s, the woman climbed off of him and pulled him through a velvet curtain, tying it shut. Sarienna heard sounds coming from two of the other side-rooms, suggesting it was a busy morning at her establishment. The third room’s curtain, though, was open and Sarienna pulled it aside; sitting on the bed was an ivory-skinned beauty with dyed hair the hue of red wine that she was twisting intricately into a braid; she jumped when she saw Sarienna.

“My lady, I was just resting!” she squeaked, defensively, adjusting her peach colored robes, “you would be happy to know I’ve seen to two patrons already this morning!”

“I am pleased, Magana, but never mind that now, I need your help. Come with me and bring a fresh wine skin.” Sarienna said, eyeing her over, “and put in those pearl earrings I gave you.”

The girl hopped to attention, doing as she was told. Out of all the women she had in her employ, Magana had proved to be Sarienna’s favorite; not only could she get a line of men begging for her attention with no more than a flash of her ankle, but she was obedient to a fault, and was ready to go within the minute.

“Where are we going?” Magana murmured.

“I have someone for you to meet, sweet child.”

 

Merit’s prisoner was still on his knees, though he had visibly settled into a slump, and his lips still moved in prayer.

Sarienna swayed to him, crouched down, her hair and skirts pooling around her, and took the man’s head in her hands.

            “What is your name, handsome?” She cooed.

            His trembling intensified at the touch of another person. “R-Rens-so, mi-lady.”

            “And do you have family, Renso.” She fingered his beard, and his head twitched in a ‘yes’.

            “Please. H-help me.” He begged.

            “Magana.” Sarienna called. Her eyes locked on the man, “I have a gift for you,” she told him.

            The young red-haired girl tiptoed over, crouching down next to her lady, “Oh, he’s a pretty one,” she said.

            “Give him a drink from the skin.” Sarienna whispered in her ear, and the girl did so, delicately; moving as an artist would his brush, Magana pressed it to his lips, and tipped it slowly back, supporting the man’s head with her other hand at the nape of his neck.

            The rose liquid began to flow, spilling from the sides of his mouth, and he sputtered desperately, it most likely being the first drink he had in days. Magana stopped the stream, pulling the skin away, and Renso gasped, his eyes closing in appreciation.

            “Now kiss him.” Sarienna said.

            It was a simple instruction, but to Magana, it held much more meaning. She began by kneeling closer to him, bringing up the hem of her skirts to wipe clean his chin where the wine soaked his beard; then patting his lap where the spilled droplets had stained his clothes. She knew exactly where to touch. Never letting her gaze drift from his deep brown eyes, her hands did their work, drifting along his arms, gliding along his silver plate mail, smoothing his hair; her fingers running lightly along his brow and lips, all the while leaning closer until her face was mere inches from his.

            This went on for over a minute, the building anticipation making both of their breaths quicken. That was when Magana went for it; with both hands on his face, pulling him in, she planted her lips passionately to his…expertly.

            Sarienna watched her ward perform, and felt a twinge of jealousy for the girl’s youth and beauty and talent, remembering a time when she was that fresh and vibrant. A different feeling overcame her watching the two in their moment, a stirring deep inside; she felt her heart quicken and an alertness in her breasts. She put a gentle hand on Magana’s shoulder, telling her to finish.

            When the girl ended the kiss, she had gotten the prisoner on his knees, and his trembling had stopped. He leaned towards her, and nearly toppled over when she broke away, desperate for more. When he opened his eyes again, they were calm, in a state of euphoria.

            “Thank you,” is all Renso said as he sat back down. Magana poured him another drink of wine, “You must be an angel,” he told her after a swallow.

            “Go now, Magana,” Sarienna ordered, which she did, Renso eyeing her as she walked away.

            “Why did you bring her here?” he asked Sarienna, looking off into the distance.

            “I’m the only person in this camp who feels a shred of compassion for you. I came to show you some mercy.”

            “Please, will you let me free?” he begged.

            “Do not mistake me, boy. You will die today. I am only here to offer what services I can.”

            He looked dejectedly to the ground again, his last hope gone, “Thank you then, my lady. It was the best gift I could have asked for.”

            Sarienna grasped a handful of his hair, yanked his head back, and planted a kiss long and deep onto his lips.

            “And how was that?” she whispered when she peeled herself off.

            “I can die a happy man now.” Renso said, there was the faint hint of a smile to the corners of his mouth, but the tone of his words were somber and defeated.

            “Fight hard, Renso. Here come’s my lord now, it will not be much longer.”

            She rose to greet Merit, who stepped out of the trees grinning widely; “Consoling our martyr?” he said.

            “Only how I can,” she said, playing with her hair, “and how is Meraxes?”

            “Ready for some fun,” Merit’s gaze fell to his prisoner.

            “Shall we get ready to go and watch it then, my king?” Sarienna pulled Merit away by the arm; tossing one last quick glance back to Renso, she blew him a kiss, then headed to where the stage was set to await the performance.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

 

            “Men, gather around!” Merit shouted, he stood on his wooden platform at the edge of the clearing, and his troops, numbering barely a hundred, collected around him in perfect order.

            “I have a treat for you today,” their king said, through grinning teeth, “the Gods are good to me, men, they have given me an answer to our cause, a gift that will bring the house of Sease to a crumble. That b*****d Drom hates a war, but I do not give a f**k! We will bring a reckoning that can’t be refused!” Merit paced around his stage, with a burning passion that turned his face a hot red and sent his arms waving wildly.

            Sarienna sat next to him, with her four ladies around her, watching him build up the momentum, and could not help but feel inspired by his words, though she was dreading the show that was to come.

            “I know we have been here longer than planned, and you want to get out of these cold woods, but let me tell you, the fastest way back to Pyron is through that damned capital, and with the help of this son-of-a-w***e right here!” he pointed to Renso, who was shoved into the clearing by a group of shouting, rampaging men, still with his arms clasped behind him. The prisoner lost his footing and fell face-first into the dirt.

            “My lord!” Sarienna called out, drawing every man’s attention, “Surely we can remove the irons from his wrist, and give him a weapon.”

            “Of course, my lady,” He shot her an infuriated glare, “I am not such a monster that would deny this man at least a fighting chance!”

            Boisterous laughter filled the clearing. Merit jumped down and joined his men on the ground; they all hooted and shouted and clapped him on the back when he walked passed them, “Bring me the keys, Ansell!”

            The dirty-blond haired man stepped out of the crowd, Merit had made him second in command after he had delivered Buur Garning to the capitol, and placed him in charge of their prisoner.

            “You have been with me since the beginning, Ansell,” Merit said, “will you do the honors?”

            “Of course, your grace.” Ansell said, he walked over to Renso, who was still on the ground, and placed a foot onto the silver back-plate of his armor, pining the man to the ground. After feigning an attempt to unbuckle Renso’s irons, Ansell put his full weight onto the man’s back, then swung his other foot down, kicking him in the face; Renso sputtered and coughed, a trail of blood oozing from his nose.

            “Now you hold still, or my foot will slip again!” Ansell mocked, and the clan of men laughed again.

            Ansell twisted the key and the very second Renso had an arm free, he punched it back, knocking Ansell’s foot off of him. Renso bolted to his feet and in a moment, lobbed Ansell across the face with the shackle in a violent swing.

            Sarienna allowed herself a smile at that, she was pleased to see that Renso had gained some spirit, never mind the fact that despised Merit’s little servant with a passion.

            “Oh, you have got a feisty one here, Merit,” Ansell said, spitting a loose tooth from his mouth.

            Merit stepped to Renso, blade in hand. His prisoner was free now, and took a defiant stance.

            “Save your energy, boy, you cannot beat us all.” Merit said; he held the blade of a sword, and tilted the crimson handle to Renso.

            “I would rather die at your hand, than in the jaws of that beast of yours.”

            “Believe me, you s**t, I would be happy to end you right here and now, but then my poor dragon, and all of us, would be robbed of our entertainment.”

            Renso took the handle; it had been weeks since he had last trained or even held a sword and it felt impossibly heavy. The blades tip fell to the ground when Merit let go.

            “Men, it is time!” Merit shouted, both fists pumped into the air, and his men roared. They cleared the area, stepping back to the tree-line near the stage and readied themselves for the show. The air was filled with a nervous tension, though the men were used to having the dragon around, they were always weary of the beast.

            Merit and Renso were left alone in the clearing, and Renso began to look about wildly, expecting an attack to come at any moment.

            “Are you ready to meet your fate?” Merit said, and his prisoner began to go into hysterics; but Renso knew well enough that begging for his life was useless.

            Merit reached under his shirt and pulled his dragon-scale necklace over his head, positioning it at his lips, and whispered into it. Soon, it began to shine, and a red glow stemmed from Merit’s hand.

           

            It felt as if the ground would break apart the way it trembled; Renso could feel the vibrations in his bones, and the trees and banner poles rocked and shook.

            One of the w****s let out a yelp as a great swarm of birds flew from the forest across the clearing, cawing and shrieking, the sky darkened a spell as they blocked the sun in their frenzy; adding in the shouting men, the air was filled with panicked noise.

            It was so loud that Sarienna covered her ears, though Merit seemed unfazed as he beamed in delight, all this chaos only an opening act for the main scene. He shouted to his men.

            “Quite, everyone! Here he comes!”

            The birds dispersed, having fled their enemy, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the beating of hearts. The men’s chests rose and fell in baited breath, heavy with anticipation, and Sarienna noticed that she held her own, and fiddled with the jewels that hung around her neck.

            That was when she saw movement.

            A tree fell, crashing to the ground, and then another. How a creature that large moved through the dense woods at all was beyond her. One more fell, they were getting closer and closer, the ground shaking with every step. Sarienna had just seen the dragon that morning, pet its jaw even and loved the beast, but now, when it was out for blood, on the hunt to kill, it was a terrifying sight to behold.

            Then, in an awesome display of power, Meraxes leapt from the trees before reaching the clearing. It was darker than night, and when the sun hit its extended, massive form, the dragon blazed crimson. It looked as if a wave of blood was flooding into the clearing, and they would all be swallowed in a torrent of fire.

            The ground buckled under the weight of it when it landed, the earth shifting and bubbling between its black claws. It had been a long while since Sarienna had seen the dragon in the open, and was taken aback every time. A hundred feet in length, with wings just as long, and a skull bigger than Merits tent in camp, that slithered back and forth on its thick, spiked neck only fathoms from where they sat. The air felt as though it would boil in the dragon’s presence.

            Meraxes glared at the group of people, who were backing away, and it let out a slow, rattling growl, its throat pulsing with every reverberation. Steam escaped through its teeth and clouded once it passed Meraxes’ scaled, snarled lips.

            “Please, my king,” Sarienna whispered to herself, ashamed at how pathetic she sounded. One of her girls began to sob, and Sarienna gave her a sharp backhand to the shoulder, “Show no fear, ladies,” she said. Men all around them put a hand to their weapons. Meraxes took a step forward, not peeling its eyes from the group. The only thing stopping the beast was their king. “Merit!” Sarienna gasped.

            “Meraxes.” Merit said, and the dragon huffed, and smacked its jaws together in response. Holding the glowing scale in his hands, Merit raised it above his head, and the dragon watched it, sinking to its belly, hovering his head feet from the ground. Its tail swung to and fro, its eyes stuck to the red aura.

            “Here, men, you see true power. I, your king, control this creature with a wave of my hand. Before you, I present the means to achieve all we’ve ever wanted.” Merit stood between the dragon and his army of men, and paced to his pet slowly, his arms outstretched.

            The Magi of Hearthspire in Pyron, that had been with Merit since he was a young man, had taught Merit some words in the ancient tongue of the dragons, and Merit used them now, soothingly as he inched closer. It was plain to see that even Merit was timid around the beast when it was in this state.

            Finally, Merit placed a hand on one of Meraxes’ jaw spikes, and everyone around them took a sharp breath. Merit mumbled more foreign, guttural words and the dragon almost purred in response.

            Then, Merit looked to Renso, and muttered a word that Sarienna was all too familiar: “Hakoron”. Enemy.

            All the while that Merit spoke to his pet, Renso tightened his grip on his blade’s handle, hoping the applied tension would help his shaking; sweat poured from his brow, and he could barely hear past his own heartbeat. This was it.

            In an instant, Renso saw Merit turn his head and his lips move; it began.

            The dragon reeled back, stomping and clawing at the ground wildly, turning towards its opponent. It reared its head back high into the air, impossibly high, taking in a deep breath, making the scales in his throat and torso scrape together as its skin expanded. Then, all at once, Meraxes threw its head to Renso, and released a blood-curdling roar, strong enough that it almost knocked him over; he could feel spittle hit his cheek and a nauseous wave of breath hit him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd of men back away, and the ladies cover their ears; he wanted nothing more to do the same, as he was sure they would start bleeding from the pain. He took a timid step back, not wanting to show his fear to his captors; to give them that satisfaction.

            The sword that Merit gave him now seemed light as a feather. It was barely as long as just one of the creature’s teeth, but it gave him comfort still to have it.

            It crept closer to him with its eyes locked, almost as a cat would watch a bird in the window. Looking into those eyes was like to know true evil, and a darkness filled him. It grieved him to know that those eyes would be the last he would ever see.

            He held onto the thought of the girl with the wine-colored hair he had kissed just hours before, and wanted nothing more than to see her again, to find her face in the crowd; though he dared not look away from his hunter.

            Renso barely had enough time to react as the dragon slithered its entire body to the side in a move that looked unmanageable for something its size; it circled him, seeming to not even touch the ground, staying afloat with a few flaps of its great wings. He though the sword’s handle would break for how hard he squeezed it, waiting for the attack he knew was coming.

            A few moments passed in utter agony, and then the beast propelled itself forward, flying to him with its jaws open.

            Not knowing where he found the strength, Renso bounded out of the way, tucking and rolling across the ground, feeling the creatures head go past him in a burning flash. When Renso righted himself, he saw the great scaled neck, thicker than any tree, scraping along the ground. His adrenaline pumping, he stood and swung his blade down. He put more power in the strike than he thought he had, and the blade merely bounced off the obsidian scales in a spark without a scratch. It was then that Renso knew he had made the gravest mistake of his life. The dragon stood its full height, looming over him.

            It circled him again, this time though, Renso saw the creature bring its tail down, coming for him like an enormous whip. Renso could have, and wanted to, run, but the effort would have been futile; there was no escaping the dragon’s reach.

            He did not feel it hit him until after the fact, and by that time, he was airborn. The world spun, and in a second, the ground came up to meet him. Renso landed hard, and bounced once more before coming to a rest in the grass. He saw spots floating in his vision and knew his nose was broken; it pained him to breathe and he felt his ribs break apart; he sputtered, and blood sprayed from his mouth; he tried to move, but his limbs would not budge. His hair covered his eyes, but when his vision came into focus, he could see blue sky and sun above him, with leaves rustling on the wind, and he took a second of pleasure from that, paying no attention to the rumbling ground and the dragon stepping towards him.

            It grew dark again when the beast stepped over him, his ugly spiked head blocking his view; its skin under the scales on its chest turned a fiery yellow, spreading up the creature’s throat in a great respire. The dragon opened his mouth and Renso saw the gateway to hell. It glowed a bright red; a great, spiked, putrid cavern worse than any nightmare.

            A small, shimmering bead of liquid rolled off the dragon’s long purple tongue, and Renso saw it fall to him. It landed next to his face, and he heard the grass singe, and smoke trailed into the air. He knew this was it.

            Then, all at once, a waterfall released itself from the beast’s mouth, an oozing, white-hot emulsion. Renso involuntarily closed his eyes as the molten river enveloped him. There was a second of searing pain, not even enough time to let out a scream, and then his world went black.

           

            Sarienna turned her head aside, feeling queasy. The group of men hooted and hollered in a cheer for their fiery demonstration, and even a couple of her girls showed their amazement after the tears dried. Merit still stood out in the grass, and raised his arms in victory.

            “Men!” he shouted, “what you have seen is only the beginning. From here on out, we have the upper hand!”

            Cheers of support where shouted, giving praise to their king.

            “Ansell, my friend,” Merit said, and his pawn stepped forward, taking a knee, “send one of the men to search for my sword, it’s out there somewhere,” he got a laugh at that, “and within the hour, dig out what remains of our poor prisoner. You will take him back to that b*****d Drom and present to him what remains of his man.”

            “Yes, my king.” Ansell answered, and he sent a few men to comb the fields for Merit’s weapon.

            Merit stepped back onto the raised platform, taking his seat.

            “Did you enjoy that?” he asked his w***e.

            Sarienna offered him a smile, “A most impressive show, your grace, your power is unmatched.”

            He showed his annoyance to her answer, “You’re sad to see him go? I should have guessed as much from a woman.”

            “Quite the opposite, Merit,” she contested, “I’m happy he’s not captive anymore, and I am most happy that he did not run. He proved, even at the end, what kind of a man he was.” She gathered her skirts and stood. “I’m assuming that we will soon be heading home?” she asked her king, looking back at him.

            He eyed her crossly, but simply offered her a nod, “I’ve already sent word for our ships to return.”

            “Come ladies, we have a lot to prepare.” Sarienna stepped from the platform and her flock stood and followed her down.

            Merit watched Meraxes lumber back into the trees across the clearing and his men disperse back to their duties; he was fuming inside, at Sarienna’s lack of reverence, at the constant thought of Drom on his throne, but mostly because of the cold breeze that came and crawled up his spine.

            “Ansell!” he roared, stepping to the edge of his stage, “You will be in route to the capitol before nightfall!” he demanded, noting the setting sun, “It’s past time we head home.”

            That being said, he went to his tent, knowing full well that he would be spending the night alone.