Seeds of Retribution (closed for PieTaster)

[PieTaster]

They walked back together until they reached the familiar forking of the passage where Zora slipped away to her own return. The flow of her golden locks trailed off into the black shadow and she was gone, leaving him alone with a sudden subtle empty ache in his gut. It would pass.

Visiting the alchemist's cave of their previous rutting, Falke took a new torch from the wall and lit it from the weak embers of his own. It took light and he stubbed out the discarded in the snuft.

Where the Queen needed to be accounted for, Falke's presence was not so urgently required. He had time to linger and he would use that time to explore. He returned to the supply room that Zora had led him through, the bedrolls and chests covered in dust, the pitted rust on the latches and the blades of the armaments. Bows hung from the wall, dozens upon dozens neatly overlapping one another like soldiers formed at the ready. Upon the opposite wall, shields hung, their scratchless surfaces telling of no battles. One of the chests was found unlocked. He cricked it open to see gauntlets and helmets. Tunics lay folded and discolored, embroidered in styles such as he'd never laid eyes upon, telling their age, that of a generation past. The flints on the shelf would still be good. He noted where he could return for one should the need arise.

Then he came across a ring of keys upon a peg. He took it down. Studying them in the amber aura of his torch, the iron keys were too large to fit the chests. They had to open doors. There were four of them. On his original excursion down these tunnels before meeting Zora in the magician's chamber, Falke had noted three side tunnels. The first had led to the falls. The second had descended too steeply for his tastes. The third had quickly led to a door. He knew where he was going to try the keys.

Before he committed to trekking all that way through the tunnels again however, he quickly looked over the secret side door to the falls. It had no lock, just the crank wheel. Taking an axe from the rack, he slipped past the door to the glorious crush of the falls to use the main tunnel. The route was a bit longer but had no traps. His gait was eager as he made his way along the passage with confidence as he'd become so familiar with his surroundings. Traversing them so many times, he recognized many of the bumps and knots in the rock as his torch illuminated them in the steps ahead. He rejoined the main tunnel (or at least what he considered to be such), passed the second tunnel and soon came upon the third branch just before the alchemist's room. Taking it, he found the sealed door that he could not budge upon his previous visit.

It was barred from the inside - to keep a body out, not imprison within - and hadn't been opened in years, perhaps decades. No fresh footprints appeared in the dust aside from his own. First things first, he would need two hands and so found an appropriate niche to set down the torch, leaning it against the wall. After placing it he watched to ensure its stability, taking no chances, should it accidentally fall and butt itself out. His tool was a battle axe, not ideal but still reasonably effective for the job. The only question was whether or not Falke had enough room to take a proper swing. He did not, so he had to make do with hacking away at the heavy plank that could not be removed, as it had been bolted into place with the iron braces which gave not enough space on either end to slide it clear. Using gravity to drop several chops from above, he managed to cut a wedge, flinching his eyes to avoid the splinters as he worked, grunting and coaxing the job in mild impatience. The wood was old and discolored all throughout its grain.

It was difficult to see his handywork as his body blocking the torchlight cast a black shadow upon the door, but soon the thick plank began to loosen at the weakening point and with a final decisive blow - a swift boot - it cracked apart, separating the two portions. Falke pushed one aside enough to pull the other out and toss to the floor behind him (taking care not to upset his torch), then he removed the first chunk and tossed it aside as well.

Pausing for a breath, Falke mopped his brow with his cuff and set down the axe to retrieve his flickering beacon. It was time to try the keys. With eager anticipation, he slipped the first one into the lock. It would not turn. Neither would the second. The third key was different. It clicked about, seemingly wanting to tumble but the lock would not give. He withdrew the key and examined the spots of rust in the torchlight. Perhaps the lock was so corroded as well. With a huff or relent, he thought of a new tack.

The alchemist's cave was not far. The fire pit was but a dying glow, but Falke did not restoke it. His torch was enough. Taking a rag from one of the shelves, he dipped the key in the pot of torch oil, giving it a healthy swab, then rubbed it clean with the rag and finally dipped the rag in the oil.

Returning to the ornery door, he wiggled the lubricated key. There was movement, but Falke was careful not to force anything and damage the ancient parts. He gave the key another wipe with the oiled rag before continuing, easing the key in and out of the lock in an effort to grease the internal parts as best as he could. After another moment of wiggling and coaxing, there was a clunk. The lock turned and, with a sigh of satisfaction, he removed the key to hang the ring from his wrist.

The door was now unlocked but still did not move. Falke grabbed it by the bar brace that had held the plank fast for so long, and yanked. It budged, if barely. He yanked again and could feel it loosening, even seeing movement in the gap around the edge of the jamb. He tugged and heaved harder and then with a yawning creak it yielded and drew open on its old hinges. He stood back warily in case of any traps and waited a moment in the silence before beholding the beyond.

It was more tunnel. With torch in one hand and axe in the other, he ventured forth. Around the gentle
bend, he found steps in the unfinished rock, crudely cut but evenly spaced and easy to climb if not for the steep grade. He counted the steps, seventy-seven, and when they stopped, the ascent continued although at a somewhat subsided slope. Upwards, up and up he climbed, his breath heavy and his thighs beginning to burn. Other than fucking, Falke hadn't performed anything so strenuous since before his injury, and servicing the Queen (although certainly more than enough to cause him to perspire) had never required such endurance.

The wall to his right changed to granite, sloping up and away, widening the passage ceiling. Falke paused to catch his breath and rested his palm on the stone which confirmed to him that he was climbing to Wisdom Peak. He rued the bulk of the axe and considered dropping it but wasn't sure if he'd need it again further up the tunnel. He trudged on.

Soon there were more steps climbing sharply. Though Falke's thighs were tiring, they still powered him up, breath by panting breath. It was as if the climb would never end, but on the ninety-ninth step the tunnel bent to the right and levelled out into a short hall cutting straight into the stone with another crank wheel dead ahead. Setting down his burdens, Falke took a moment to regain his strength before clasping both hands upon the wheel and giving it a turn. Slowly it moved and twitter of birds wafted in beautifully on the warm fresh air with the smell of blossoms and the briny sea. The stone slab eased back until there was enough space for him to shimmy out. He butted in the snuft and hung the torch in the bracket before stepping into the deep brush and the shade of rustling branches.

The opening was very well hidden behind the shrubbery that had obviously overgrown in the years of the passage's disuse and the axe came in handy for some bushwhacking. Falke hacked his way squinting into the sunshine. Once his eyes adjusted, he took in his surroundings. Indeed, he was atop Wisdom Peak, in the tall meadows that circled the slanted and jagged pyramid of granite that jutted upwards perhaps fifty or sixty span from the hill's top. To the north were the blue snowcapped distant mountains and to the south was the boundless ocean. He approached the edge where the brush ringed the field and sloped downwards quite sharply to take in the view. Below was the fortress Amenja and its surrounding village of tents and carts, their inhabitants crawling among and between them like insects. Then across the gap was High Hill, perhaps one-third the height of his current perch. The river rushed past the hill before him, white and foamy to plunge over the unseen edge and into a dreamy cloud of mist where it met the endless sea. From his high vantage, Falke roughly surmised the distances of the tunnels beneath the scene as the wash of the tides crashing upon the rocky shores below fought with the perpetual thunder of the falls. Too, he looked back at the thicket that hid the opening at the base of the stone and realized how a unit of archers could line this ridge in secret and rain their arrows down upon any invaders that dared to threaten the fort.

His clothes were still a bit damp, particularly clinging to his shoulders and knees. Adding to that was the clammy wetness under his arms from the climb. Falke circled around the peak to its easier slope, climbed up onto the slab of granite and stretched himself out in the bright sunshine as the softest breeze fluffed his hair and licked his skin. He could feel the vapors leaching from his clothes.

"Wine," he huffed to himself. Zora's thoughts when she had left him had been fixed upon wine, but he could not concentrate on the possibilities of her reasoning. Perhaps it was another of her concoctions, or maybe she just felt like sowsing herself. As if the long night and the rigors of rutting hadn't taken enough of his energy, the fatigue of the climb had him dozing in thoughts of her, her drive, her need, her inner strength and of course her embrace and her flesh. The stone was warm beneath him and the sun besieged his eyelids pink behind them, enough that it was an effort to pinch them shut and still could not find blackness. He rolled himself over with a light groan, exposing the moisture on his buttocks and back to its rays. With his eyes now shaded, he drifted off.

"Falke ... Falke ..."

Snapping awake, he rolled over to see the shaman standing in the tall grass, the early autumn blades of green, streaking with gold.

"Szargo," he greeted as he sat himself up.

"I did not expect to find you here," the shaman began. "'Tis a regular trek for me, every seven days or thereabouts. It is a powerful place as mountain spires are."

"I do not come up here often," Falke remarked. "Only my second visit."

"Since you are here," Szargo continued as he approached the foot of the stone. "I've found your well."

"So there is water?"

"There is always water," said Szargo. "Unless you plan to dig into this," he explained as he palmed the great slab of granite spiking up from the hilltop meadow. "But in dirt it is but a question of how deep."

"I see," nodded Falke.

"So I have marked the area and have spoken with Rogalo and Dax," Szargo explained. "I believe that we will find good water there, much seepage from the river at perhaps seventy or eighty span."

"That far?"

"Amenja is built upon on a rise," Szargo continued. "Water trickles downward, not up."

"Of course," conceded Falke.

"There is another matter," said Szargo after a pause. "It was not my mission to do so, but since you are here I might tell you."

"Yes?"

"They are looking for you."

"Oh?" Falke piqued, masking his mild alarm.

"A messenger came this morn," said the shaman. "From Taulos."

"Taulos," Falke repeated. Once the false alarm had relaxed him, his mind instantly recalled Lenna, the lover that he had taken upon his last visit to the sacred mesa lookout back in the spring. "Thank you," said Falke. "I suppose I shall receive it."

Szargo clambered up the granite slope and once disappearing to its top Falke stood. He was dry now. The axe lay in the grass. The shaman had seemingly missed the blade obscured amongst the tall blades, but Falke had been terribly sloppy. After cursing himself silently, he hopped down from his perch and looked up. Szargo could not be seen, up there somewhere atop the peak. This close to the base of the stone the angle was too sharp for line of sight. Falke picked up the old weapon and placed it with care under the brush. Then he headed off down the trail that he knew on the north slope, ensuring that Szargo would see him leave by conventional means. He would return to close the stone tunnel at another time and hope that the shaman had not caught on.

The message was left for him in his tent. It was from Melyc, one of the captains at the distant camp. Falke sat broke the seal and read. His heart sank. Lenna had died. It was a premature labor at only six months. Neither mother nor daughter survived.

He pictured sweet Lenna. It was not difficult as the memories were fresh and vibrant. He remembered her soft blue eyes, her yellow hair like down, fringing her brow. He could hear the sweet songs that she warbled as he fucked her - for seven days in the sparkling warmth of the spring pool. Falke wanted to touch her, to console her, but she was not there. Neither had been he, all these months, despite knowing of the child in her womb through similar letters sent, although due to her illiteracy never in her own hand. He had written back, promising to return whenever his obligations would permit, and that he would ensure that the child would be provided for. She was one of a few, but Lenna was special, without a vengeful bone in her wee body, as pure as the snow that he had laid her in at the springwater's edge.

In many ways she was the opposite of Zora. Where the queen were buxom strong-willed and defiant, Lenna was slight soft and delicate, yet they were both pure hearted and true. Now Zora could also be carrying his child, and she could possibly reach the same fate. Falke knew that such was life, and it had always been his strength to accept life and take it as it comes, but this felt different. He hadn't realized how close he had been to Lenna until it was too late. The child - his anonymous daughter - was gone as well. It left him suddenly empty. It was a similar feeling to that which he had experienced when Zora had disappeared down the tunnel the night before, but it was much more imposing. Even if he did not get to touch her, he would certainly see Zora again. The loss of Lenna was permanent.

Over the days that followed, that emptiness receded but never went away. Instead it lurked in the recesses of his soul, rustling in the tangles of the back of his mind (tangles that he hadn't known were there) whenever moments allowed him to notice.

Gorun was returning. The last messenger told that he was but three days out. There would be a celebration - a feast. Falke had joined the hunting party to pass the time. They had come across a herd of elk and Falke's team managed to separate some of the animals and run them down a ravine to where the archers lay in wait. The beast was quite the prize and drew the attention of many as it was hauled in and publicly butchered while the children admired the ornate complexity of the antlers in reverent awe. Then the massive sides of meat were carried through the fortress gates where they would be prepared alongside the usual boar and quail for the King's arrival the following day and the large sections of hide were hung to dry and tan as the shadows lengthened in the wanes of the afternoon. As he followed the procession, Foersa stopped him and took him aside.

"Our king, he returns yet again," she said. "Could you see a day when he does not?"

"I do not contemplate such matters," Falke sidestepped. Certainly he did contemplate, but as everyone else, he kept such thoughts to himself. Even without Foersa's potential to manipulate, to discuss them could be suicidal.

"Come now, you are a wise man, perhaps the wisest on the counsel," she said, her voice dripping sweetly. Then with both palms upon her gravid belly, she winced and lurched. "Umnh," she sighed as her unborn shifted and kicked. "Pardon," she apologized. "Hopefully this will be my last." Her weariness was true, she was still a decently fetching woman but was older now, the cracks beginning to form at the corners of her eyes and a definite sag in her well-used bosom (exposed as was her usual custom), its nipples dark and ready for the suckling of her next offspring, but Falke took note of how out of character it was for her to beg her atonement.

"Not Rogalo, not your own husband Morro," he scoffed. She was sucking up. Something was on the brew in her mind and he was keen to assume it dangerous at least in some way as it was better to err on the side of caution.

"I said perhaps," she grinned coyly. Falke almost cracked a smile at her cleverness. "My point being, who would be next in line?"

"I will not speak of such things," he answered, suddenly cooling. His eyes narrowed at her a warning not to continue such a line of inquiry. "And if you must, you will not speak of them with me. Find someone else." Then he walked passed her and away.

Summer was ending. The days were balmy but the evenings were turning brisk. In the dead of the chilly black night with the moon and stars fully obscured by thick cloud, Falke headed out on his deliberately meandering path to the stone gully. He knew the footing and the landmarks well enough that with enough care and time (and the sounds of the river flow) he could find his way without lighting his torch. Once in the pitch of the cave, he felt for and found the altar. Then his flint sparked life and color to the walls and his torch took to flame, illuminating the fertile Goddess at the end of the room. Vaestred, he recalled her name.

He wondered how much time that the Queen might spend below ground, whether she used these caverns at her leisure beyond any specific needs. If she had traversed any of the tunnels since their last meeting, would she have found the door that he'd opened and to where it had led? He doubted it, as he had seen no fresh footprints upon his last visit. Of course, later upon that night of the morning when he had left the shaman atop the granite spire, Falke had returned to the hilltop to retrieve the axe and close the door and he surmised the stone slab too heavy for her to budge on her own. Falke had come to the caves to explore. He would open more chests. Perhaps he could find a rope to descend that path too steep. He had also come on hope. In all likelihood, Zora would not be there. She had ended it. Still, it was a last chance for a private moment, to fill the ache in his chest, perhaps even one final caress before her King returned on the morrow to reclaim her and she would again be untouchable.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

The Magician had a recipe, a magick among those he'd left behind. It had seemed wrong in a way entirely different than the question of men and their cocks. She'd been tempted to try it, but there were a few ingredients impossible to get so quickly, or, perhaps at all.

Naescius was dangerous. More dangerous, surely, than she had been able to know for herself. Whether he had been as dangerous as these vipers was the question. Instead of daring the most mortal of his concoctions, she had made the Blessing as strong as she had ever dared. Gorun would have her once and only once. Zora would make sure he'd take no more from her than this. She gave no damns what a husband might expect after such a long and bloody journey back to her bedchamber.

Even so her hand shook as it had never before as she placed the cork-capped vial with the concoction in the clasp behind the necklace. The necklace, as was her style, fell down between her cleavage and adorned her stomach right below her breasts. Wearing it against her so covered the vial completely and her maid was nonethewiser it was there.

The dress, as ever, barely covered her. It wrapped around her like some rubied, bloodied carcass. The front sewn open, only half-butchered from its bones, only beginning to come back together at her hips, it was less a dress than another joke. It had been chosen by Vera who seemed certain that only a Cizinec dress would suit for Gorun's return. Her dresses, Vera stated, bluntly, would only frustrate and displease him.

Zora had not had a moment to make something for her glass to mute the strains of the day for herself, much less for Vera. The Blessing was all she'd had time now that she'd no way to return to her laboratory. She'd planned to find a moment for it this morning, but the girl seemed to grow into the earthen floors of her room, refusing to let the Queen get a foot out of sight. Somehow, without that intentional lethargy, Vera had an excess of energy. And, Zora had discovered, an excess of opinions.

Chewing lightly on something unseen, she hummed away as she braided the Queen's hair in several long columns and pulled each together to tie high atop her head and drape down her neck. She chattered about everyone in the fortress save anyone Zora had any interest in. Some time passed, she plaited with a level of speed and accuracy that did not play across her face. Apropos of nothing, Vera sighed. “Pooooooooor Falke.”

“Hmmm?” Zora had only begun to get used to the girl's abrupt manner of sharing her gossip at her. She jabbed it at the Queen with no introduction, just force. This was the first time she was not just following after her mother, but Vera seemed genuinely interested in her little story. Zora tilted her head down, grateful that her face was obscured while she listened, naturally intrigued.

“News came with a rider from the opposite way, not with the war bands. None of the girls knew he kept a woman, but the soldiers knew of one, I suppose. What was it? Laira, Lena...something. But she was with his child and labored too early. Both passed. Terribly sad. Still. He's a handsome one. I suppose it makes sense. We always wondered why he didn't take a wife, he must have been waiting for her.”

Zora said nothing.

“He should have called for her, I think. It's easier to bear a baby here. The healers can help a woman bear it, my first sister was a terrible birthing, Mother says, but then we come here and my fourth sister slid right out.”

Zora's kohl-rimmed eyes hid most, but not all of it. She wasn't listening. Her mind moving swiftly with Falke's secret. He'd never told her. Not that she'd made herself available for such conversation, but somehow...he shoul...she could hardly make sense of the feelings. She knew he had fathered children, borne to the world alive and well. If this sort of gossip was to be relied on, she knew that much. But to learn of this woman in his life...there so recently...and in the same moment be meant to forget her. A sorrow, certainly. It was said the most terrible wrongs against Reyja and her daughters would be punsished this way, but with it came a strange, chilling jealousy for this shadow she had already begun to invent. This woman who might have meant to claim his heart, who had the proof she could only pray for now.

The darkest, maddest thought ran rode with its banner before her: Who was she that meant to claim anything meant for the Queen of Amenja?

She looked up to see Vera return her gaze, the girl looking back at her rather ashamed for speaking of children with one such as she. She'd picked up some awful habits from the other servants. Yana would never have...
“I mean, well, you...” The girl's chatter went dry. As if either of them believed she'd forgotten.
“Yes. Say no more of this.”

Vera continued blithely, re-ordering the room around the Queen. “Well, now, we must tell him to take a wife here. It would be a good distraction for him. He would have to tell the King to keep us here if he'd marry a woman in the fortress. One with a nice, tight cunt he wouldn't want to be far from.”

Zora blinked, cocked her head, “What?”
“Falke? Mother says soon enough it will be my time to serve a husband. There'd be far worse than him, I think. Not like Rogalo, could you even imagine? She's already star..” The girl seemed half in a daydream. Vera adjusted her dress a bit lower and smiled coyly, laughing aloud.

“Vera! Stop. A woman's dead. I will not have you speak to me so.” Zora spat out.
“Of course, my Queen.” The girl seemed suitably, dangerously, contrite.

Zora took a breath, composing herself. The words still came out as if they were as sharp and fragile as shale.

“Will you not give me a moment's peace? Please. I will be ready for the King's return at dusk. Now, will you not go to the blacksmith and retrieve his gift? Fetch someone to go with you with a cart as it shall be too heavy and bring it into the main hall.” There had been a blade Gorun had sent back to Amenja to be crafted and improved. She had used the excuse of wishing to inspect the etchwork as an excuse to be given permission to leave the halls from time to time, but the sword was done now.
Vera frowned, almost unsure of what to do as Foersa had not given her instructions as to how to sidestep such a request. Clearly, she didn't think this was the sort of task meant for a handmaid to the Queen. The queen narrowed her eyes, refusing to be disobeyed in this moment, and truly, unable to stand the sight of the mawkish look on Vera's face a moment longer.

Vera set down her mistress' glass and nodded, acquiesced, and it was only when Zora both heard the chamber door shut and checked it herself that she took a breath.

She breathed again. And again. Nerves stole her air. She counted slowly to five.

She'd sworn not to see Falke. She wasn't sure where she'd found the strength of will to part with him. Somehow she had, and if she didn't give herself time to come to terms with the shape of their shared secret, she would betray herself. But this morning was the last chance before Gorun would stand between them forever. She did not know what tonight would bring, but she did want to comfort him in this. Hear truly what this woman was, not call at him over the banquet table. He would be no closer after this. She did not feel herself capable of not being at his side as he suffered.

Zora reached for the chamber door, suddenly aware of footfall coming towards her.

 

[PieTaster]

She never came. Neither did Falke find any signs of her presence since their last meeting. The tunnels seemed undisturbed as far as he could tell. Definitely the staircase to the peak had not been ascended. Only the commingling of footprints in the dust of the alchemist's cave left him unsure if the queen had recently paced there or not. Zora had nothing more for him. She was returning to her king and owed Falke nothing. He kept trying to tell himself that she was beyond any blame - that she had no choice and that the risk was too great - yet he had difficulty in fully embracing that belief. She had risked before, when it had mattered to her. He knew how trite it was to think that she had cast him aside now that she had no longer needed him - to surmise her motives without the details shrouded in the necessary conspiracy - yet the thought still nipped at him.

The chests were mostly weapons caches, as he had found before - axes, knives, swords, quivers upon quivers of arrows - preserved in their antiquity. There were uniforms, helmets, plates of armor to cover every shoulder knee and chest, yet none of it could be brought to the sunlight lest the secret be broken, and the knowledge of the passages and their caches was far more valuable than the wares and treasures themselves. He'd been keen to find rope but did not, so the steep descent into darkness would remain an unknown for a while longer yet. One of the keys did not match any of the known doors and Falke was willing to make a very large wager that it would unlock the depths below, yet he knew that there was no one to gamble with.

Before dawn, he slipped back out into the stone gully and into mist. The fog was an early sign of autumn. He did not mind, as it merely made his undetected return to camp that much easier. Falke slept the morning hours away as the sun burned off the low clouds to reveal the bright blue sky. When he emerged from his tent, all of Amenja was in excited commotion. Gorun was returning. The first riders were already in camp. The Raider King would arrive that afternoon. The festivities would commence. The women would welcome the soldiers. Families would reunite. Already the fire fuel was piling up as merry voices clamored and busy feet scattered to and fro about him as he paced the camp. There would be feast drink and dance until dawn. Through it all, Gorun would be hailed as he showed off the latest spoils. Falke had selected his gift from his own treasures. It awaited in his tent.

There was another commotion and the next group of riders entered the camp, their horses stamping and neighing as they kicked up the dust and mixed with the people.

"He's right behind us. A verst away," was the word. People scurried and rushed up the road, children screaming with excitement as the riders cleared the beaten trail to the fortress gate. Gorun was home.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

“A message.” Standing before her was her former serving girl, Yana startled tha the Queen emerged without her having to knock. She was clearly as nervous as she'd ever known the nervous girl to be. Her expression soured as Zora stood before her in the Cizenec dress she'd always resisted before. They'd been in a strange sort of pact, and now, the queen felt an odd pang of shame. For not having fought for the girl to remain with her. She...had trusted...

The queen began to shake her head, tell her to come inside and speak, but Yana looked down the hallway and hurried to press the smallest piece of something into her lady's palm. Her eyes were red as if she'd been crying for hour hours, but as Zora reached out her other hand to touch the girl's face, she pulled back. Yana took a deep breath and nodded, a task completed, but on who's behalf? “Farewell.” As abruptly as this, the servant scurried down the open hall, tracing her hand against the stone until she could turn and disappear.

Zora looked down at the scrap of fabric, scrawled in childish but sincere handwriting was the language of her people, script she'd not seen written since all was given over to darkness. “Amenja is Yours.” It felt as if it had been written in fire. A reminder she had promised to those few who had remained with her. It was theirs and it would be reclaimed. Perhaps she'd lost her way, but...she'd survived, they'd all survived by thinking that. She wanted to leap out of her skin.

Vera had left her alone for but a moment as she went to take whatever the next step in the plan or plot her mother had devised for the both. In the interim, Zora felt the energy in the fortress begin to rise to such a level as she could no longer tolerate it. She left her chambers and began to walk towards the feasting hall on her own.

She stopped at the massive doors to the hall and looked at the inlay, the runes, the art that had greeted her as a girl. For just a moment, she lay her palm flat with the written fabric against that door she knew so well. A few fleeting thoughts danced through her mind, pleasant memories that approached and then darted away as her full attention would burn them to dust. and at last, Falke's touch. Their coupling. The Queen had hidden away last night, silent to any knocks or visitors. Perhaps it was her first night of true reverence since the councilor took her in the shrine. And some days on, she'd come to know that that there was no amount of her desire for him that was enough for her. It held itself in tension with an anger that caught her as she thought of Yana, the women here, what she had been too slow to resolve.

Last night the dream had been of horses, an army of them, bred of a single mare as though she were Reyja. They ran and ran until they fell off High Hill, a cloud of muscle and bone. She'd woken chilled and dreading the moment she dreaded now. She might have continued to find Falke, but there was less time than she'd believed.

“What are you doing, my Queen? They will be here any moment!” Ungainly footsteps bounded towards her. Vera's quiet voice took on her mother's prickly, demanding tone and Zora tensed, let her hand fall, capturing the fabric back into her fist, unseen. Startled, Her maid suddenly whispering in her ear caught her entirely off-guard, but no less than feeling the girl's arms move around her, her hands on her breasts, squeezing sharply at each nipple until they hardened with the pain. “This will please him.”

In that moment, before the doors betrayed her as quiet Vera reached in front of her to push them open. The impulse to screech at the girl burst through her, but dusk light that greeted her from the open windows, the smell of most extravagant feast she had seen in some time, and she remembered herself.

Queen Zora of Amenja.

Taking herself to her place at the dais, she could hear the murmurs of pleased servants. They acknowledged her, their gazes varying in length. The food seemed to be of greater charm. “Elk. Falke's men brought it back.” Every spice and taste the surrounding landscape could provide seemed to surge in the air, wafting over the spread. She spent so much of the day in a knot, she hadn't realized she was hungry. Ravenous. When she was, if in name alone, Queen, and the war bands were away, she arrived when the feast was ready for her and no earlier. Now, she sat awkwardly atop the raised bench looking down the table and the length of the hall with no right to anything more than the contents of her glass.
For now, the words reminded her. For now.

The sky darkened, the light grew more golden and intense as she waited. The men had been offloading their mounts, and their gear, given drink by a bevy of servants, met by the councilors and then lead in procession inside Amenja. More order than Gorun had made part of his rule, but she supposed whatever time had been granted to her to plot, the servants had to imagine their King's return. Falke, no doubt, was among them. She reached for her wine and swallowed deeply before looking around.

Suddenly, the door opposite the one she had entered was drawn open by two young servants, and a hollering cry like nothing she had heard came out of each of the servants, hidden and visible in the hall. A reassertion in just that single sound that their King had returned and whatever small power had been meted out to anyone in his absence, be it their queen, the councilors, even Foersa and her plotting, had returned to Gorun's possession.

Gorun had returned. He moved into the hall as if his steps would crack through the stone beneath them, his eyes finding her immediately.

It would be easier if Gorun were physically revolting. He was not, though, his proportions, his thick neck, wild curls, face scarred from battle that warped his expression, her own memories, all made him the least desirable man on this side of the Seas. Equally compelled by strategem and terror, she rose up from her seat as the servants and Cizenecs around her bowed and crouched in deference.

If Zora had the power she deserved, she would draw him before her, take his eyes so he might not ever leer at her so again. Instead, a paralysis claimed her and she found her focus only here as an elk might lose all else but sight of the archer's bow, shifting in the trees. Still, in front of the council, he had always seemed oddly respectful of her presence. He had his prophecy, after all, his oath that invested in her the power to shape the lives of his people.

 

[PieTaster]

The loot was common. It was good loot, but mostly just gold coins and a handful of foreign icons, nothing so inspiring as had been collected in years past. They'd been out all summer, a long time, as each successive journey took them deeper into the plains, this time all the way to Parn. Beyond there was mapless to the people of the valleys. Only distant names of legend beckoned.

Eyes did marvel at what Kellor had brought back, a woman so dark that she resembled coal. She was slender and tall and had closely cropped hair the texture of pumice. No one had ever seen anyone remotely like her before. He'd picked her from the harem of a slain merchant and Kellor was already boasting to have given her child, although she was yet to show any of the signs. Her name was Oolakka - a calling as alien as her form - but the curious onlookers were less concerned with that as they were with their own rampant conjecture as to the eventual appearance of the baby - that and why he would rut with such a thing. Oolakka knelt silently in the dirt next to her master Kellor, her sole garment a tapered skirting in white Cizenec linen, her pert breasts sweeping down to the conic points of her areolas in pure pitch. Head bowed, she made eye contact with no one, in a sullen shroud like a kitten separated from its litter, withdrawn and utterly alone.

As the gathering was much larger than the usual, the feast was held in the yard within the walls of Amenja to accommodate the gathering. Still, there were many denied admission. Those not important enough to attend danced and sang beyond the timbers. The sun set and the fires burned. The wine was poured and the beasts were carved and served. Falke sat second to Gorun's left with Rogalo between them.

"Fie!" Gorun waved his arm in disgust as he sat in his throne - one that had been pilfered the year before last. It was made from orange fox pelts expertly cut into rectangles and stitched together in a geometric pattern, stretched over a frame of acacia, topped by an ornate carving of protective wings. Although Gorun had seemed pleased to be home, Falke could tell that not all had been sitting well with him since his return. "Kellor!" the King summoned. "Remove your filthy wretched animal from my sight," he ordered. It was clear that he was jealous and Falke was not the only one to notice, although no one dared to speak so. Oolakka had been stealing the bulk of the attention and had cast a shadow as dark as her skin upon Gorun's own grandeur. Kellor ordered two of his guards to take her away, presumably to his tent. After that, Gorun's mood improved somewhat but he still carried an air of general discontent as Vera came round to refill Falke's flask. He nodded dismissively as she sweetly grinned.

Eventually the formal words came forth eliciting rounds of applause and mirth as Rogalo played host. It was a strength of his, to lead and sway a crowd. He finished his ceremonies by presenting the first gift. He'd had a sceptre fashioned - the first real symbol of civil rule, as Gorun wore no crown, nor adorned himself with any sort of jink other than fine skins and at times expertly crafted chain mail. Even the throne itself was only brought out for special occasions such as this. It was thought that the King had regarded such material pomp as anchors but no one was completely certain. This would be a test, a careful gauge of his majesty. Gorun grasped the sceptre with contemplation, tested it's grip in his fist for a moment, tapping the earth with its butt before ultimately approving with a slow and satisfied nod and a keen regard for its bearer.

The gifts came. There were the usual furs and ewers of wine. Szargo presented him with a talisman of snake fang, a defense against snake bites. It was Falke's turn. He stood before the throned Gorun, a leather vest laced over his tunic and boots wrapped about the hems of his umber breeches. Then he took to his knee and held forth the ivory. It was the tusk of a great mammoth beast that he'd never seen but only learned of from glyphs of raided temples. This one had been exquisitely etched with patterns surrounding ornamental faces, the animated expressions of which ranged wildly from joy to fear to mirth and to sorrow, and the thick severed end was capped with gold. Gorun examined it in the blaze of the bonfire for a moment before nodding in acceptance. Falke rose, returned to his seat and drank from his flask.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

“Woman!” Gorun's bassy voice rang out as he strode towards her, his leering not subsiding in the least. The rest of the company moved at a quarter speed behind him to take their places. She felt the air turn slightly as it had when he discovered her for the first time in the halls just steps away.

A smile rose to her lips unbidden, defensively. It was but a few moments more before he'd made his way up to her at where the throne had been placed, a thought more and his hands drew her up against him.

He pressed his tongue into her mouth, his hand on her ass, the other rising up to hold the back of her neck. Gorun lifted her, her body bent back on her spine as his thick slab of a tongue sloppily coiled around hers. She could taste blood and rabbit and wine. Just as she felt the fear of not being able to catch her breath, the rhythm of the drums began and he set her back on her feet. She caught what might have been a glimpse of Falke's eye to Gorun's other side, but turned her head awas again and in such a moment, his expression did not change. In her mind, she demanded that this, like all things outside of her own plans, did not matter to her.

“My king.” The words like sick swallowed back in her throat and with her eyelids heavy from his kiss, she gestured broadly towards a small seat to the right of the massive throne that was hers. With no further interrogation imminent, she sunk into it, finding some midpoint between slouching and appearing fully held against her will. Perhaps she looked comfortable enough to fool the gossiping servants as Gorun's attention seemed elsewhere.

She drank, perhaps more than she should have, but Rogalo's self-amusement drove her to it. Vera's constant hovering did not help matters as a half-full glass appeared to be some inducement to encroach upon the dais.

Two cups into the evening, Vera leaned into her ear, “The sword. It is ready. Shall I have them bring it forward? Surely...”
“Yes, but leave it for the last.” The girl leaned back, surprised as she re-gripped her empty jug, looking for a reason to continue the conversation. She seemed for the first time the spitting image of her mother. Zora straightened her spine involuntarily and crossed her legs with an air of dismissiveness and watched the increasingly raucous party grow in front of her.

This included their unexpected guest.

There had been stories told, of course, of vast lands and peoples in all directions beyond the Valley and even beyond the sea. They had been made by other gods, though often her gods had been known to swallow the souls of those who would fight against them as if they were boiled eggs. Tribes and clans and peoples with knowledge that in days gone by, Amenja would lust after. The gods would feed and Amenja would grow. If she could, she would want to speak with her. Now, whatever the woman knew was worth far less than her body, which was well-formed, soft, if filthy.

That said, she was no friend of the stranger. Without some significant effort on her part, Gorun's thoughts would be on this wretched creature. It was a matter of novelty being withheld, a matter of power. He played at a disgust, a disinterest, a boredom. To let Kellor determine what did and did not belong to him would demand every ounce of foresight and diplomacy a man like Gorun might possess.

If she could get word to her, there was no word to give. Run? Help her escape through the lower halls and risk...no, she felt sorry for the woman, but the best she could offer was a single night of safety providing the hired guards were worth what had been paid for them.

And Zora knew her blood grew cold and colder.

If the woman of obsidian and her breasts made the warlord as eager as the Blessing, they would share favors tonight. Zora could endure her wifely duty and in quick order confuse the matter of child's parentage and in return, perhaps, she would spare the piteous woman from being called for by the seemingly undisputed lord of these lands. If not, well, Zora would have what she needed.

Kellor will have to learn better sense in the morning if he wished to maintain her. Fool. Any Cizenec will feel their pricks harden and think it worth a fight. She knew this because such words had been some of the first she'd heard after her so-called wedding. She was lucky that Gorun had killed so many men in battle. They would leave her be.

The councillors and their gifts continued until it was Falke's turn. Zora let her eyes pass over him knelt before the dais. Let herself suffer as her face showed the same callous nonchalance it had showed in Gorun's presence since she stumbled from his tent. As the ivory met with Gorun's approval, her mouth opened ever so slightly, a desire to speak that was quieted as Falke returned to his seat. A first test for them both.

Rogalo's stick, Szargo's strange medallion, Falke's ivory horn, indeed all of the celebration here within the stable and secure halls were intended to remind Gorun of a less barbaric future here. They must have some faith it could be so. Maybe they saw signs she did not see.

At this thought, she saw Vera's face peer out of the darkness with a nod as two Cizenec men carried the blade between them. A greatsword taller than she was, it would make a suitable gift to her husband, this ostensible king of their people. Even to her eye, the crafting was extraordinary, the runes just as she had requested, etched all along the length of the blade. Many in the room would value such a blade, and it would honor Gorun to wield it, many others, dark-minded, uncaring, would see it as an attempt to forestall the inevitable. Perhaps some in the depths and shadows, Yana, for one, might worry and see it as a show of capitulation to the Cizenec rule.

They marched to the front of the hall and knelt as others had done. Zora stood firmly on her feet and announced to all that this would be the final gift, a gift worthy of the man who would rule these halls.

It was not for either of these purposes that she had taken the rusted, forgotten blade from the depths of Amenja to be reforged. There would be a future, she had to believe, and if she would be there to see it, there would need to be blood.

 

[PieTaster]

Gorun bid his Queen to heel for a lascivious groping smooch as he always did, the very public display a purposeful show of dominance. This was no surprise. Casually, Falke averted his eyes like he had never before, telling himself that he'd grown tired of the pompous spectacle.

In Rogalo's sceptre, Zora's sword, even his own tusk of great beast, there was something different about Gorun's acceptance, although approving, it seemed in resignation. There was a change in his demeanor, his air, from feasts past as if even he was beginning to believe that the pattern of raiding conquest could not continue forever. Still, Falke could not imagine broaching the subject to him as the possibility of raising the King's wrath was not at all worth the risk.

The last of the gifts signalled the end of the formalities and so the rest of the night would be for revelry and debauch. The party took its cue to pick up and move out through the fortress gates to be greeted by the masses by the striking up of drums and settled to an inner circle of which the common folk gathered round. Throughout the evening Vera had refilled his goblet so diligently that Falke never saw the bottom of its depths no matter how much he imbibed. The throbbing pound of the drums grew in intensity as the chants wailed along joined by pipes and reeds and the dance ensued. Some danced in groups, often families danced together, but as well others danced in pairs. At this late hour the children would have been long sent off to bed and the gyrations would quickly become bawdy. The unattached would mingle and often with the attached, or the attached would mix with others attached. It all depended on the nature of the attachment. Sometimes a spouse would not mind at all, or sometimes one would purposely stray to humiliate their other. Some had no intention to take things any further than just a dance while others had no such self-restrictions.

Falke recalled a fellow named Borbul, a badger of a man short and stout and nearly impossible to topple on the battlefield. Yet for all of his mettle and brawn, at home he was a goat. His wife Tibrilla had him at her beck and call, berating him daily. What was worse was at feasts such as this, when the fires raged, the drums bellowed and the spirits flowed, she would dance with anyone and everyone who would oblige, rubbing up against them in lusty delight while poor Borbul would sit himself aside, filling his gut with mead and self-pity, never to protest. Some of the men (Falke included) would keep their distance out of respect for their comrade in battle (and some due to his wife's lack of grace) but some did not, or perhaps alcohol would erode that respect. More than once Tibrilla ended up rolling in the dirt with someone right at the foot of her husband, blatantly fornicating under his eyes which he made mild effort to avert, instead putting more energy into lifting his drink to his mouth. As he did, Falke's sympathy for him dwindled. One time in particular had stood out from all the rest and had become the subject of lore. Tibrilla had taken three men at once. The gathering had to make space as the quartet writhed in the dirt, the undulating bucking motions kicking up dust which stuck to the perspiration drawn forth by the heat of the sooty flames upon their skin. She quivered and twisted between them as the men took turns at each of her ends jostling her body, rippling her thick fleshy thighs and wobbling her long saggy breasts, her greatly embellished wails of pleasure only periodically silenced when one of her rutters chose to stuff her mouth.

Inevitably the enemy did manage to topple Borbul at Elibor when a mace found his flank and tore away most of his left arm. He was carried home only to succumb to his injuries within days. Ironically, although she had not a solitary good word to say about her husband while he was alive, Tibrilla, then a sobbing wreck, threw herself upon Borbul's pyre, orphaning their three children (all of questionable siring of course), a shock to everyone and a tragedy all around.

Tevie was a young apprentice healer. Szargo had employed her with Falke once or twice when others weren't available during his recovery. He turned to spot her dancing, her subtle movements standing out amongst the tawdry throng. Not tall but with proportions bordering on willowy, Tevie's arms swirled up and about her from above her head to around her hips as she twisted herself sweetly, the fires behind her forming a halo in her long straight strawberry locks. Falke moved to her, taking her hand and bidding her to continue spindling. When she came to a stop he detected a subtle blush in the flickering blaze of the fires.

An arm vined around his waist and Falke shifted to see Vera. While Tevie was thin pale and subdued, Vera, her opposite was all fleshy and olive-toned with her dark curls tangling in her unreined merriment as she stepped in. She took his hands and bounced and swayed vivaciously, the violet-hued light shawl (more of a cape than a shawl) that she wore flipped back over her shoulders purposely displaying her large unruly breasts, no matter how much her expression feigned chance as the culprit for their exposure.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

She felt Gorun's moist, fleshy palm gripping her tit, drawing her towards him, as she watched Falke move into the crowd, watched Vera watch him. The more she told herself it did not matter, the more a fury began to build behind her eyes with every repetition. She chanted this internally until she could stop neither the words nor the vile thoughts that countered it. Gorun felt free to leave his back unguarded amongst the rowdy crowd of his people. He trusted in them as if he trusted that he was their god.


He kissed her and stood her up on the arms of her throne so their heights were slightly more equal. She could see everything in front of her over Gorun's shoulder, as he slid his hand up her thigh, beneath the simple skirt. Again, she was desperate for breath, less because of his slavering tongue, but had he chosen the other thigh, the tiny bottles knotted there would be discovered. Her legs were spread to stand over the throne, spread wider than she was at all comfortable with as his hand shifted to finger her. She, by some dangerous instinct, raised her hands to pull his arm down. He stared at her as she dropped her hands to her sides, shook her head by way of apology. He reached up and smacked her crotch hard, so that it stung, then grabbed by the hair on her mound and yanked it about callously. Zora's eyes watered, a mumbled "No..."

The drums began to sound the migration of the dance out to the forefields and the tents. She watched as a few of the younger men ran ahead to light the fire pit. She had felt this energy before, but Gorun had usually had the Blessing in his gullet and he was more than willing to return to their room at her request if it meant she would let him fuck her. The ceremony had gone on longer than expected and she had not been able to access Gorun's drink. And her eyes had been darting elsewhere watching everyone make ribald and drunken advances.

She would have to make do with the cups brought to the room.

Zora plotted, no longer seeing Falke in the immediate vicinity. A thought of him pulled at her for a moment before Gorun bit her nipple, her eyes bulged at both the pain and the pain she would feel if he took any less care.

“You will dance for me tonight. At the fire dance.”

Zora blinked.

“Do you not want the comforts of our bed?” She could feel her voice tighten, almost whine.

“I have catered to your whims too long.” Zora did not see how this could possibly be true, but he met her eyes like he might have eyed down a boar. Never had he rejected her counter-offers for location so long as he could take what he wanted from her cunt. However baleful her expression, this time, no mercy drifted heedlessly within reach. He had drunk more than she'd usually endured from him.
“My people dance. My women dance. You will dance.” He kissed her, the increasing lust and spittle revolting her.

“The men take any woman who dances to the drums.”

“They will not touch you.” Her body was to be his loyalty test. He lifted her back to the floor, wrapped his hand around her arm and began to walk them both towards the crowd of singing, laughing Cizenecs who were making their way out of Amenja towards the glowing bonfire raging ahead. Zora had to walk doubly quick to match his stride, feeling eyes and gossip all over her half-dressed body.

For the first time in her life, she thanked the gods for Rogalo who took this moment – knowing Gorun was intoxicated - to sidle up and make some comment about a recent battle that made Gorun howl with laughter and slap Rogalo on the back. He asked for something they'd brought back with them and Gorun agreed instantly to have it brought to Rogalo. He would not remember this in the morning. Their back and forth was just enough time for her to take the bottles from the little fabric at her thigh and kick them into the dirt.

Servants had spread out thick blankets around the fire, and Gorun poured himself into a spot with a wide view of the dancing that had already begun. Dancing that had obviously already begun its progress towards rampant fucking in many corners. The drum beats began to pulse again, instruments filling in a melody, but the fire dance was that beat and those that danced seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Zora stood before Gorun, gaining her bearings as servants rushed around, carting more blankets to sit on, to lean on. She turned to see if she could learn what the other women had started to do and she finally saw Falke again standing with Vera, and some other Cizenec woman whose face she had rarely seen with the servants who worked within Amenja convene. She was pretty enough. She saw Vera's giddy and also competitive expression as she clasped Falke's hands with disgust.

The rolling, building, wanting looks she could only know because she knew. She swallowed hard.

She felt her face go flush. Her body heated under the cool, starry night, instantly as though she'd run right into the fire. Not with lust for her husband, but with rage for the girl who had no fear of her queen. It in no way mattered what she knew or didn't know about Zora's desires, or about the babe she prayed was growing inside her. She treated Zora like her plaything, had doted over Falke all evening, put her tits in his face, and the idea of servants...of anyone...but her fucking him tonight caught by the throat. Trading Yana for a whore who...

A hatred began to dance in the fire next to her. She would not be made to look the fool, though no immediate plan for retribution came to mind, one would come.

She turned back slowly, furious, to see Gorun's sitting, naked, impressively proportionate cock erect and as terrifying as she remembered.

“Welcome me home. Dance.”

Home?

He grasped himself and began to stroke his cock in time to the music, his expression laconic, hazy, only interested in her next move. Beneath the moon, Zora took a breath and let her hips respond to the music. Her hands shook slightly, as she pulled off the ties to her dress, the empty wrap on her thighs until she danced, bare. She was naked in front of every councillor and soldier and member of the war bands who might have ever spared a thought as to what the cold queen looked like under her clothes.

It felt stiff and awkward. Zora got to her knees, needing this embarrassment to be over with. She wrapped her arms over Gorun's shoulders and kissed him with something like the provocative passion he greeted her with, joined her hand with his, stroking his cock.

Breaking the kiss, Gorun barked loudly in Vera's direction. “Girl! Bring us more wine!"

 

[PieTaster]

Before the merriment had moved outside, Zora had been precariously perched upon the throne, her exquisite legs erecting a pyramid as she straddled the armrests with her husband's back turned to the audience while he groped and slopped between them. Even so peculiar as it was, the Queen's form still projected awe. Falke was not nearly the only one to notice. Heads turned, some leering but many more discreet, to catch a glimpse of the rare spectacle. Realizing that he was witnessing the skills and charms of affection of his unsuspecting rival, Falke almost grinned at how overmatched the King was. Then suddenly there was a wince of pain, a grimace upon Zora's expression, followed by a protest of her husband's technique. It turned his grin to a sneer.

At the bonfires, Vera had distracted him from the unhaveable Queen. She had tried to move him into the midst of the dance, away from Tevie's unobtrusive spot on the edge, but Falke still held the sweet healer in sight over Vera's shoulder and contrived to keep her within reach. As it had been Vera's whim to pry Falke from the slender ginger, it was his to shake loose and return to Tevie. He found her waiting with the same blush that had adorned her when he had left her. Mid-spin, he again took her hand and drew her close, her arm wrappings now enveloping his shoulders and head.

Over Tevie's shoulder the festivities progressed. The blankets were out and the first couples began to tumble upon them. One was already rutting, the ruddy butt undulating between raised thighs against the backdrop of the hot blaze. Slowly, randomly, more figures joined in claiming their spots. Falke focused for a double-take. Glancing at the two golden-edged silhouettes confirmed that it was indeed Gorun and Zora. Never before had Gorun led his bride out amongst the bawdy throng, stoking the quiet curiosity of many eyes. Servants rushed to place cushions as the King sat himself and gesticulated to his bride to his bidding.

In rhythm with Tevie's movements, Falke turned his back to the fire. His dance partner seemed so happy and free and he surmised that she had almost certainly smoked some herb. His hands slid down her sides to her hips and back up to take her hand as she spindled once again, stopping to face him with eyes slitted in intoxication and a warm fond grin upon her thin lips. He pulled her close, her arms entwined around him and he kissed her, just on the mouth at first, then again softly, as his tongue indulgently caressed inside. When their lips parted, he found that he was facing the fires again. Beyond the halo of his partner's hair he saw Zora, her naked form, hips swaying, her garments in a lump near her feet. Falke needed not to ogle, and smirked again for what he'd already not only seen but had, while all the other leering eyes merely fantasized. He felt cocky like never before, high on lusty power and careless, feeling that he could do and have anyone or anything that he wanted without reproach. The fire lit Zora's face, compliant and forlorn. Somewhere he felt for her, but such feelings were not important in the moment and he dismissed them to be dealt with at some other time, if at all.

Returning his attention to young Tevie, his steps led her round again, bodies brushing now, less subtly, as familiarity grew between them. He caught a glimpse of Vera picking her way through the crowd, her attention obviously squared upon him, as if targeting his form in the sight of a drawn bow from behind poorly chosen cover. With some disdain he turned from her, yet her energy found him even at that distance. To his mild surprise, it licked at his balls and brought a sheen of sweat between his legs. Tevie's back was to him now as he clutched her. They continued to gently turn as they swayed intimately, his mouth upon her neck, his erection stiffening into her lower back. He lifted his face to see the view slowly rotate back to the King and his Queen on the blankets. She was kneeling before him now. Between the passing bodies he could see her naked form, her skin of pure gold in the firelight, the subtle wobble in her soft dangling breast from the motions of her arm, her wrist hidden in his lap.

It was so brazen a display like no other time before. Clearly, jealousy was what Gorun was after - envy. Even though Falke felt brash amongst the audience around them, flippant in their ignorance of their secret rutting, towards Gorun he could not deny that he felt a pang of that envy in his chest and a tightening in his throat. The King's eyes moved about the crowd landing upon the gaze of different folk until they perched upon his general's. Falke imagined the actions obscured between Gorun's legs, the Queen stroking her husband's member, dark foreskin stretching and wriggling in Zora's diligent little fist. He then realized the jealousy that the Gorun would have had, the murderous rage had he known, and Falke was fuelled with the energy of triumph, the disgusting high of conquest, and could not help but relish in it. Slowly, Falke manoeuvred his lithe maid to the obscurity of the shadows of other dancers and channelled his new rush of lust to Tevie's mouth as she twisted her neck up to him expectantly, shoving his tongue in to feverishly delve.

Falke had been eyeing Zora and Gorun had been eyeing Falke as had Vera, yet one had been eyeing all. As he broke the kiss with Tevie he spotted her sitting on the perimeter bench in shadowy orange monochrome upon her gravid curves and savvy cheeks and nose. Foersa was soaking it all in, taking mental notes, keeping a log of the events unfolding. Her eyes shifted subtly about until they alighted somewhere. Falke traced their rays to her daughter who had worked her way much closer to him than he had realized. She had a goblet in her hand that she was careful not to spill as the bodies twisted and flung about her.

"Girl! Bring us more wine!"

The King's gruff demand stopped her in her tracks as she approached. She looked to her mother on the sidelines for directions. Foersa nodded in relent and Vera aborted her route for the wine casks. She drew a fresh carafe and with an urgent gait made her way to serve the King.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

Zora could almost see it in the dirt, perhaps thirty yards from her, taunting her. How long would this go on? How long could she tolerate it?

Around her the drums pattered out their hypnotic rhythms, the fire feasting as the servants continued to add wood to stoke its heights. The air on her skin made her feel clammy one one half, the fire overhot on the other. She could see couples beginning to coil around one another nearby though not many were as eager as Gorun, but then, apparently, he'd been convinced by someone in the war bands that he had been treating her too gently, too reverently. Just thinking about the effort required to correct this new opinion sapped her spirit.

He'd let go of his cock, letting her work it on her own, now leaning back with his eyes half-closed. She wondered, as she idly, if she could make him come just with her hands, or, perhaps, instead, if the belted blade he'd stripped off could be grabbed and she could cut it off entirely. The sword would be stored in the armory, no doubt, but in her mind it was here – unlike the Blessing, within reach. It would be the end of her, but if she didn't have her little hope to think of, she might think on it more seriously. A glorious way to escape all this. Destroy this prophecy instead of trying to dance around it.

She had Falke to thank for that, perhaps, though she wished she could be as before and just loathe her husband's lust rather than think of other possibilities.
Touching Gorun, so close she could smell the sweat on him, it was difficult not to compare. Were there a woman in Amenja – and if a servant could be believed, there were many – who wanted into the warlord's bed, she could have it.

“Faster.” A growl without so much as opening his eyes. Zora realized that Vera arrived at the corner of the blanket, and she had no decency to look away from either of them. Gorun was more than willing to be looked at. He'd grown up this way, some half-naked hunter who'd clawed his way to power. His body was his muscle-bound power. What man could question it?

She stared back at the girl as viciously as she could as she filled the two thickly turned goblets set on a flat rock with deep red wine. Vera was smug as Zora wrapped her hands even more tightly and drew down the wet from the top of the cock to the base even more quickly.

“Stay here, girl.” Gorun gulped down the contents of his glass and then held it out again for another pour, turning his head down to Zora. He commanded. “Put your mouth on it.” Even though there was no room for argument, she hesitated, just briefly as she thought she could get away with it. She did not want this. He grunted, and Zora leaned down.

Feeling her jaw nearly unhinge to satisfy his request, she let her tongue move over the shaft, already starting to gag on its size. She felt her mouth almost seize up, but even in this Gorun clearly got ahead of himself. She sucked with slightly less aimless intent, his precum tasted more bitter than she'd come to expect, but he slicked over her tongue and suddenly, though not surprisingly, he felt his urge for her take him over. A groan vibrated out of his throat and he pulled himself from between her lips. He forced her head down quickly toward the blankets, manipulating her into the only position he'd taken her in. Her ass pulled up to him, he pushed his enormous swollen head between her folds, pulling her by the hips up to him, grinding down into her with an eagerness that felt to her like embarrassing urgency coupled with eye-watering discomfort.

Vera set the half-full carafe down next to him on the flat stone and stepped away backwards, feigning some remote level of decency, though her eyes already scanning the crowd. From this angle, with only the fire and waves in the smoke to hide any of it, Zora, gasping like any common serving girl, took most of Gorun's huge shaft into her cunt.

A few strokes, each as painful as the last, and he came. It was almost laughable, his groans a broken rhythm over the drums, bellowing as though he were in the throes of the deepest pleasure in contrast with what she felt inside: nothing more than a weak trickle of seed. This was to be expected. But she'd had Falke now, she knew what it felt like to share passion with a man, what it felt like to be properly, fully mated. Gorun's cries created an odd break in the rumble of voices, and then it resurged, louder as though everyone now felt free to fully give themselves over to their pleasures.

She didn't see Falke, though, among the bodies. She had no further dominion over him than any queen does over her subjects, and to play at anything else was to risk his life.

Then, then...she shouldn't have freed him from his bond to her, she shouldn't have...

Zora held her head down, breathing harder than she needed to mask that all Gorun had given her was a sore cunt. A sore cunt, sore wrists, sore jaw and the necessary story, with all the council to witness, when her child came to assure them he had fathered it. She was lying to herself. This was what she wanted.

Was that a blur of red hair...with...?

She tilted her head, gulping down air, feeling her husband's slab of a tongue licking at her shoulder and neck. But Gorun had not had the Blessing and, perhaps to his own surprise, still had some vigor left. Fucking her once was all Zora required. She imagined a night continuing like this and felt quite sick.

 

[PieTaster]

Vera filled the royal goblets but only the King drank as his Queen's mouth was put to other demands. Gorun's eyes opened to scan the crowd for spectators with a gleam of conceit. The scene was all about Gorun and his glory. Falke obliged him for a moment, as Zora's golden mane bobbed in his lap, until he felt that his tribute of voyeurism had been paid. Zora was merely the jewel in the Bandit King's crown, and so wilful she seemed in that pitiful moment. The drink that coursed through Falke's veins was a more favorable emotion. He did not think that he had had so much but of course it had been difficult if not impossible to keep a count when his cup had never emptied. The fires were blazing and the moon was high. The drums thundered and the chants howled in bawdy revelry. Falke sought out the redheaded nymph once more. Her fairness appealed to him, a softness that reminded him of Zora, or perhaps more likely Lenna. Falke convinced himself of the latter - the queen could have her king, he scoffed inwardly, irrationally. The booze was thinking for him, even he could somehow tell (a rather peculiar effect that he could not recall ever receiving from drink) yet he allowed it to maintain such control. It was so much easier than to fight it. Tevie was there, swaying in the firelight, her arms snaking in mesmerizing patterns while an infantryman moved behind her. Her eyes dim-lidded, glanced at him over her shoulder. The soldier, noticing the approaching general outranking him, backed away in disappointment and Falke moved in. With his arms around Tevie's slender waist he eased her back, her spine arching elegantly, arms stretched finely beyond her head which she let fall back, the ends of her golden-orange straight locks dragging in the dirt, a blissful pose upon her face. He braced her lovely suspension as her shawl slipped open and apart, her scant breasts puddling back upon themselves, their small taut nipples casting shadows on her blanched skin in the lustful blaze.

He drew her up and she straightened. Falke's arms wrapped sweetly around her and she returned the embrace, accepting him, offering herself, her thin body pressed to his. He kissed her forehead, then her mouth. Over her shoulder he saw the Queen bent over, her husband rutting her from behind, buckling her spine with his force, shoving her face into the blankets.

Then Vera caught his attention again as she made her way through the crowd with a fresh goblet in her hand, her mother watching keenly in the background. Falke tried to dismiss her but knew that the drink was specially intended for him. He clutched Tevie close and shoved his tongue into her mouth, stroking about slithery wet and indulgent. Her arms sweetly swarmed his back and her body writhed gently against his. They parted lips. Then they turned and walked on together arm-in arm towards his tent, unmistakable to any onlookers their intention to make tender lust.

After a few yards, a warmth on his right flank balanced that of Tevie's on his left and an arm snaked about his waist. Falke didn't have to look to know that it was Vera inviting herself along. He didn't really want her yet he did despite not knowing why. He'd never fancied her before despite all of her tantalizing flesh. He'd found her to hold herself less than refined, often even crude and certainly less than perfectly feminine, but without an explanation, he just didn't have the will to protest and resigned himself to having her too. Blatantly, Vera's heavy breast wobbled against his flank, wanton and reckless as the three of them disappeared into the shadows amongst the tents, all much like the one inside his breeches.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

Her eyes looking downward, numbly, her gaze held a vacant sort of focus as she traced the shapes of the stones that studded the earth around her into patterns as Gorun's thick bear-paw like palm wrapped around her right breast. He drew her against him, like a doll of rags might be held by a child, grunting, grinding into her. Now and again he would resituate her, pull at her, and Zora, in pain now, began to drift out of her own mind to ignore the tears swelling at the corner of her eyes.

Behind her, there was a noise, a rumble, the sound of the far gates opening. It had once been a hopeful sound, trade, news, visitors to be welcomed. She long since stopped awaiting the clang and rattle of those that came to Amenja, but tonight, any distraction was a gift.

With her neck craned to see, a single rider, shrouded like a shadow on a nearly black horse galloped straight through the fore fields at a steady pace, but it did not turn towards the stables, nor did it take the path to the castle. The horse did not stop until it reared up right in front of the fire, with an agitation that seemed to impossible to ignore. Gorun, ever the exception, was lost in his thoughts, shifting on his knees to lean back slightly.

Zora wanted to say something, for Gorun to attend to this intruder. The air felt so strange, an unease that but instead, she just watched.

“Ulfur?” One of the men seemed to recognize the scout and called out to him, a few men rose and pulled up their breeches, walking forward to steady the horse. For her part, she had no idea of one Cizenec scout from another nor one so wrapped in cloth, but the name had been shared in the halls and this calmed her. But not enough, Zora did not see him respond in any obvious way, staring instead straight ahead with dull, unfocused eyes. They blinked, but that was the extent of it. The horse continued to rear and pull even from the well-trained scouts and soldiers. The shroud around the rider was homespun, ran in tatters behind him as if the wind had caught it and torn it half off his back. There was a smell, suddenly, a smell of horse shit and...something faintly familiar. Floral. This combination cut right through the musk, the night air.

Finally, Gorun took a breath and woke up from his haze. The moans, had stilled into nothingness and turned his head to see what Zora had been watching play out behind her.
“What is this?” He growled loudly, expecting an answer. “Ulfur?”
A moment of intense silence save the horses hooves pacing around the crackling fire and Zora felt Gorun's weight shift, lift off of her, his hands on her ass as he pushed her still clenching cunt off of his shaft.

“Say something! Or by my hand, you'll say no more.”

Ulfur did nothing more than stare straight ahead, blinking passively. Gorun motioned to a few men to gain control of the horse and pull him down. As Zora reached quickly for one of the blankets and wrapped it around herself. The other women did not do the same, but all of them looked frightened. Rattled. Gorun's blade, the very one she had gifted him, had been unsheathed suddenly. She didn't realize it was here, but Gorun did not sleep without his weapon. With the blankets brought for comfort, they'd also brought this monstrosity – knowing he'd ask for it sooner or later.

Still, she didn't fully absorb how horrifying it would look raised to the sky. She had no affection, no attraction to the mound of bulk and muscle that was her husband, but there was no doubting his power nor the irritation on his face.
He would have swung immediately, but Ulfur began to shudder and tremble at a disturbing speed. There were no sounds of pain, just a body shifting on the back of the horse as though a beast was taking hold of him. Some god.

A woman began to shriek and Gorun, his face fixed in a determination she could not understand, swung...the head was lopped off before her. It rolled without carebackwards toward the stones that ringed the fire, but the body stayed upright. It was clear now that Ulfur had been bound to the horse, his arms wrapped behind him. The men used their knives and blades to cut him down, and someone had the sense to lead the horse away from the flames that terrorized it.

The headless rider was left to fall in a heap on the ground. Not blood, but a strange, sickly foam came pouring from the corners of his half-closed mouth some distance away.

Zora stared, stupidly aghast as the ropes at his wrists and even the shroud were cut and pulled away from him. She heard prayers, but no more wailing from the servant women. There was order, somehow, dispassion. The pulsing heat and drum beats had become cold night air. The necessity of death as a means to end
all confusion, resolve all ignorance.

A blade cut the runes of her people into the scout's chest. A wave of bile rose in her throat, a darkness she could not fully reject rose with it. At a distance it was still unreadable, but she recognized the handwriting, how could she not? She'd stared into the Magician's notes, furiously attempting to make sense of what she had never been meant to read. Unless...was it possible? What had Naescius done...?

Gorun was closer than she, he could see, and no others would block his view. He grunted, disgusted, though he'd taken the moment to dress himself and sheath the newly blessed blade back in its scabbard. He announced with a voice that carried down toward the gates. “Call for Szargo for the body. Call for the Council of Men.” Servants began to move to see to these requests. Others began to step back and look for Ulfur's woman, whoever she was. Zora was a cold vessel for the thoughts that found her now. Gorun looked at her as she clutched the blanket around her, hiding herself as she used to.

She had stepped lightly behind the circle of men crowding around the fire and the body of their compatriot. She read below the runes the words in the Cizenec tongue, written boldly without the care above, right into the soft lower belly of the young man who had once been Ulfur. Her own curiosity would not keep her from looking once more. It read in blood-soaked scars: “Amenja is mine. She is mine.”

For the first time, she looked up and met Gorun's eyes and his expression was unreadable to her. He said nothing and walked alone back towards, a trail of councilors moving to join him, each staring her down.

 

[PieTaster]

Tevie fell back into the skins lain upon the ropes stretched taut between stakes that was his bed, Falke crawled upon her and Vera's tangled hair and heavy breasts dragged lavishly over his back. Tevie's arms enveloped him as he shoved his tongue slowly and indulgently into her succulent mouth as a labored whimper escaped when Vera's weight soon crushed down upon the both of them. When Falke lifted his body somewhat for the thin ginger's comfort Vera took the opportunity to slip her hands beneath him and pull down his breeches. Then she stepped back to tug them from his feet, discarding them completely, and Tevie folded her thighs around his waist inviting him in, his hot shaft sliding up against her slit to mash into the fuzz of her mound. Still from behind, heavy-set Vera grabbed and squeezed his buttocks, then reached down between his legs to roughly fondle his balls. With Falke's tip inside her, Tevie gasped and arched her spine in anticipation, but then Vera's grasp found the base of his shaft to yank him out. Annoyed, Falke repositioned his knees, reached back to hook the redhead's right thigh and reinserted himself. She gave a soft moan as he sank into her warm sweet channel and began to make sex with her. Resigning herself then to his side, Vera's hands palmed and rubbed his flesh as his sinews worked, and her lips sucked at his shoulder, his back, his neck, while her tits crushed against his flank.

Falke fucked Tevie a little harder and a little quicker, but with deliberate deep savoring thrusts eliciting tiny breathy sighs from her each time that he hilted in. This went on for a while, the whole time Vera fondling and groping him, getting bolder and bolder, smearing her tits on his back and playing with his balls. Falke had to stop for a moment and swat her hand when she had been careless and squeezed him to the point of pain. The girl had no subtlety.

Burying himself in Tevie, Falke relaxed to recover from the cramp that Vera had caused him. They kissed, slowly, sweetly, the ginger's limbs like vines embracing him gently until he was ready to resume. He righted himself to change position to kneel and helped Tevie onto his lap where he took her by the ribs and lifted her. Reaching down between them, she lined him up and he lowered her. With a deep moan from each of their throats, she sank down his length. Falke began to lift and pile her onto his cock, a toiling grunt with each drop and a breathy sigh from her lips. It was not too difficult as her waifish build was so lean and it wasn't long until she clung to him, chest to chest, the hard bud of her small breast poking through her orange locks to prod him.

The young healer was giving herself to him completely and Falke couldn't resist the urge to take it all. He laid her back down, but the separation of their bodies during the manipulation gave Vera her chance to intervene once again, reaching across him and pulling him aside as Tevie fell away. Falke slumped in drunken exasperation as Vera rolled him onto his back and straddled him, sitting her wet bush atop his rigid cock. Rigorously, she rocked her hips to smear the fluids, pushing both palms into his chest for leverage. Her back arched, thrusting the ample sacks of her bosom to dangle and swing before him as her slit searched for his tip. The two parts met but were too slick, so Vera lifted herself enough to reach in and guide him by hand. Vera was too determined and for some reason Falke felt no use in resisting any longer.

He was inside her now, fornicating with Foersa's daughter. It was not ideal but he seemed resigned to it, especially as she took his hands and cupped them to her tits. He turned his head to Tevie, who lay there, wrapping her arms around his shoulder and nuzzling. He felt apologetic for neglecting her but he wasn't in charge. More men than not would prefer a fleshier curvier figure to the lithe little healer and Tevie likely knew this. She probably thought that Falke felt the same and that she was accepting losing out to Vera, but it was not at all true. What attracted Falke was the feminine, and despite Tevie's lack of curves and flesh, in her sweet touch and grace she had feminine to spare. Alternately, Vera was brash and wild, unrefined, lacking any tact. Vera went after his cock with such zeal, while Tevie was willing to be taken, and had been enjoying her letting him do so until Vera had imposed her will. Still, so long as she had those breasts, Vera would have no trouble fucking men as she was to Falke now. His hands began to palm at the gloriously soft fleshy udders. They shaped like dough, pudged out impressively between his fingers and instantly dropped to tug at her shoulders whenever they slipped from his inebriated indulging grasp. Her areolas were large and pale with small rocks at their centers. If Vera would insist on a sex fling, at least he would enjoy her tits.

Back and forth the heavy girl's hips rocked, wrenching the base of his cock to the point of pain as her clit searched for something hard to press against. She'd done this before and more than once even at her age, Falke could tell. She'd be pregnant sooner rather than later and had a body to calve and milk babies for years to come. The only question was the number of different fathers there would be. Falke resolved to not figure among them. Tenting his knees to form a backstop, limiting her range of motion and the discomfort that she gave him caused her to lean forward and hang her breasts in his face. It was something that Tevie could not do. Falke licked the flesh, found a nipple and suckled.

Her rockings now digging in hard and mixed with the pleasure of Falke's mouth at her breast, she groaned low and raspy with each grind of her pelvis. He raised his knees higher, bracing his heels against the ropes beneath the skins on which they lay and creaked with their lusty endeavors, forcing her to relieve the pressure of her bulk and efforts enough that he could withdraw. Immediately she reached to put him back in but even in his drunken lackadaisical state Falke found the strength to push her off enough to roll towards patiently waiting Tevie and kiss her lips with whatever passion that tenacious Vera had not yet sucked out of him. Still, Vera seemed to be on a mission and pinned his hips back down, her wet bush mashing his cock between their bodies. Her pelvis squirmed there, her mons and his shaft greasy slick as she tried to get him back in. Leaning down, she even stole his face from meek Tevie, grabbing his jaw to direct it up for her sloppy kiss. Lazily, his mouth slopped back before he regained some of his wits.

Falke tried to push away again but it was futile. She was fully atop him now and his energy was gone. The slippery action of the clumsy dry hump had him about to cum anyways. His warm spurt shot out and smeared between his and Vera's flesh, his abdomen and her soft belly, then the second shot. Falke moaned and then realizing, Vera groaned, and slumped down upon him, kissing his face and neck while he finished ejaculating, the warm goo spreading over his skin. Relaxed, it was over.

After some time, he managed to squirm out from under her and took Tevie close, apologetically. She obliged. Vera spooned into his back and let her fingers stroke through the semen on his front. Falke and Tevie kissed softly. He intended to start up with her again but it wasn't happening. He was spent, had had too much to drink and was too relaxed in Tevie's arms, and now that Vera had stopped harassing him, he drifted off to sleep.

He was awoken by a messenger sent for him. The council was being summoned. Falke bid the messenger off and rose. His head pounded and he took a moment before surveying his bed mates, sweet Tevie lying peacefully unawares, the subtle features of her pale skin, the waves of her straight red hair, and voluptuous lewd Vera already up at his side. As he moved so did she, breasts brushing against him, her arms clasping his body. He inhaled and ran a hand through his thick fair locks.

She had brought only one goblet for him, none for herself. How could he have been so stupid. Foersa had been up to her tricks. Now he had spent the night with her daughter. His cum was icky and crusted on his belly as he moved, reminding him that he had indeed pulled out. That was what really mattered.

"Good morning stallion," greeted Vera. Falke cringed for a moment and exhaled.

"Out, woman," he commanded finally. "Out." Slowly, she relented, then stood and gathered her garment, disappointment on her face. "Out of my tent," he shooed with disgust.

"See you again," she smirked as she stood naked in the morning's dewy dawn through the yurt's opening, dress dragging in the dirt from her hand. Then she swaggered off with no shame while Tevie remained in perfect tranquility.

"It was Ulfur," said Rogalo as they walked together into the fortress.

"Ulfur?"

"He brought the ugliest message delivered in the most gruesome way," said Rogalo as he filled him in on the details. The two men walked into the grand room with its stone floor where the council was convening at the table, the head seat empty as their King Gorun stomped about. There was trouble on his mind. Gorun would never admit such weakness but most could tell how he masked it with smoldering rage. What was surprising was the presence of Zora. It was most unusual for her to be at such a gathering.

"We're all here, Sire," Eitrin called for order. The men gathered around the long table and waited for Gorun to bid them to sit.

"Right then," barked Gorun and gestured them to ease. The men sat but Zora remained standing solemnly in her place two steps behind and to his left. "Tell us woman," the King demanded as he gazed unfocused down the table's length. "Who is this that dares lay claim to this fortress? Who is this that dares lay claim to my Queen? Do not feign to not know!"

 

[TheQueenofCups]

Zora swallowed hard, looking out at the gawping faces sat around the table. She met each eye, even Falke's, and did her best not to give expression to her confusion and terror or the discomfort the King of Amenja had left between her legs. “I do not know for certain...truly.”

His arms waving about, he peered down at her, looking for the first time with something other than stupid desire. “What other whore knows her letters here but you? Who else might this message be for? Who sent this, damn you?!”
The moment stretched out longer and longer.. There were many. Foersa, she imagined had long since learned to decipher her husband Morro's scrolls and parchments, but none, not even that terrible, meddling bitch that she would harm by speaking of here.

His hand reached and found her throat, squeezing and almost lifting her as if she were some forest creature Gorun was slaughtering for his supper, his dark eyes wide with the cruelty of it. A panic ran straight through her. The scout had been dead for much less silence than this.

Choking, gasping, she pulled at his hand, as if she had the strength to stop him. No man rose to stop him and no servant emerged from the shadows to aid her queen. Finally, she calmed herself enough to offer an almost airless answer: “The...Magician. I...perhaps he lived.”

Zora wanted to, but she did not know how to lie about this. What other man was capable of it, would think to cross the warlord with no fear of retribution? This answer, at least, gave her back her breath. If Naescius did this, she wanted to find him, speak to him if only to tell him he was an utter fool to think one message on one man would change the events of the past three years. If he would risk her so boldly, perhaps he deserved the consequences.

She reached her hands to her neck and felt the soreness. Bruises would come.
“The Magician?” Gorun looked at her. She could hear the grumbling voice around her, this time sure she could not look up.

“He advised my father. He knew old magic given to him by the gods. He knew many tongues. I do not believe he could have lived, but...he spoke often of a southern village that gave him rest when he was young.”
“What does this man look like?”
“He had hair the color of blood and eyes...they were blue, but like wolf eyes. It was the magic...he is not as other men.”
“And he claims you, claims you on our own scout's flesh. As if he is certain.” His voice, rough, scoured by years of drink and battle cries, accused her.
“Husband, I have not seen the Magician since your people...arrived.”
“Husband!” He scowled at the word, and she knew he did not believe her completely. But he relented, returned to his carved chair so she could only see the back of him.

She swallowed, not wanting to draw any of the servants into this, there would be no logic to it, but Yana was doing something, had some resources, some knowledge when she said that Amenja was hers. How could they be working together? Her mind reeled, knotting details together as Gorun glared at her. There could be another he spoke of, but...every fiber of her knew Naescius would have made his attentions something other than amused jokes were Mayefin not her father's promise to a friend. He had seemed to have no loyalty but to her father's wishes. And now, her father and Mayefin both were gone. She would have been disgusted then, and she certainly was disgusted now, but he had been a part of the Amenja she knew.

Zora felt torn by how readily she'd set these warriors after him, but surely he knew what he was getting into. Maybe, maybe he had a way to save her if she could get to him. Naescius had always scared her with how much he knew.

Clearly irritated by her familiarity, her knowledge, her delays and now even her presence, Gorun dismissed her. “He will die like all the rest. Wait for me in the bedchamber.”

 

[PieTaster]

Gorun's rage was fuming, not yet exploding but certainly far more than smoldering. The coals glowed yellow hot within him, reflecting in his eyes and Falke could see it flash in his queen's as well, as Gorun wheeled to berate whatever explanations she may have had out of her. Before her throat could even speak, the king seized it with his ruddy paw as if to squeeze the words from her larynx himself. The senselessness of it all even brought a mild scowl to Falke's mouth. What secrets would she suddenly spew forth unto his latest thrust of isolated aggression that she would not have already divulged in three previous years of prolonged torment and abuse?

"The ... Magician ..." she scratched and Gorun's grip relented. Faces around the council looked to one another and murmurs started as Zora continued feeding her husband's interrogation in equal parts to his ego. There was blood hair and wolf eyes of blue, a southern village. Now throned, Gorun dismissed her to her place, her function, to await her fate of a night of angry and likely punitive sex.

Gorun scanned the room contemplatively for a thorough moment, in turn meeting each gaze head on before bidding them all to sit with a casual gesture of ease.

"Falke," he barked, keeping his general standing.

"Your bidding?" he answered. The words were pure rote reflex at that moment but his impatient contempt for the pomp still in check.

"I will kill this ... Magician," Gorun growled, enunciating as if vomiting. "Find him. Take a party. leave today," he ordered, his voice seething. "Track him down," he spat as he pounded his fist into the armrest of his throne. "And once you have that stray dog cornered, send for me."

Falke had been chosen largely due to his freshness. The extra time healing from his injury had done him well. He took Karrack, an expert tracker, and Urz, a very loyal and large bear of a warrior, and a small war party of forty. The party would not be needed for such scouting work but were necessary if they were to run into any trouble. They would follow behind. Szargo had imparted some lore. Falke knew that there was nothing to the south but ocean, but to the locals south had meant east for three or four days and then south along the coast. Szargo also had traveled that way in his youth and told him that fishing villages, small as they were, were fairly common there. The magician, Falke was told, had a name and that name was Naescius. Some believed that he was a lycan or at least had wolf blood in his veins. Falke had thought Zora too smart to believe in such curses but recalling how she had spoke of the magic and of him being 'not as other men' he was forced to review his opinions of her. It was not that he himself did not believe in any sort of magic nor things unexplained, but men were men and beasts were beasts. If any man were to be beastly he would only be so by his behavior.

The nights were chilled and the mornings frosty but the days were warm. The leaves were turning colors and were drifting free from the trees, cast off by their shedding boughs. The band made good time but was still slower than Falke led by Karrack some half to full verst ahead. On the fourth day they reached the foot of the next range that extended into the sea and turned south to follow it. By the extensive overgrowth, the trail had seen little use that season. Through the hills, Falke and his tracker could not scout ahead. Instead the warriors took shifts bushwhacking to uncover the footing. At times they would find a vantage point that would afford the white waves crashing the shores below them far too rocky to traverse.

On the third day they finally came upon a beach. Along the line where the sand met the the grass were a half-dozen animal skin tents with several more in the trees behind. It was a fishing village. Falke and Karrack met with two elder fishermen as they dragged their nets out of the surf, their catch flopping in futile desperation. Their dialect was odd and backward but after the introductions became easier to discern. Understandably wary at first, the locals then reluctantly offered some of their bounty when Falke produced some silver coin and assured that the band of warriors behind him were merely passing through. Assuming a rapport to be established, Falke broached the subject of local lore, a magician or a wolf. The fishermen could only shrug and shake their heads. No one had any information, or at least would not divulge.

The band camped out for the night at the far end of the beach. Knowing what a bunch of brutes could do to innocent foreign women, Falke wanted to keep the men away from the locals, but the beach was just far more comfortable than the brush on the hillside. Some of the men wandered over to the village fires after dark but could find no action.

The next morning they packed up and ventured into the wooded hills once again to venture further south. Along the way one of the warriors managed to arch a deer. By late afternoon they found the next beach, this one longer, perhaps stretching three versts. Nearing its end they came upon another village, this one dingy and decrepit, Amenja's small war party easily doubling their population. The faces stared back at them from their tents, mothers clutching children, stern expressions of defiance. The message was clearly 'move along'. As a show of good faith, Falke ordered a spit erected and a hind leg of the beast that they had slain hung from it. Then they moved to the far end of the beach in the shadow of the next hillside and set up camp.

Gulls circled the roast that they had offered and soon began to pick at it. Every so often one of the villagers would venture out to inspect the cut, sending the birds in a noisy swirling tizzy only to alight again once the man retreated. The sun was setting. Fires were lit in both the village and the camp. Eventually the villagers deemed the deer's hind acceptable and they took it down to their own fire pit to butcher and consume, even if no one approached the visitors to greet them.

The breeze coming off the sea was chilling and the sky was clear. The swells and caps reflected the light of the full moon as if silver dust churned within them. Falke gazed upon the mesmerizing beauty of it when a call rode on the air, soft at first, a cold sigh high in pitch, but then lingered and tailed away to leave it's reverberations from the mountain peaks to hang above the surf like a spectre. The wolf howled again, this time clearer, and Falke turned to see its perfect black silhouette cut out of the full shining moon as it stood on the crag atop the wooded cliffside at the edge of the beach. The ominous call caused the hair on the back of Falke's neck to stand, not in fear of the beast itself, but of its song that he inherently knew was intended for him. He watched intently as the wolf threw its snout moonward once more and howled a third time, long and mournful, patiently impatient.

Behind him there was a small commotion amongst the warriors' tents. The dark shapes of their heads catching bright glints of moonlight as they craned up to the spectacle atop the cliff. Some of them actually seemed spooked. When Falke fixed his sights back upon the moon, the beast was gone and the only sound remaining was the heavy crush of the surf.

"Back to your blankets," Falke advised as he strode between the tents. "It's just a wolf."

At dawn some of the men were already up rekindling fires. Fresh fish was being smoked. A couple of soldiers had gone clamming along the beach and were boiling water for their bounty. Falke had Urz rouse the rest.

"You seek the magician."

Falke turned to find a lone fisherman. He was lithe and moderately built, an older man in loin cloth and tough ruddy skin much darker than his whitish hair. He stood with spear in hand. His dialect was not nearly so thick as the few other locals that they had spoken with the day before.

"Aye," Falke nodded, feeling any attempts at coyness futile.

"The second peak to the south. Beyond it is a lake," the fisherman spoke sagely. "He bears no hostility on this day. You will not need these men. They will only slow you down."

"And the wolf?"

"The wolf is merely the guardian of the gate," said the fisherman. Then he nodded good day, turned and headed for the trees and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

"Who was that?" asked Karrack as he approached just out of time.

"A messenger," Falke answered absently. "Strike camp," he ordered. "We're not far."

The troop ascended the overgrown hillside trail until midday when they reached a clear ridgeline. Falke and Karrack squinted into the gusting wind. The clouds in the distance moved quickly across the sky like a migrating herd. the valley below was narrow and dry with sparse golden trees intermixed with the odd evergreen. On the other side were two peaks each topped with a dusting of the first snows, the second not quite as tall as the first. It was easy traversing. At the bottom, the creek was but a trickle in its stony bed, but it was adequate to refill the flasks. Falke ordered to set up camp. He would not take the entire party the rest of the way. Only Karrack would accompany him beyond the peak and to the lake, but he had not wished the men be unsupervised so close to the fishing village. There was no telling what ills temptation could lead them to so he had brought them this far.

Falke and Karrack continued on, choosing a route to the pass between the two peaks. The wind whipped their hair and their attire but other than that, they travelled with ease. As they reached the divide the shadows were lengthening but there was still good daylight. Below them the next valley was much wider and the wood thicker, mostly comprised of tall dark conifers. The soil beneath their feet was harder as well, an ashy grey podsol. They could see no lake. venturing as far as they could until the shadows became too dark, Karrack started the fire while Falke pitched the tent. The sun set and the moon poked its silver rays between the waving boughs of the forest canopy as it moved across the clear black sky.

Falke awoke in the middle of the night, not alarmed but suddenly fully alert. The wind was gone. The air was still. He sat up and noted that Karrack was sound asleep. All was silent but Falke sensed that something was outside. He pushed open the tent flap. The wolf was outside, not much more than an armslength away, facing him head on, expressionless, not welcoming, not threatening. It was just there. After a moment it turned and strode into the woods.

Karrack would not wake in spite of any amount of shaking. Falke would have to go alone. Donning his boots and coat, he headed out into the night. In the distance the wolf howled to give him a bearing and he stepped his way between the trees, over the roots, traversing the long black shadows between each sliver of silver moonbeam. He reckoned that he had covered a couple of versts when in the next illumination the wolf stood. For a brief moment they made eye contact, then the beast loped over a root and disappeared into the black. Falke followed and as he hauled his stature over that same root, he found himself on the shore of a small lake, its mirror calm surface reflecting a sheet of silver moonlight. The wolf howled again from somewhere unseen on the other side, a song that Falke instinctively knew was only for his ears. A cabin with a thin wisp of smoke rising straight up from its chimney in the dead calm stood. The shoreline's pebbles crunched beneath his stride and soon he was at its door. It was open. Falke stepped inside.

"I've been expecting you," said the magician, his back still turned. His hair was long, perfectly straight and the color of rust. His cloak was indigo and draped to the ground. Various oil lamps lit the room delicately but adequately. The far wall was jammed with scrolls and texts. To the left was a stand of bottles and vials of every shape and color, some glass, some ceramic. On the right was a door to another room. The table was covered in various trinkets and tomes open to specific pages. There was a mortar and pestle filled with an olive colored powder, and another containing a violet substance. Falke also noticed a small amethyst, a fairly substantial ruby and several specks of amber in the midst of the wizard's work. In the corner was a cauldron on spit, the brick oven beneath it crackling, but the iron lid covered forcing the smoke up the chimney.

"Naescius," Falke presumed.

"Falke," the magician identified his visitor as he finally turned to face him. He was fine-boned and pale with narrow piercing blue eyes that otherwise seemed like those of any other man. His lips were thin and moved little, even as he spoke. "Yes I know your name," he said. "I know more than you can imagine."

"Why have you led me here?" Falke asked. The remark drew a wry subtle grin from Naescius.

"Your King sent you," he smirked. "And as a good soldier you dutifully obeyed his command. However, you would not have found me unless I had guided you. I can only be found if I wish it so."

"So then you have a reason to speak with me," Falke deduced. "Either that or you lure me to my demise." The magician smirked again, this time with a hint of a chuckle.

"I have no need to end you or it would have already been done," he explained. "Entrapment and deception is not my way."

"Honorable," Falke noted with a nod.

"Considering how your people conquered Amenja, slaughtering the helpless, destroying such benevolence wisdom and innocence and ... your own direct role in it good Falke, anything I may entreat you to, including your savage death, would be considered honorable," he reasoned. "But as Cizenecs are, your honor is commendable. Thus honor is a relative notion, no?"

"What of Ulfur?"

"What of Ketterin? What of Zarr? What of Aluna? What of Mayefin?" Naescius' expression turned to a scowl, as if disappointed in his visitor's feeble stance, and in that scowl Falke knew his own guilt, his hand in the tragedy of names that he did not know. "What of the hundreds slain on that day? The women, the children, whose blood soaked the earth to feed the roots of the meadows with anguish and sorrow?" Defeated, Falke stood in silence. After a lengthy pause the stillness urged him. Abandoning his tack, he got straight to the point.

"What do you want from me then?" he sighed.

"I want you to fulfill your mission," said Naescius. "I want you to go tell your King where to find me. Tell him to bring all the armies that he desires. Whether or not you wish to tell him any more than that is up to you."

"What more is there?"

"That I shall strike down whatever he brings against me - including you. That he shall deliver himself to me and shall be defeated, the flesh torn from his bones while he still breathes," he said coldly.

"If you can do that, then where was your intervention on the day that Amenja fell?" Falke posed.

"I was not so powerful then," he said with a trace of regret in on his thin lips, a subtle furrow in his delicately arched crimson brow. "But am now."

"And what of Zora?" Falke asked. This returned the smirk to the magician's chin.

"Zora, heh heh," he began. "You think you know her. You know but a shard of her jeweled soul. You know but a fraction of a fraction of her pain." Naescius then walked past him to the open door, his cloak flowing gracefully behind him. "Come," he gestured with thin elegant chalk white fingers. Falke followed him outside to the shore of the quicksilver lake where the two men gazed upon its perfect sheen. "To scry," he said solemnly, then folded his arms across his chest. Soon an image appeared upon it, large and crystal clear. It was Zora naked on her bed. "You've never seen her bedchamber, have you?" Falke realized that they were witnessing the present moment, hundreds of versts away. At once it hit him how much Naescius could know from watching his lake nightly for how long now perhaps only the moon could tell, that he could watch Falke rut with Zora, watch him seed her, and perhaps a myriad of other things. Falke had never been one to dismiss the potential of magic but for the first time he had beheld it in awe. He believed.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

These past few nights since the party had left to search out Naescius and end whatever plot had left her with Gorun seething, though not for the right reasons. His anger at her was somehow made bearable by an equal amount of obliviousness. She'd expected to feel his hands on her the moment she woke, but for now, there was none of that. The room was quiet, as it was when he was gone with the warbands, and morning light slipped in and over her form.
Zora sat up in bed, drawing her hair over her shoulder.

The days had been few, but agonizingly long. It would be but a short time till he returned. Or so it seemed. The servants had been scarce, including Vera. None wanted to risk meeting the warlord in the hallway with him in such a state. Whatever news or plots continued to grow out of this terrible circumstance, she was being kept apart from them. She had not dared to return to the places beneath Amenja, not even to replenish her stores of tinctures, her vials of the Blessing.

In this unexpected peace, Zora looked down at herself, peeling away the furs and cloth that covered her. Her tits ached again, as they had yesterday. Perhaps this meant the blood was coming, but morning after morning she awaited it and found nothing. That and the ache came with a strange tingling she'd never felt before. She leaned back slightly, cupping each already full breast as if she could somehow feel a difference. Was it...she felt...something tender. She leaned back further pulling the cloth almost entirely off the bed to lay flat, bare.

Zora closed her eyes and let her palm brush over her belly and below. She thought to herself as she stroked her flesh, touching every tenderness, in her tits, her nipples, between her legs as reverently as she might allow herself . She began to pray to a half-formed goddess to not be allowed to believe a lie. It could not be a lie, Reyja, because she believed it. Without needing some healer to squint their lined eyes at her, to poke and prod at her. It was true.

She sighed. Not but a few more days and she could visit those scowling jowls of Szargo and put a name to the belief that was growing in her belly.

A knock came to the door. No one emerged to open it. Irritated by the insistence, Zora moved quickly to find the dress she wore last evening, to open the door.
She was expecting Vera, and was relieved in no small measure that instead, there was Rumi. She was a friend of Yana's, one of her own. Equally thin-lipped and quiet, though when they were together their laughter was one of the rare things that made the queen smile. It had been a long time. Zora glanced outside the door frame in both directions.
“I've come to wash the bedclothes.” She offered, unbothered by the work, or by much else.
Zora nodded and retrieved it from the other room. The girl blinked and took away the sheets, trading her for the clean cloth. The system had been determined at her request, another task. Still, if Rumi sought a gossip in these chambers, there was no moonblood to be found. She was well past it now. Vera would have noticed this, she imagined, if she did not coerce other servants to mind the sheets, along with half her duties.

“Where is Vera?” She asked, idly. “I've not seen her this morning. Or at all these past few days, the Queen has been left to do much.”
“Oh, she's just swanning about. Nobody talks more than Vera and that was before.”
Zora narrowed her eyes as Rumi quickly moved to tie the soft, if worn, cloth over the stuffed padding, knotting it to the wooden arms. From there, she re-arrange the bedding.
“Before?”

The girl sighed, chuckled to herself, she had never been much of a gossip, but few felt warmly toward Foersa's daughter. “Before she got the general in her bed.”
Zora felt a wave of heat followed by a wave of chill start at the top of her head and work its way down her form.

“Which general?”

“Oh, she wouldn't chatter so loudly were it not the handsome one. And there's only one of those.”

“I see.” Zora did not wish to lower herself to demanding a clear answer. “Do you not think she ought to be punished. Leaving her duties here. I've been left entirely...”

“Ah, my lady. I do not know what punishment she might be given now. Not unless you know some old magic. She's half a mind to...well, Lord Gorun gave no heed to Foersa, I can't imagine a babe in the belly of her daughter would grant her what she thinks.”

“She says she is with child?” The incredulity was unavoidable and refused to be restrained. Surely, surely Falke would know better – he'd told her he knew better...but she'd seen through the flames, just enough of that girl's treachery. And yet, she could not tell a soul, not even the few remaining stalwart servants of her people.

“No, but she...is determined. Poor man.”

Zora took a breath, setting this aside, both her anger and her relief.

“And your friend, Yana, it has been some time. Since I've seen her.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes at this, and the casual tone became a whisper.

“She's left Amenja, to do important work, for her father. She is close, but she says the old gods demand that she save their temple there. That you would
understand.”

Zora imagined the life of a child growing up in Mistrow, the village Yana came from. If there would not be more peace in some fishing village, some place where she could be unknown to all and whatever birthright would come to the child of a warlord could be cast aside.

“And if I were to want to visit her and help her with this...work?”

Rumi cocked her head, a concerned smile on her face.

 

[PieTaster]

Zora's vast image stretched perhaps two-hundred paces before him upon the glassy water surface, her brow and upturned nose out before Naescius just to his left and her toes pointing to the opposite shore away and to the right. She lay there in the linens as bare as her golden body in the amber torchlight of the chamber, eyes half-lidded and vacant in the absence of sleep. Her hands wandered gently about her shape, pausing over her womb to caress as if nurturing and Falke considered whether this meant that she was carrying his child or merely wondering just as was he. It was enough to make him tear his eyes from her even if only briefly to gauge the magician's expression on the chance that it might tell anything more that he knew but Naescius was as unmoved as stone in the still moonlight, revealing nothing. Back on the lake, Zora's hands were now at her bosom, her breasts splayed apart as she lay on her back, flattened at least as much as their fullness permitted. She groped the left one with care, prompting a subtle craning of her neck. Falke would not say that the nipple was erect, but the areola seemed puffy and its hue noticeably richer than the skin surrounding. The webbing of her thumb closed round it and, with the speed of a glacier, tugged delicately. Her eyes closed and she breathed deeply, then exhaled through a small pursed hole between her exquisite lips as if expressing the relief of an itch scratched. The Queen's gilded locks lay in luxuriously tousled waves beneath her head and shoulders and her hips shifted gingerly to ease the trifling parting of her thighs as her right hand moved to hide her pelt and her legs closed once more upon it. Her two distant observers could guess what was happening by the gentle wriggling of her elbow and wrist.

"Enough," the mage interrupted, but before he could wave away the image there was a knock. Zora lay still for a moment before removing her hand from her mound and rising with a sigh. Quickly donning a dress and letting the hem drift past her ass to fall down her trim yet sturdy legs, the image followed her through the curtain to answer the door. It was a servant that Falke had seen around but did not know, although he'd made it a point to know as many of the girls by name if he could. He was keen that way as he knew that ears were everywhere (as the magic waters were clearly proving) and you had to know who was listening whenever talking. Their voices were low but reverberated seemingly out of the trees. Falke glanced about to pinpoint he source.

"Only we can hear them," Naescius assured.

Zora returned to the chamber and collected the unstained bedding, then went back through the curtain to the door to exchange it all for a freshly washed bundle.

"Where is Vera?" the Queen's voice floated in the air around them, reflecting off the ridges of the valley. The soft tones of their voices, somewhat difficult to discern in the echo, told that the two women were speaking in confidence as her servant followed her into the chamber to help in straightening things.

"Before she got the general in her bed."

"Which general?"

Falke knew the answer. He also knew that since that morning when he had kicked Vera from his tent, such gossip would be unavoidable, but the events of the past few days had pushed that back in his mind. Now Foersa's treachery had been dragged to the forefront once again, reminding him of his folly, but he also knew that he had refused to seed young plump Vera. Again, he glanced in Naescius' direction but the magician would not budge from his stance.

"Well ... Lord Gorun gave no heed to Foersa, I can't imagine a babe in the belly of her daughter would grant her what she thinks."

"She says she is with child?"

"No, but she ... is determined. Poor man."

Falke was a poor man, indeed. Foersa and Vera would not get away with this. However something else caught his attention. A huff of breath from the Queen and an abruptness appearing in the motions of her task told that the news did not sit all well with her. Was that not jealousy detected? If Zora did not like that Falke would sleep with Vera then what of to lie with Tevie or another? As he pondered this, the subject changed. The voices now just whispers, bounced around the canyon, piling atop each other like autumn leaves in a gust.

"She's left Amenja, to do important work, for her father. She is close, but she says the old Gods demand that she save their temple there. That you would understand.

"And if I were to want to visit her and help her with this ... work?"

"All right then," Naescius dismissed the image with a gesture and the lake quickly faded back to milky silver moonlight and the last echoes of the voices dissipated into the black sky leaving Falke wanting for the new information. The magician turned to face him and spoke with only mild determined inflection in his otherwise even tone.

"She is mine. Amenja is mine," he asserted. "Now, go. Go tell your King where to find me, to meet his end."

Naescius turned and with a subtle flourish of his cloak retreated to his cabin. When Falke looked back at the lake, he only saw his tent in the shadows before him. The wind flapped the taut hides and whipped at his hair. The moon was gone and billowy clouds rolled overhead between the treetops. Behind him there was no magician, no cabin and no wolf. Crawling back to his bedsack, the tracker was still sound asleep. Naescius himself had led them unto him. There had been no need for Karrack's skills after all.

The next morning, Falke informed his companion that he had met with the magician in the night. He did not mention the wolf, the moon, the stillness, nor the lake and its enchanted visions but did manage to chide Karrack for sleeping through it all like a boulder, despite suspecting that his slumber too was part of the spell. They packed up and returned to the fishing village, the one that had eaten their venison. By late afternoon they arrived and Falke gave the order to camp one more night before splitting the party. Some would remain while the rest headed back for Amenja at dawn.

The sky was thick and grey, and the tree boughs bobbed and waved on the ocean wind as the daylight waned. From a distance, the band watched the villagers dismantle their tents and port it all into the forest. They seemed to be checking the weather and methodically making their customary adjustments.

As the fires crackled after dark, two young local women approached. Falke would hesitate to call them maidens, their hair dark thick and wild, skin ruddy and salty bronze from a life in the sun and waves. They bared themselves topless and their expressions and movements told that they had done this sort of thing before. Soon they had a crowd of foreign men. None of the other villagers seemed to mind, or at least react as they collected the last of their belongings from the beach to carry off into the trees. Perhaps they were outcast women, scorned or tainted somehow. The first assumption was that they were prostitutes but no exchange of goods was witnessed. It didn't take long for affections to present themselves. The men didn't even have to get them in the mood with mead. These girls were uncultured uncivilized and semi-wild. Soon the men were taking turns writhing and rutting with them in the sand. Perhaps a dozen warriors took their turn, some taking several while a second group of another dozen or so not so inclined to partake were still keen to watch. It was a scene that Falke had witnessed several times. It was the bounty of a soldier on the march, to pillage flesh either in lieu of or in addition to gold, and now and again there were women who were into it. Animalistic moans and growls of copulation could be heard between the crashing of the wind-whipped waves.

The whole thing lasted a couple of hours until the girls were spent swollen and raw, their skin stuck with grit and sand. Then a warrior named Phodar carried the pudgy one off to his tent and another named Jarron did the same with the other. Various men frequented those two tents at fluctuating intervals for more discreet encounters throughout the night, the tent of choice depending on their preference for something more fleshy or more pixie.

In the morning the tents were struck early and the girls were gone. Phodar and Jarron sat on their packs counting coins over breakfast. It had rained during the night and the sand was damp underfoot. As the men were assembling to march out, Falke spotted a figure on the edge of the woods, a young girl with dark straight hair and distinctly neatly cropped fringe.

"There," he said to Karrack. "She's one of ours."

"She?"

"She's a servant in the fortress," Falke noted quietly, his attention focusing rapidly. "I'm sure of it." He started after her, striding across the sand towards the tree line where the girl picked her way along the scrub seeking out a trail head. Halfway to her, he remembered her name and called out, "Yana, aye!" She stopped and saw him, then hurried off into the brush. Falke trotted up to the spot where she had disappeared, Karrack in tow. She had vanished. "Find that girl," he ordered. "Just you and I."

Karrack found her footprints easily. The haste of bent twigs and leaves with the beads of rain wiped and smeared that she had left behind was obvious only once the tracker had pointed it out. The two of them followed it several paces up the slope until they came to a clearing of clean wet rock. Yana's steps could be followed a few more paces until the dirt from her little feet had dissipated. Karrack scanned the outcroppings of rock for the most likely destinations but there was only a craggy wall before them. He clambered up the slab of rock before the crag and stood huffing in exasperation as he examined the ridges above him, then looked left and right. "Her prints lead straight up to here," he said as he pointed at the grey stone at his feet, "but there's nowhere to go but up." Looking to the trees several paces off to his left he let out his dark straight ponytail and contemplated aloud. "Unless she made an abrupt turn this way," then faced his right and pointed to the woods on that side, "or that way."

"She didn't take a direct line to the edge?"

"Look at the tracks."

"Did she climb?" Falke posed. The tracker could only gesture bewildered at at least twenty span of sheer rock crag and shrugged. "Well, who runs straight into an open space when being followed and then changes course?" Falke asked.

"It's as if she went straight through that stone wall," Karrack wagged his finger accusingly at the mountainside rock and shook his head.

When they returned to the beach, a handful of men stood about curious at the edge of the wood. Falke dismissed them but they returned to their packs puzzled by the distraction.

"Take your group up near the ridgeline," Falke instructed Karrack. "Prepare a site for the army, just try to keep the men away form the villagers. No telling what havoc they might wreak upon the locals." He spoke lowly, taking care that no one else could hear, although in so doing he could not help but wonder if Naescius was listening with his scrying lake. "I have a task for you and you only. Tell no one else. I want you to find Yana," he said as the wind picked up and and the first pelts of rain struck. "And if you can't find her, look for a temple." Karrack's skills were once again needed.

"A temple?"

"A temple," Falke confirmed. "Somewhere around here."

A dozen men stayed behind with Karrack to await Gorun and his full army. Urz and the rest returned with Falke to Amenja. It rained heavily for the entire journey. There was much time for thought. Zora entered his mind almost as soon as the trek began and whenever Falke's attention was not needed elsewhere, she remained. He thought of the child almost certainly within her womb, as he had seen her breasts, full and tender. She would be about a month along. Then he thought of the jealousy in her bones at the notion of him with another and he knew that he was more to her than just a clandestine bull. He also had to think about Naescius, what he knew and how he knew it. He couldn't help but wonder what all he had seen. He'd remarked that Falke had 'never seen her bedchamber'. It was true, but did that mean that he had seen them together in the caves beneath the fortress, or under the falls? Was he watching her now as Gorun used her? Was Naescius' watching him as he slogged through the brush and mud in the driving rain? He also thought of the magician's claim: 'She is mine'. It did not seem to Falke to be a mere admiration from afar. He knew her from before. Perhaps they had been involved before Gorun had arrived. If Falke was the father of her child, then the red-haired mage needed to take his place in line - and Zora needed to give him some answers.

Trudging through the mud and into head winds at times took an extra day, and nineteen days after they had left, the party arrived at home. Half of the leaves had fallen from the trees and the ones that remained were mostly yellow orange and brown.

"Falke, you are well," Rogalo greeted him.

"Aye."

"Gorun summons you."

"Might I refresh myself?"

"Gorun summons you," Rogalo restated.

In the grand room of the fortress where the torches crackled and the long table awaited the council, Gorun stood as Falke entered soaked and dripping from the journey with Rogalo in tow. Eitrin was there as well as Dax and Venser. The King would not wait for the rest. Falke bowed.

"M'Lord."

"Speak, Falke," the King grunted, the scowl on his mouth most evident despite the scruffy obscurity of his beard.

"I have found the Magician Naescius," he said. Gorun's eyes widened.

"And?"

"And I have spoken with him," Falke continued. He could hear Gorun's breath heaving as the wrath mucked and bubbled like tar in the cauldron of his belly. "He says to let you come for him, to bring whatever might you deem necessary, and that whatever you bring against him he shall rend." The moment held thick in silence. Falke knew very well that if this news did not please the King he could possibly end the messenger. It did not matter that he had done exactly as he had been ordered and even left preparations to encamp his coming army. It only mattered how much Gorun felt that he needed his wise and loyal general, and although this kept Falke confident of surviving, there was always that whim of a madman lurking like jackal in the tall grass.

"Heh," Gorun finally huffed as a smirk cracked his lips. "Heh heh heh," he began to laugh. Louder his guffaws grew into a hearty convulsive howl. "HAHAHAHAHAAAA! a-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Obligated, the other councillors joined in. Even Falke managed a snide chuckle.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

The dreams had always been a little unsettling. Now, however, they pulled at her, left her dazed in her waking hours. So much so she found herself tiring in the midday and no matter the investigations she needed to undertake, she coiled up in her bedchamber and slept until finally she would be roused for a meal.

There was no Yana now to look over her with concern. She had lost the warlord's favor. And Falke...to time, to her own security. Vera who had largely abandoned her duties to help her with much. Often the water carafes remained empty, the dresses that had always appeared in the mornings disappeared and Zora was left to bathe and dress herself. To sit, without her network of careful eyes to inform her of Gorun's plans, no birds, no sense of a handhold to save her should Gorun decide she was to blame for the path of blood he now was walking.

Still, she imagined her enforced solitude was a great relief to everyone. To look at the girl and imagine her lustful intentions, to imagine...none of that was what she wanted when this began. Lust was for Gorun, even if he did not speak to her of late, for the Cizenecs, for...but it would be impossible to deny that things had changed for her. To not have such a reminder of that, unspoken but glaring at her, was as much a gift as any vengeance.

And if she were to consider it, she might consider the violence Naescius might be capable of now that he had lured men out from Amenja, she might have found herself consumed by worry. By a sense of unavoidable death.

So she gave her head to other things.

From almost the moment Zora lay her head to rest, night after night and day after day, she felt the goddesses, those known and unknown, swirl around her like dust might spin itself before a storm. She felt as though she had opened up all the windows and doors of the fort, unlocked all its closed off and hidden spaces and into each had flooded all the living faith of her dead people.

She wanted to run and the dreams encouraged it, the cloud of divinities whispering almost endlessly their demands for her to free them. She could walk freely, there. Reign over an otherwise unoccupied Amenja, stroll its parapets, climb without danger through its caverns, pass out into the silent plains, buffetted by voices, beings, gods that had once been thoughts, goddesses who had yet to be imagined.

Sometimes she saw shapes, structures, a temple, a stone wall with a circle of men sat around it, waiting. Sometimes in the far distant shadows, back behind her in the trees, there was a young man with a dark eye and a wolf-like blue eye. She called out to him, approached sometimes, but the distance never lessened. The expression never changed, never warmed, nor cooled. Sometimes, a fleet-footed young girl, less a girl than a leaf, slipping between boulders.

Some time passed like this. In these heady dreams and in the odd space that was her life outside of them, Zora felt there she needed to get to them, needed to protect the girl, pledge herself, whatever it was that was her, to find out who was staring, but there was no seeming way afforded to her.

Then, perhaps a week, perhaps two had passed and wind began to batter against the fort's walls. The airiness and light of the room, shut by skins stretched over the stone openings, however the room was only fit to be closed like this in the second part of the year when the world grew cold. For now, it was still too warm, and she lay bare atop the woven fabrics and let her fingers ever so lightly scratch over the sensitive skin. In the candlelight, her mind recalled its own clarity, its own strength of purpose some months ago. The wind howling as it did that night at the shrine shrieked out its own reminders.

She could not shake the impression that her privacy was being broken...but it was not long until, most ominously, most favorably, she began to dream.
Tonight, there was no vast expanse, no dream version of Amenja. There was darkness and an old woman sitting on a stump. She walked towards her white hair, her battle-dress.

The old woman paused for a moment, lifted her finger in the air to halt her.. “You look like...”

Zora took a step further and found the ground shifted beneath her, she stumbled and fell to her hands and knees.

Zora interrupted, roughly, sudden scratches on her knees and palms though they did not hurt. “Are you a goddess? Will you help me understand these dreams? I wish only to serve you.”

“No, I cannot. And, no, no, you do not. Not until it is far too late.” She agreed with obvious lamentation, but the moment softened between the two women and she helped Zora to her feet.

Her image shifted like water can be rippled, but she held on to Zora's hand, lowered it to her belly, to the presence there she could finally, without second-guesses, without fear, acknowledge was growing within her.

“It is better to know the truth. Your future comes.” And the old woman turned her head knowingly, looking behind her where a bit of light cut through the shadow to see a face with one dark eye, one light turn...surprised, and quickly confused, and regretful before dissipating.

She woke up ill beyond any notion, beyond any ability of hers to conceal. For some time she retched into her basin, but once she was done, she felt better than she had in some time.

 

[PieTaster]

Word all through the fortress and the surrounding encampments was rampant. Zora was sick with child. Faces were aglow, particularly amongst the servant girls, eyes wide with excitement over the news. Their Queen would soon be a mother and their King would have an heir.

The troops were assembling. Horses and oxen were prepped and packed. The women toiled to send their men away with everything that they might need to leave in the morning. The battle was not expected to be protracted nor heavy. They would return in a fortnight after a swift strike on an ill-prepared and overmatched foe so there were less worries than normal. Falke had briefed King and Council as to the nature of the journey, the layout of the land and the minimal forces that they would face, perhaps as few as one. He did not however mention the wolf nor the lake nor a word of anything magic, as he knew that Gorun would not hear of sorcery nor enchantments. The King was even lukewarm to Gods, calling upon them and casting them aside at his convenience. The vision of his bride aside, he really did not believe in much that was not steel, wood, nor flesh and bone. To suggest that magic might oppose him would only weaken Gorun's opinion of Falke's judgment and character.

The nobility merely issued the orders, although Dax and Brannar in particular had some speeches for the men and were involved in the preparations in a more hands-on way. For the elite there was a feast, a sendoff. While the sun set, the villagers outside sang their songs and said their goodbyes, in the hall of the fortress the council gathered for an evening of excess before heading off across the wilderness, and since the business of strategy was over, the women were permitted to join. The heavy rumble of skin drums had given way to light bone percussion under soft melody of reeds that filled the background murmur of voices at the table, mostly merry. There was venison, goose and fish, and fall potatoes roasted in the tallow, and tart from raspberry still plentiful late in the season, accompanied by the usual flat breads and of course much wine.

There was no formal ranked seating save for Gorun's chair at the head of the table, but for the most part they all had their regular spots. As always, Rogalo took the far end. It was just that way and it seemed appropriate with the authority of the mighty warrior King at one end and respected eldest statesman and unofficial diplomat at the other.

To Rogalo's left was Zinn, the wife of Kellor, the lanky cavalier one who had taken the black woman Oolakka as a concubine (who was obviously not welcome at the feast and was left wherever he had her kept). Zinn was fleshy and well proportioned with long straight ash blonde hair parted in the middle, a beaded headband pressed perfectly to her forehead. A proper woman, she carried herself with elegance, rarely spoke, smiled less, and it was no secret that she silently disapproved of her husband's dark mistress, nor the pale freckled one that he had before her that was half-servant-half-lover and had been sold to a caravan trader once he had tired of her.

Across from Zinn and to Rogalo's right was Vodo. He was a younger warrior who had been quickly rising through the ranks to be accepted by the council as a trial member. He was short, stout and had a flat face with a high forehead. He wore his leather armor and iron arm braces at the table as he was rarely seen without them, finding his military role a more than comfortable identity. Vodo often had a problem with drink and it was already showing, the tightness clearly evident in his face as he continually raised his goblet to his lips and barked to the servant girls for refills.

Eitrin was next, his chiseled face aging into jowls by the day despite being yet shy of fifty years. Even a month previous his hair would have held more color. His wife Murana was at his side, dark curls pinned up above her left ear and draped down her right. Her mauve sash hung down to cover her left breast but expose her right as a dangling earring set with pearls and a long necklace of white and ebony plumes adorned the whole look. She was the social one who loved to make an appearance and share gossip, although she had little ambition other than to be seen and admired, and lacked the skills for any treachery. She talked too much and of trivial things.

One who was very mindful of - and clever with - her mouth was Foersa. She sat to Murana's right, not so much by her own choice but that, often to her chagrin, Murana always seemed to love her company and plunk herself down next to. Sometimes Foersa would bid her husband to switch seats with her but on this occasion he had refused.

Across from Murana and Foersa were Taynar and her husband Dax. Quiet and mild Taynar was Falke's cousin, the only child of his mother's only brother. With hair plain and brown and not nearly the chest that the other wives boasted, she had accepted the first offer of marriage from a man of decent means that had come along, to be his diligent wife - for better or for worse.

Falke sat with Dax on his right and Brannar (whose unofficial woman Shai was not in attendance) on his left in the last chair to Gorun's right. Across from Falke was Morro and in the last spot across from Brannar was the reason that Morro had refused to switch places with Foersa - Zora - as he knew that there was often an air of friction between the Queen and his own wife when they were seated beside one another.

The party savored the lavish meal on the last night before embarking on a trek that would remove them from such luxuries for many days. No one seemed trifled by the prospect of casualties, the enemy was regarded as so weak, save for Taynar who always held some sort of resignation towards unfortunate circumstances. Her countenance was expectedly sullen.

"Gast, this knife is dull," muttered Vodo as he struggled to slice his venison, prompting Eitrin to take him by the wrist, remove the knife from his hand, turn it cut edge down and replace it to the drunk and bewildered warrior's grasp.

A shuffling amongst the servant girls behind Rogalo caught the attention of Falke and a couple of others as heads turned to see two of them propping up another on weakened knees. The one in distress was the little golden-haired one named Nikala, and Falke recognized her as the girl whom Eitrin had fucked at that very table on the night that his tryst with the Queen had begun.

"Whatever is the fuss?" Foersa inquired as the girls set the stricken one down with care and she clutched a hand to her mouth before turning away to retch in the corner.

"Some nausea," replied one of the other servants rather apologetically.

"Nausea of the womb, so is the word," Murana winked slyly as she spilled the gossip, then eyed her husband.

"The trouble that a loose woman brings upon herself," Eitrin absolved himself rather smugly as he glanced over at the young girl's ass while she braced herself for the next spitting gag. Eyebrows raised and cheeks blushed at the apparent results of Eitrin's indiscretion. Then Eitrin looked across the table to Dax with a grin most wry. "Your servant gives child so easily yet your wife does not," he chided to a smattering of snickers leaving Taynar to bow her head in shame.

"His wife is an esteemed mother," offered Morro.

"Perhaps I was challenging her husband," Eitrin continued as he arrogantly stretched in his chair and tossed back a mouthful of wine.

"You questioning my manliness?" Dax suddenly rose from his seat. "I have fathered a fine son!" he countered.

"But one," Eitrin shot back with another chuckle.

Dax suddenly took Taynar by the elbow and rather abruptly urged her to her feet. Then with a palm in her back, bid his wife to lean forward until her palms reached the table. Moving behind her, he lifted the hem of her white shift and one of his hands disappeared between her thighs while the other loosened his breeches from his ponchy gut.

"I have no need to prove my manliness," he claimed steadfastly as he set about to prove it anyway. He was going to fuck his wife in front of all in some supposed statement of virility. Drink was likely a factor in the difficulties that Dax had in lining himself up, but with a grunt of disdain and a palm in her back, he bid Taynar bend over yet further. Awkwardly, she heeded and lowered her elbows onto the table as her husband took her from behind, her hanging hair swaying with his thrusts completely obscuring her face, yet utterly hopeless as a shroud of anonymity. To see his own cousin so treated, not much more than an armslength to his right, left Falke revulsed. Tossing his half-eaten flatbread to his plate, he sat back gazing unfocused at the remains of the feast on the table.

"Then don't," he interceded with a dejected sigh.

"Eh?"

"You would denigrate your woman just to spite your jesting needlers," Falke admonished him.

"What?" Dax grunted between strokes. "Heh, there is no shame in fucking among friends," he retorted, citing custom as his justification.

"A poor husband that cannot let his wife define even her own boundaries of shame," said Falke. He was fully aware that his engagement in the matter would only cause more of a scene and yet more embarrassment for his cousin but he had past the point of turning a blind eye. He felt the need to make it clear that he did not approve. Then he rose to dismiss himself from the table. "Imagine finally resorting to fidelity at this of all times," he jabbed to a round of subdued guffaws as he turned to leave.

"Come now, we all know that there is much romance about even if unattached."

Falke turned to see the smirk on Foersa's face as the words left her tangy lips, and it was clear that she was playing up Falke's involvement with her trollop daughter Vera.

"I have no time for your intrigues," Falke shot her a cold warning.

"Intrigues?" Foersa feigned her astonishment, raising her hand and twisting her wrist to place her fingertips upon her chest. "Whatever do you mean, good Falke? I was merely alluding to the notion that little Nikala may not be the only one in Amenja expecting child from other than her husband."

The scheming bitch Foersa was taking the opportunity to try to tell the entire council that Falke had impregnated her daughter! If the anger wasn't already rising in him he would have been rolling his eyes. It was lies of course, but everyone knew who had been in his tent. It would be upon him to disprove. His spot was suddenly an unenviable one. Before he could speak, Gorun did.

"What are you saying?" the King growled lowly as his gaze bared down upon Foersa. The room went quiet as all turned his way, only the unassuming tune of reed and bone ignorantly continuing. Even Dax paused his fucking, and when he slipped out Taynar seized the opportunity to replace her linens and take her seat. Then after a heavy pause, Gorun suddenly slammed his palms upon the table causing all to flinch, and straightened his inebriated legs to stand. His words were slow and growing in rage. "That my Queen carries another man's child?"

Everyone gasped. Falke's hair stood up but Foersa's face was as white as a summer cloud, her eyes wide with the shock of being slapped in the face.

"N-no no, of course not, M'Lord," she chattered. "You misunderstand me. I would never utter such a lie." Gorun's tree-trunk legs trudged slowly and ominously around the corner of the table as he closed in on his prey. Murmurs rose and feet and chairs shuffled. "Please M'Lord, begging your pardon." Falke could not ever recall such a misstep of her tongue, nor seeing Foersa cower so.

"Beg no pardon, filthy woman!" Gorun bellowed as he drew near. "Speak of your own fornications, a sow birthing so many piglets in your time," he spat. The King's arrogant and whimsical self-aggrandizement had absurdly taken her innuendo regarding Falke and Vera as meant for his own bed and not his general's! Looking to Zora for a moment, Falke's heart thumped in his throat at the notion that Gorun may have somehow, even if accidentally, found them out. His mind scrambled for any possible clues that may have been left for him to find. However, the notion was a fleeting one as the King enunciated his next words dramatically. "She ... would ... never! She ... would never DARE!"

Falke's shoulders slumped somewhat at what a blind fool their King was, yet Gorun was the one leading them all. For all they knew the destination could be Hell. Still, this confrontation was not over.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

Zora blinked, caught off-guard, her mind suddenly moving much more quickly than it had in some time. The obnoxious rutting of the councillors was not unexpected, but her eyebrow raised when she heard Falke and Foersa, two that she'd tried to pay less attention to, though for different reasons, batting barbs back and forth at the other end of the table. When Gorun intervened, she felt a tightness in her throat that frightened her. She took some care to let only the offense of Foersa's lie play upon her lips and make whatever guilt she felt, though she did not truly feel guilt, fear, certainly, but no longer guilt, seem as offense as well.

She had a silken red cape that reached the length of her wrists, that might have covered her were it not for the new but undeniable swell of her breasts, one of the first more visible signs of the child within aside from her morning sickness. Her hand held a sweetly soaked handkerchief she could smell when the stink of the meat began to bother her as it had begun to. She clutched it tightly, rising up in her chair behind Gorun, intending to narrow her eyes at the woman who had been so foolish as to play out her ambition in the feasting room instead of in the hallways and chambers she skulked.

Whatever Foersa was playing at, she had to have enough sense to know the danger of her game. The risk she put on her own vile daughter.
For a brief moment, however, her eyes met Falke's, before darting back to Foersa. If she knew the truth of it, held some proof of the truth of it, her head would be gone as swiftly as Ulfur's simply for being the messenger.

It had been not entirely as she'd imagined when Gorun first left her alone at Amenja and her mind began to wander, began to strategize, began to plot. She'd imagined Falke as able, herself as willing and that such a combination could give the plodding slab at the head of their table the result that everyone needed. She'd not thought through how much could change in the making of a child.

As soon as the word slipped from the mouths of the Cizenec healer, the clucking and picking began. The swarm of the servants she'd been able to avoid in her failure had surged forward with the news. It was an odd sense, as she waited for her belly to protrude as she had seen on so many others, that she finally was their equal. The retinue had returned. Assistance for bathing her, daubing her with oils, dressing her, braiding her hair as it was again tonight. Once, she'd thought this would be the sign of her power returning. Messages from Yana dwindled, Rumi, too, disappeared. Now, her idle thoughts were confused, aching, the power she wanted just out of reach.

Gorun had pawed at her once he'd heard from Szargo, bedding her, stroking her, almost childlike in his attentions, almost as though he was forgiving himself for doubting her. For doubting that in her womb was growing a warrior Gorun had believed would bring power and glory to these lands, to him.

But whatever poison found his ear when she was not around did not stop pouring tales of The Magician black as pitch, and he did not return to the bedchambers in the evening. She'd heard word that Gorun had celebrated his Queen's pregnancy by attempting, however uselessly, to cause a few others. The doubt for him was as near to hand as her handkerchief was for her.

The thought that Falke could pay for Foersa's foolish mouth brought her fully to her feet. She raised her arm in front of her, feeling a pulse of rage, of energy, of the Goddesses corporeating overhead, but it frittered away with her breath.

 

[PieTaster]

"Rise from your chair," Gorun commanded and Foersa did so rather gingerly. Falke's heart felt hollow when he saw the tremble in her thigh as she righted herself from the table, despite his not holding any personal warmth for her. Behind the King trailed his Queen, Zora who looked most radiant, not even the blaze of her scarlet attire distracting an eye from her sheer presence. She was in full vivid shine with her golden plaits about her, her bosom plump and nurturing, her hips full and strong. Falke had purposely paid her scant attention all evening, not only to avoid her husband's ire (which she would understand), but also to keep the urge in his gut to touch her, to take her again, at bay (which he was loathe to reveal to her).

Foresa's eyes agonizingly begged for the mercy of their wrathful King's stupid arrogance. Now Foersa's fate ranged from a humiliating dismissal from the feast, to her own death and that of her own unborn, or anything in between. Her gambit may have been treacherous but even she did not deserve any of that. "Fie," Gorun spat in low contempt and Foersa cringed as his paw reached up to her hair that trailed from where it was coiled atop her head. Foersa yelped out as the King with all of his pent-up frustrations, his cruelty needing a release, took firm grasp. Her shriek as he yanked prompted the entire room to erupt into a shuffling rush as nearly everyone took the first steps to stop him yet none followed through to intercede.

"Dear Heavens, My King," Rogalo, so often the voice of reason, finally pleaded most earnestly. "Do consider that the woman is with child."

"Bahh!" Gorun roared and tugged Foersa from her feet and began to drag her by her locks, her throat screaming as her own hands instinctively reached up for his forearm to take the load from her scalp while her heels unable to keep up with the pace of his angry gait flailed to avoid scraping across the stone floor. The two pikemen at the hall entrance turned and marched aside their King as he so unceremoniously transported his quarry out of the fortress and into the yard, the nobles now but a rabble in tow.

"My Liege," Morro pleaded. "Hear me." Torches were grabbed from walls as the throng marched out into the night. The few in the courtyard at that hour, froze and watched with stunned eyes. Voices clamoured from the nobles in tow.

"What will you do with her?"

"Where are you taking her?"

Through the fortress gates they went, Gorun leading them with impatient stomping feet, his quarry grunting in heaving with the discomfort as she scurrying along behind, the sharp sting of her scalp ensuring that she kept pace despite the multiple stumbles. One hand endeavored to hold the roots of her hair in place while the other struggled to keep her hem free of her feet so that they could stay beneath her heavy belly and keep her upright. Curious onlookers held bewildered gazes, some even aghast as they watched the procession in silence but dared not interfere. The group marched between the tents, following the path down to the river, poor Foersa staggering alongside her assailant, whimpering and panting. Finally Gorun brought her to the water's edge, the black current hushing by in the darkness as they gathered round.

"M'Lord, I beseech thee!" cried Morro.

"My King, have mercy!" Rogalo begged.

Gorun ignored them all. "Hurrrraaghhh!" he bellowed as he hurled Foersa by the hair like a heavy rock in a sling, her feet flung up helplessly in the torchlight and then her body splashed into the river. The water churned as Gorun followed her in. There was a tussle followed by a gasping plea, then another slosh and the torchlight glinted off the rippling surface as Gorun exited the river and stormed off back towards the fortress, guards in tow, leaving everyone stunned as he disappeared into the night with only Morro's calls of distress to break the silence.

"Foersa! Foersa, dear! Can you hear me?"

"Help!" his wife called back from the darkness. The direction of her voice was already downstream.

"Foersa!" Morro called out desperately.

"Help me!" Her voice was even further away, competing to be heard over the not-so-distant thunder of the falls. Falke turned to the party on the shore in the torchlight.

"Rope," he said sharply. "Rope! Now!" Brannar and Eitrin quickly departed to fetch it. Falke then turned to Morro. "Come!"

"Foersa! Keep talking!" Morro called out into the darkness. Her voice was their only guide. "We're coming for you!" The two men ran along the bank following her fading voice. When they could not keep up, Morro halted. "She's going 'round the bend. We'll get her on the other side," he panted.

"The rapids," Falke nodded. He knew that it was their best chance. "To the rapids!" he yelled back to the party. "Meet us at the rapids!" The two of them turned and sprinted up the slope and across the rise behind the fortress Amenja. It was good few minutes running that left them breathless as they reached the other bank. Falke gazed into the darkness so near pitch that he couldn't tell when his eyes had regained focus.

"Foersa! Foersa!" called Morro between gasps. "Foersa!!" His breath was ragged from running and such shouting put his lungs to the test. "Foersa!!" They listened.

"She's a good swimmer," Falke offered his encouragement.

"Aye, but the current and rocks mind that not," Morro noted. "Foersa!!"

"Morro!" she called back from the darkness. Adrenaline leapt from their loins at the sound of her voice. She was there somewhere. "I'm here!"

"We're coming for you!" Morro assured her.

"I'm holding on!" her voice called back, nearly drowned by the drone of the falls. "It's cold!"

"There you are!" called Brannar as he descended the bank with coils of rope heaped over each shoulder. Eitrin followed with torchlight.

"I'll go," Falke said, noting that he was younger and stronger. "Pay me out," he instructed, a firm palm on Morro's shoudler, confirming his trust in him. Then hastily removing his tunic, he raised his arms to allow Morro and Brannar to cinch the rope about his waist and with torch in hand he waded out.

Foersa was right. The autumn water was cold, causing his body to clench and his genitals to shrink. Falke steeled himself to ignore it and push through. After a few paces, the torch became useless, all it revealed was the swirls atop the surface around him. He stopped to listen for voices.

"Foersa! I'm here!" he called.

"Help me!"

His ears took a bearing and he continued. Another step and the stones beneath his boots began to drop deeper and he was chest high. Any further and the current would take him. Deciding to use that to his advantage, Falke waded up stream. It was difficult to tell how far in the darkness, only having the torchlight of the onlookers back on the riverbank as a reference.

"Foersa! Keep talking! I'll find you!"

"I'm here!"

Judging the angle of her voice, he took a chance and stepped into the current and the torch went out as he dropped it into the swift waters to swim.

"Foersa!"

"I'm here!" For the first time her voice retained a sharpness against the heavy crush of the falls nearby. The current was taking him closer. Without the torch there was only blackness, barely a glint off of the churning surface. Falke kicked for the bottom and did not reach it and so continued swimming. He had to get as far out as possible before the current took him past his target.

"Foersa!"

"I'm here!" She was very close. Glancing back at the torches for a bearing, he realized that she was between himself and the shore that he was tethered to. He'd passed her.

"'Tis Falke!"

"I hear you!" She was actually upstream of him. Then the rope about his waist jerked taut and his shoulder jammed hard into rock, and he knew that they were in the rapids where the current rushed its hardest, less than a verst from the falls. The current was far too swift to swim against but the rope, which had caught around something, likely another rock held his fast. Gripping the rope with all his might he pulled himself against the current towards Foersa's calls. "Falke! Where are you? It's dark!"

"I'm Here!" he answered. Slowly he made headway but with nothing to take up the slack in the rope his arms now had to bear the full force and they were tiring. He kicked his feet to keep his head above water and found a foothold. Bracing himself there he gave his aching arms a rest.

"Falke! I hear you!" she called against the incessant thrash of the rapids. From the shore it was such a peaceful sound, a soothing rhythm to ease one's sleep, but from within its midst it was pure relentless rage.

Strength gathered, Falke resumed tugging himself upstream by the rope. He made a little more headway, but his arms were soon tiring again and there was no more foothold beneath his kicking legs, just smooth rock to his left flank. His soaked boots were heavy. He wished that he had discarded them with his tunic but the moment had been too urgent to unwrap them.

"Falke!" Her voice was terribly close now, clearer than ever. Before he could return her call he felt a tug in the crook of his elbow. It was Foersa, trying to pull him out of the rushing flow.

"The rope! The rope!" he urged her as he raised his fist out of the water and waved it with his best effort until her hand found it and pulled. He he let the slack slide over his palm until he felt it taut around his waist once more.

Then it let go and he was dashed away in the current, submerged and limbs flailing. The line had slipped from whatever it had been hooked on and Falke felt the stones brushing against his back until the rope jolted taut once more. He kicked his feet and found bottom easily, so easily in fact that he could stand waist high in the current to great relief. The rock sloped up before him and he began to crawl up it's surface.

"Falke!" Foersa screamed, her throat hoarse with fear.

"I'm here!" he called back. He crawled up to the top of the stone, smoothed by centuries of rapid spring runoff, and stood. It was cold, uncomfortably so, but that was all right. The hardest part was done. He could see the torches on the shore and waved but was sure that they could not see him in the darkness. Then he looked down to see Foersa, her pregnant form doused in the luminescent foam of the rushing water that dashed her. She was standing waist deep in the water, her back against the rock on which he stood with nowhere to go. He slithered down next to her.

"Falke!" she cried in exasperation. Her jaw was chattering heavily from the cold.

"But a moment!" he advised her as he undid the rope from his waist and wrangled to take some length. As it was now thoroughly soaked, it was much heavier and more difficult to work with. Lopping it around Foersa, he cinched it up under her bust and pulled the end through, then he did the same about himself, letting the long end trail away into the water as the excess length was no longer needed. Then leaning back against the rock, he lifted his left foot and unwrapped the boot, tossing it over his shoulder and away, then did the same with the right. The water was icy cold on his feet but his legs would be much lighter for the return trip.

"Right then!" he said. "Ready?"

"Now is better than later!" she confirmed through her shivering jaw.

"Hold on!" He put his arm around her and she did the same. "Morro!" he called. "Morro! Pull!!"

"Falke! Are you all right?"

"Yes! Pull!" he answered. "Pull like a good bastard!!"

"What?"

"Pull! PULL!!"

"PULL!" Foersa joined in.

It would take them a moment or two to pick up the slack but soon there was a tug on the line and the next thing that they knew they were yanked back into the current. Voices on the shore could be heard urging the team to pull. Falke kicked to help them along and he felt Foersa kick too. Falke's leg hit a rock and the side of his knee smarted, but he kicked on. Slowly they were drawing closer to the torches and voices on the bank but the current was still swinging them like a horizontal pendulum downstream. Soon his toe found more stone and jammed painfully but he realized that the water was shallow enough to stand. He righted himself and Foersa found the bottom too. It was over. They could wade in to shore from there. Morro rushed to meet them as he saw them sloshing in the torchlight and dropped the slack.

"Foersa!" he cried as he put his arms around his wife and the crowd on the bank began splashing into the shallows of the river to meet them. As they stepped out of the water Taynar was the first to wrap a bear skin around the pregnant woman's shivering and chattering form and begin to rub her dry. Falke was cold himself, the river dripping from his hair, down his body and running freely from his breeches, freezing his toes. He looked over to Foersa. She did not need to thank him. He could see the gratitude in her humbled eyes. Morro took his hand and pulled him close.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

Zora blinked, as she felt the energy in the room shift. How strange and terrible to hold her breath for this woman who would be more than happy to see Gorun’s rage turned against her. If, somehow, now that there were more overt signs that Zora was with child, she was meant to befriend Foersa and see in her some sort of ally, she was not so far gone as that. But the warlord had been increasingly erratic since Naescius sent his half-dead messenger and truly, she did not know where his fury would turn from one moment to the next. She had seen him in his war-lust once before, when Amenja was taken. If the prophecy, such as she could understand it, was broken for Gorun, if he stopped believing for a moment...it seemed to her that he would lose whatever civilizing that had been done to him. And as he refused to lose his faith, now that it was coming to fruition, he would break the doubters.

Zora glanced around the room, glanced at all of the concerned, frightened faces, trying not to add her own to their company. She saw Falke - the risk of it all, the gift of it all – all shades of her own emotion being understood to her in a single moment. How the men followed Gorun even unto their ruin. Could not one of them be better than this? Couldn’t she? Amenja had never been without machinations amongst its rulers and their courts, but these had always been cold threats, put down readily by a loyal and sensible sort.

She felt a deflated sort of relief when Rogalo spoke up, but it did no good. Pleading drew no mercy from his bulging eyes, the swell in his muscled arms. Zora felt herself swept along with everyone in the room as they followed this madness outside the fortress walls. She found herself calling out to him, but her voice fell in with a chorus of others. The smell of flame upon the air, a chill quickly finding her skin, Zora lost and found a view of the poor woman as they moved quickly forward through the gates.
There was no delight in observing Foersa’s suffering and stumbling, it so readily reminded her of her own which at least she had the benefit of enduring mostly behind doors. They were moving towards the river, towards the waters that did so much of its own work in secret beneath the fortress’ complex.

She found herself silently stepping nearer to Falke, out of some sense of...it was not sense that moved her as Morro cried out for his wife’s life. The sound, the shock, of their mad king as he flung the woman and her unborn into the river, that moved through them. For a brief moment, but longer than was wise, she caught Falke’s eye. Something felt crystal and certain in her mind. They could not endure this. Her child raised to die in some war or another to appease him. What people could follow such a man as Gorun?

The scene seemed to suddenly speed back up, moving faster than she could follow. For a moment, she worried that Gorun would yank her arm and tear her back inside with him, but he did not seem to register her as he returned inside. Perhaps the cold of the water revived his senses, but that did Foersa no good.

Suddenly, she heard Falke’s voice leading and a swirl of people began to undertake a rescue as, under her breath, Zora began a quiet prayer to Reyja to see the woman saved. She could hardly deny the terrible twinge of feeling that ran through her, knotted to her fears and hopes, as she watched the general step into the water. Her hand drew itself up to her belly as she stood alone in the crowd, shivering, imaging every terrible fate that might be planned in those dark waters.

There were shouts and quiet and shouts and the women huddled around one another as the men held tight to the guiding rope, but did not seek to bring her any aid. She wrapped her arms around herself, but refused to leave until she knew their fate.

She let out all the air in her lungs when finally, they returned from the rapids with Foersa. Watching Falke emerge from the water, soaking wet, her mind wandered madly as to how she would warm him. Whose bed should be his.

She did not know how she might arrange this, on this night of all nights, but the ache in her was as fierce as the chill on the wind and she could not fathom lying next to Gorun after such a scene. Selfish, she was being selfish, but she did not care. She scanned the crowd, however, briefly for Vera but did not see her rushing to her mother’s aid, but she could not be far.

As Taynar had hurried to taken care of Foersa, another of the servants rushed up with another skin on her arm to offer Falke. Taking it firmly out of the hands of the woman who seemed to relinquish it out of sheer surprise at the swift and sudden interjection of the Queen, Zora handed him the well-tanned skin to wrap around himself. As though there was no need to mention that the only reason Foersa was in danger was because their King was displeased, because he was entirely out of control, Zora used her most magisterial tone, enough to make most of the others take a step or two back. “You have done one of our number a great service this evening, Falke. Surely the council must meet and offer you some boon as you desire.”

A murmur of general agreement followed, and then there was a cry to bring Falke ale in vast quantities to help with the now obvious, if not debilitating injuries he’d taken during the rescue. An uncomfortable cheer and laughter rippled through the crowd before Rogalo encouraged everyone back inside for the necessary drink. All others, back to their tents.

As if it could all be so simply forgotten, the crowd began to disperse. The lords and their wives following Morro and Foersa, the serving girls disappearing into the shadows, all who had gathered since to see what had happened that caused such a terrible ruckus, slowly left as well, muttering to one another their opinions. Here, now, she could see Vera running up from the tents, walking next to her mother who leaned on the girl’s shoulder.

Zora hung back, taking the briefest opportunity to match Falke’s stride in public some paces behind the others. She did not look his way, though it was unimaginably difficult to There was barely a moment before the words slipped out in a whisper she could not possibly repeat.

“I cannot be away from you tonight.”

She quickened her pace, unsure of whether she had been heard, unsure of what would await her in her chambers.

 

[PieTaster]

As the autumn night chill licked the water from his skin, Falke began to shiver quite heavily even as the skin wrapped about him and he clutched the opening tight beneath his chin with his fist.

"You have done one of our number a great service this evening, Falke. Surely the council must meet and offer you some boon as you desire."

It was only when she spoke that he raised his eyes to see that it was Zora. Face to face with her for the first time in weeks, he took in the orange flicker in her eyes and the angelic corona of her golden hair from the torchlight of the crowd that was hastily gathering and was stricken with a pang for her embrace. What he desired could not be offered by the council.

"It was a group effort," he dismissed after a moment with a shake of his head. It had been quite the scene and as villagers gathered, his name was called as he began to trudge up the grassy slope in his bare feet and with a limp from his bruised left knee. At the top of the rise, ale came by the jug thrust before him with hearty slaps upon the shoulders and back. With a shaky free hand extending from the cloak he snatched the closest mug and took a frothy swig before handing back, wiping his gob on his cuff and waving for some space. Morro helped to move the congratulatory mob along and after a moment there was relative peace. With his breath almost fully regained but his muscles still not finished with their trembling, Falke stopped. In the distance, the silhouettes of Taynar and Vera led the shadow of a huddled and gibbering Foersa off to her home among the larger yurts.

"I cannot be away from you tonight."

Falke perked up at Zora's voice close behind him. He was surprised that she was still there, that she might linger so, but not so much by her message itself. Then with a flourish of her silken cape, she breezed by and away to her place in the fortress.

"That was beyond commendable," said Morro as he clasped Falke by the shoulder.

"You would have done the same," Falke remarked.

"Should this old body still be able," Morro agreed. "But the will in an instant, aye." The two generals looked into each other's eyes and need not say another word. They understood that Gorun was a problem. He was out of control.

In his yurt, dried off and warmed by fire, Falke lost his shivers yet the bones in his fingers and toes were still cold. Redressed in fresh tunic breeches and boots with a warm night coat, he ventured into the peace of the settled night, stepping out with his head hooded as his hair was still damp. The darkness of the sky thick with cloud would not relent since the rescue and as such Falke had to tread slowly down the path, feeling his way, as he could not risk taking a torch and being seen. At various points he thought that he might have lost the way, but turning back to gauge the amber of the camp fires over the horizon eventually he found the stones of the gully beneath his feet. The uneven steps caused the occasional wince from his tender knee, nut he knew that the welt was temporary. Still more time it took to locate the slit entrance in the rock to the cave, but a glance at the skies before exhaling all of his breath to wedge himself inside showed no aurora. Dawn was not yet at hand. The fit was tight. He'd gained weight since the first time he'd visited, so he removed his coat and held it at armslength to shimmy through. Inside it was black as pitch and his hip caught on iron. It was a wheel that he'd not noticed before. With a grunting effort he turned it and felt the rock close upon the entrance. That was how it had been hidden year after year. He surmised that Zora herself must have cracked it open for him on his visits and returned to close it when the opportunity arose. Sliding along the rock wall, he entered the chamber, continuing to follow the smooth sculpted stone until he found a torch in its mount. Redonning his leather coat, he took a flint from the pocket and lit the end.

 

[TheQueenofCups]

As the autumn night chill licked the water from his skin, Falke began to shiver quite heavily even as the skin wrapped about him and he clutched the opening tight beneath his chin with his fist.

"You have done one of our number a great service this evening, Falke. Surely the council must meet and offer you some boon as you desire."

It was only when she spoke that he raised his eyes to see that it was Zora. Face to face with her for the first time in weeks, he took in the orange flicker in her eyes and the angelic corona of her golden hair from the torchlight of the crowd that was hastily gathering and was stricken with a pang for her embrace. What he desired could not be offered by the council.

"It was a group effort," he dismissed after a moment with a shake of his head. It had been quite the scene and as villagers gathered, his name was called as he began to trudge up the grassy slope in his bare feet and with a limp from his bruised left knee. At the top of the rise, ale came by the jug thrust before him with hearty slaps upon the shoulders and back. With a shaky free hand extending from the cloak he snatched the closest mug and took a frothy swig before handing back, wiping his gob on his cuff and waving for some space. Morro helped to move the congratulatory mob along and after a moment there was relative peace. With his breath almost fully regained but his muscles still not finished with their trembling, Falke stopped. In the distance, the silhouettes of Taynar and Vera led the shadow of a huddled and gibbering Foersa off to her home among the larger yurts.

"I cannot be away from you tonight."

Falke perked up at Zora's voice close behind him. He was surprised that she was still there, that she might linger so, but not so much by her message itself. Then with a flourish of her silken cape, she breezed by and away to her place in the fortress.

"That was beyond commendable," said Morro as he clasped Falke by the shoulder.

"You would have done the same," Falke remarked.

"Should this old body still be able," Morro agreed. "But the will in an instant, aye." The two generals looked into each other's eyes and need not say another word. They understood that Gorun was a problem. He was out of control.

In his yurt, dried off and warmed by fire, Falke lost his shivers yet the bones in his fingers and toes were still cold. Redressed in fresh tunic breeches and boots with a warm night coat, he ventured into the peace of the settled night, stepping out with his head hooded as his hair was still damp. The darkness of the sky thick with cloud would not relent since the rescue and as such Falke had to tread slowly down the path, feeling his way, as he could not risk taking a torch and being seen. At various points he thought that he might have lost the way, but turning back to gauge the amber of the camp fires over the horizon eventually he found the stones of the gully beneath his feet. The uneven steps caused the occasional wince from his tender knee, nut he knew that the welt was temporary. Still more time it took to locate the slit entrance in the rock to the cave, but a glance at the skies before exhaling all of his breath to wedge himself inside showed no aurora. Dawn was not yet at hand. The fit was tight. He'd gained weight since the first time he'd visited, so he removed his coat and held it at armslength to shimmy through. Inside it was black as pitch and his hip caught on iron. It was a wheel that he'd not noticed before. With a grunting effort he turned it and felt the rock close upon the entrance. That was how it had been hidden year after year. He surmised that Zora herself must have cracked it open for him on his visits and returned to close it when the opportunity arose. Sliding along the rock wall, he entered the chamber, continuing to follow the smooth sculpted stone until he found a torch in its mount. Redonning his leather coat, he took a flint from the pocket and lit the end.

Zora had sat very still in her bed. Gorun had not returned even now after that terrible scene. Her muscles felt tight as if wild horses couldn't pull her from the spot, waiting for the door to burst open. For the story to continue in its usual way with the warlord's frustrations and impotence hers to resolve. But the door did not open and she knew she could not stay here – the words echoed in her mind – she couldn't stay here, away from Falke, waiting for a chance to suffer.

If such things were possible as glimmered back at her in the skin of the water...the shape of her body transforming as if the Goddess was inventing her child from within evening after evening, then how could she sit here like a fool. Falke's heroics tonight...there was bravery there for her to follow, too. It felt somehow as if Gorun were useless. Pitiable in how useless he was for his people...for her. Zora stood up from the bed.

Prayer would suit such an evening. If the servants were not huddled around their own tonight, they were not worried over her. Gorun was either out hunting a beast he could not be shamed to kill or fucking one or another of the sleepy-eyed girls who made no further use of themselves to Amenja than that. No. The warlord's prophetic hold over her was as weak as his seed. She gathered up two warm cloaks, a bag of herbs, dried flowers and stones that settled at her hip. She took advantage of the hidden passageways to slip back out into the night, only taking care that she was not seen disappearing.

A silent welcome in her eyes, Zora made her way down to the temple, memories fluttering through her, taking each tension she held in its turn and softening it. She followed the unmarked steps, the turns through the stone until she arrived in darkness of the Shrine of the Three Daughters.

She did not know if he would join her, it wasn't wise, of course, and she spent a few moments looking after each of the three altars within the shrine. She turned another nigh invisible stone at back wall to the left, a secret made to open a small window at the top of the shrine carefully designed to catch silvery moonlight or the bright glow of the sun. There was no wind this time to send its warnings to lash at her through the opening and there was enough dim light this evening to give her comfort in the darkness. Each, however, looked remarkably clean – something Yana had taken care of once. She reached her hand out of the red dress and cape to touch the carving, more specific, more recent memories finding her here and almost overtaking her attention. She touched her stomach, and an old prayer in old language came from her lips unbidden.

A light caught her before any recognition of footsteps or the crunching of stones. Falke had come for her. If she was surprised at this, her hope for it surpassed it swiftly along with a distracting tightness between her legs. The Beast...a memory of this place began to rise in her mind from the time before the arrival of the Cizenecs when there was only her people and their words. Vaestred's Wolf, she'd heard it called in her youth, with little understanding. She knew it now, though. This was hunger a woman could feel even with a full belly, feel with her aching cunt as though she walked with a hunting wolf at the center of her thighs.

“Hello..." She paused, running her hand through her hair to draw it off her neck and its tendrils from her cheeks. "You must please Vaestred. The goddess has let me keep you even through such trials.” She took a blue petaled flower from the pouch at her hip and lay it on the altar. “Let me warm you. Shall I show you a Queen's gratitude for all you have done for Amenja? For my goddess? In the old ways, a hero must be given a service for such gifts.” She let all the various meanings playfully move over her words.

A strange relaxation passed over her as she spoke – one that she hadn't experienced since the last time they had been alone together. Needful as she was, her head was clear. It seemed so cruelly long and while she felt eager to end this distance, to reclaim their connection. Whatever Gorun's rage, even if he searched under every stone that made the fortress for them, she would stay here until they both were sated.

 

[PieTaster]

"Hello. You must please Vaestred. The goddess has let me keep you even through such trials."

She was already there. In the past he would have smirked at such a comment. He did understand the forces of nature and the elements that were powerful beyond men, but had never fully embraced the notion that such powers might be wielded by those deemed Gods or Goddesses - that is until Naescius' silver lake shook the very foundations of his beliefs.

"I would not be one to argue with her tastes," he quipped stoicly. Perhaps it was a trick of his weary eyes in the torchlight, but over Zora's shoulder across the room, the Goddess' face of stone almost seemed to be grinning.

"Let me warm you. Shall I show you a Queen's gratitude for all you have done for Amenja? For my Goddess? In the old ways, a hero must be given a service for such gifts."

"It is not necessary," he said quietly, downplaying his act of bravery, even somewhat uncomfortable with such laurels, "but on this night I shall not be one to resist." Their eyes met. There was no hiding, no secrecy between them, unlike at the council feast. It had been a month since they had been alone together, seemed like hours and felt like years. His body was tired. He had been marching for weeks and was now ordered to turn about and march straight back from whence he had ventured. His muscles were sore and tired even before he had jumped into the river that left his feet and fingers still chilled. He ached for her comforts, her touch like no one ever before her. Zora had laid out an array of goods, cloaks, herbs and the like. The blue flower itself was certainly a curiosity. It was more of her medicines, that she would perhaps refer to as magic, the same kind of craft that Szargo might employ and that Naescius had yet taken to another level. He looked up from the altar, back at Zora, her golden locks shimmering orange in the flames, and with a limp from his smarting knee he stepped towards her to take her body into his arms, and with a long slow sigh of relief slumped himself against her as cool air sifted down through an opening in the ceiling that he had not been previously aware of to surround them.