“Finally, dinner is here,” rumbled Lord Dankirk Fan-Bjorn, Duke of Lyndwyr as a Druid kitten entered his dining hall and knelt before his table holding a heavy silver tray. The kitten kept her head bowed and lifted the tray above her head as she awaited the Duke's command. Dankirk gave his fingers an impatient series of snaps, signalling another Druid, the elder sister of the first, to set the tray on Dankirk's table and uncover it. Dankirk took a deep and luxurious breath of the aroma that wafted up from the steaming red meat, cooked laboriously to perfection by both of the Druids before him over the course of most of the day. It was a meal he had long anticipated, and he planned to savor it.
Picking up the massive knife and tongs beside him, Dankirk cut several thick slices from the meat and heaped them onto his tray. As he set the knife and tongs down and reached for his fork, with his other hand he picked up a heavy whip that lay on the table beside him, giving it a thunderous crack on the granite floor beside him. At this signal his chamber musician, a Druid steer (who had been the sire of the two kittens before he was cut), lifted a reed flute to his lips and began to play. The kittens, both of them far nearer to Dankirk's table and within reach of the whip, cringed and whimpered at the sound, which brought a wicked smile to Dankirk's face.
“Heel!” Dankirk snapped. Immediately the younger kitten rose to her feet, and both of them scampered with short, choppy, tip-toed steps around the table to opposite sides of Dankirk's heavy iron chair. Once at his side, they knelt, lowered their faces toward the floor and each began licking one of his feet. Their mother taught them well, Dankirk noted as he took his first mouthful from his plate. As he bit into the tender morsel he closed his eyes and a long, low, rumbling sound of contentment escaped his throat. “Exquisite,” he said in between chews.
Then the whip came down again, this time on the bare back of the older of the two kittens. “Dance!” he commanded as the Druid cried out in pain. With the two quick whimpers they had been trained to utter to mean “yes,” both druids crawled backward three paces, rose to their knees, then to their feet in unison and hurried with the same scurrying steps toward the center of the dining hall and began to dance to the tune played by the musician. The music was erratic and simple, but the steer could hardly be expected to do better. His tongue and both thumbs had been cut off on the same day as his manhood. The music mattered little to Dankirk, however. Its main purpose was to set the tempo and rhythm for the dancers.
It was Dankirk's habit to have two Druids as his entertainment in this fashion, dueling to surpass each other in raw and wanton lustfulness as they twisted and writhed before Dankirk's ravenous eyes. The winner would spend the evening in Dankirk's bed, where she would have the chance, if she continued pleasing him, to earn the privilege of eating the next day. For the younger of these two, tonight was her first time competing this way. The older had done this virtually every night for the past five years, competing against (and more-often-than-not, losing to) her mother.
Until recently, when its mother started showing its age, Dankirk thought as he began chewing another huge bite of meat. Though I suppose, even when a Druid-cow outlives its value in the bedchamber, there's always one last use for it.
Dankirk's reverie was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entry of a door-sentinel. “His Royal Highness, Prince Drevin Fan-Bjorn,” the sentinel announced, though the announcment was made superfluous by Drevin's entry into the dining hall before the word “royal” had escaped the sentinel's mouth.
Right on time, Dankirk suppressed a chuckle as he rose from his chair and stepped out from behind his table to bow. “My dear nephew,” Dankirk said with a paternal smile. “This is both an honor and a delight. I pray, Your Highness, join me at my table.”
Drevin glanced at the tray on the table and made an uncomfortable swallowing noise, then turned his eyes back to Dankirk. “I haven't much of an appetite tonight, and I must be brief. I-”
“Then at least join me for a spot of wine,” Dankirk interrupted, enjoying the youth's unease. “Please,” he added before Drevin could answer, “I insist.” Dankirk's eyes locked with Drevin's, where Dankirk could see the annoyance and barely-concealed rage beneath them. He pretended not to notice the young man clenching and unclenching his fists. This is working better than I could have hoped, he thought as he forced himself not to grin.
“Well, if my dear uncle insists,” Drevin spoke slowly and crisply, his eyes neither parting from Dankirk's nor softening as he approached the dining table and seated himself, “I'll join His Grace for a drink.” He finished the sentence with deliberate emphasis, “as I discuss what brought me here.”
Oh, I know exactly what brought you here, lad. “Highness, Highness,” Dankirk said reprovingly as he returned to his seat at the dining table and poured wine into silver goblets, first for himself and then for Drevin. “You needn't be so guarded here. You're among family. Relax! Shed your concerns. Care to amuse yourself with a Druid?” He motioned to the two dancers. “I've had these two for quite some time. Collared them both, and the musician for that matter, on the last great hunt, same as yours. The younger is barely ripe -about 14 winters now- but the older is about your age, and they both have fine pedigrees.”
With that, Dankirk reached for a smaller plate beside the main dish where two, bite-sized white orbs sat soaked in wine. He picked up one of these and turned it over in his fingers until he could see the pupil and the deep, bold purple iris. “Yes, a fine pedigree indeed,” he mused as he popped the eye into his mouth, reveling in the way the juices soaked his tongue as he bit down on it.
Drevin made a coughing noise that almost covered his rising bile as he shifted in his chair with visible discomfort, and for a moment Dankirk admired the boy's guile, masking his discomfiture by taking a long drought of wine. “It's funny Your Grace mentions Druids of pedigree,” Drevin said stiffly as his wine went down. “As it happens-”
Dankirk guffawed loudly. “Yes, yes, it's a thing you would know something about I suppose, isn't it?” Putting his knife and fork down, he picked up the whip once more and cracked it against the floor beside him. “Come!” he commanded. Immediately, the musician put down his flute, and the dancers ceased their dance and hurried to opposite sides of Dankirk's chair where they knelt and resumed licking his feet as before. “Beg!” Dankirk commanded with another crack of the whip, and both rose to their knees, clasped their hands before them pleadingly, lifted their eyes to Dankirk and extended their tongues from their open mouths. “That one I branded for you 12 years ago,” he addressed Drevin again, “was well-sired. The Alpha of their entire warren, as I recall.”
Drevin ground his teeth, keeping his eyes fixed directly onto Dankirk. Though his smile looked companionable enough, Dankirk noted the smile did not touch anywhere near his eyes, which burned with poorly concealed fury. “My esteemed uncle has a memory like a fine-edged blade,” Drevin said, visibly nearing the end of his patience. “And in fact-”
“I know, I know,” Dankirk raised a hand to silence Drevin before turning his attention momentarily to the two Druids. He dipped his finger into the sauce around the meat and placed its tip onto the tongue of the older Druid. She flitted her eyelids gratefully at Dankirk as she closed her lips around his finger and gave a langourous moan as she slurped. Dankirk then dipped his finger into the sauce again and repeated this with the younger. “Yes, your mother did a fine job with you two,” he said huskily. After spearing another bite with his fork he held the fork before both of their eyes and grinned. “And you do did a fine job with her as well.” As Drevin failed to hide an impatient and exasperated sigh, Dankirk glanced at him again. “Be at ease, my young lord. I know why you've come.”
Drevin's countenance altered immediately. “Do you?” The tone was less a question than it was a challenge to get to the point.
Dankirk nodded. “Aye, I do.” After forking one more bite into his mouth, he propped his elbows on the table and crossed his hands before him, giving Drevin a more serious look. “And I must confess, lad. Frankly, I'm disappointed in you,” he said through a mouthful.
Drevin said nothing, but he crossed his arms, straightened in his chair a bit and raised an eyebrow defiantly.
Dankirk swallowed the mouthful he was chewing and gave Drevin an admonishing look. “The plain truth is, lad, that was rather a sorry gift you sent to your father.”
Drevin's face slowly melted from defiance to confusion. “A sorry... gift?”
“Aye, lad. When a king is going to hand his kingdom over to you, a decent respect to your own standing in the world's eyes, not to mention a dram of filial piety, ought to compel you to give some token of esteem in return.” After wiping meat drippings from his beard, Dankirk went on in a lower tone. “And Drevin... one Druid? A used Druid at that?” He gave Drevin a moment to ponder his words before delivering one final remark with a slow and disapproving shake of his head. “Highness, it's only to spare you the loss of face that Ramogoth accepted it into his stable at all.”
Drevin was silent for a while, and Dankirk heard the youth's breath coming in trembling fits as the effort of maintaining his unconvincing veneer of calm became more than he could muster. When Drevin finally spoke, his voice sounded like a silken sheeth over a poison blade. “So then, uncle, this Druid my father so, graciously, accepted, is in his stable right now?”
Dankirk stroked his beard slowly, then shrugged. “I'd suppose it is for now. He'd most likely wait until morning before throwing it to the hounds. That way the guards can have some sport betting on which dog gets the biggest piece.”
Drevin pulled his chair back from the table and rose so quickly that the chair fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, prompting whimpering cries from both of the dancers as they cringed beneath the table. “By your leave, uncle, I... I'll... I must...” Drevin failed to finish forcing a sentence through his gritted teeth before he finally turned and strode out of the dining hall, his right hand already at his left hip grasping the hilt of his sword.
Once the door closed behind the prince, Dankirk grinned broadly. “Child's play,” he murmured, cutting off a piece of fat from the tray in front of him. “Here,” he called as he tossed this across the room, where it landed on the floor in front of the musician. “Something to remember your mate by.” As Dankirk spoke, the musician eagerly picked up the sliver of fat and wolfed it down, and Dankirk returned his attention to the two kneeling beside his chair.
With a mockingly regretful expression, Dankirk turned his eyes toward the older. “Seems you weren't hungry enough to put on much of a show tonight,” he said as he waved his hand dismissively. “Maybe tomorrow you'll do better.” As the Druid whimpered, Dankirk turned toward the younger one with a wolfish gleam in his eye. “You, though,” his voice took on a rumbling, primal tone as he reached a hand toward her, clutched her hair and pulled her onto his lap.
The Druid on Dankirk's lap silenced her yelps of pain from being tugged by the hair and cast anxious, hopeful eyes toward his face. “My... Milord,” she whispered, barely audibly, uncertain if she should speak. “Was my dance pleasing? Was I appealing?”
Dankirk traced his rough hand along the length of her leg, grasping her thigh tightly enough to leave a bruise. “Little one,” he said as the Druid winced. “You looked absolutely... delicious.”
The emerald disk of Verdania was fully above the Eastern horizon line, casting its mossy glow over the land below by the time Drevin pounded his fist against the door of Rafnir's chamber. Scant seconds passed in silence before he repeated this. “Rafnir,” he called out as he beat on the door the third time. “Raf, it's me.” His fist was raised, ready to hit the door again when it opened.
Rafnir stood, dressed only in a pair of ogre's hide trousers that he appeared to have hastily donned. “Highness,” he greeted sleepily. “I mean no offense, but-”
“Earlier today on Bullwhip Hill,” Drevin interrupted Rafnir's protests, “We spoke of dark days ahead. And you said to me, 'you have my sword and my arm.' Do you remember?”
Rafnir gave his head a clearing shake and seemed to realize something was amiss. “Drevin, why isn't Lucia with you?”
“Do you remember it?” Drevin pressed with a pleading note entering his normally domineering voice.
Alertness began to come over Rafnir. He met Drevin's gaze momentarily, then held up one finger. “A moment, prince,” was all he said as he closed the door. When it re-opened moments later, Rafnir was nowhere to be seen. The Countess Velkyr, a noblewoman of some 30 years, emerged clutching a velvet nightgown around herself and giving Drevin an awkward, sheepish bow of recognition. She was followed a moment later by her younger sister and Rafnir, now with his sword-belt around his waist. Though he still wore no tunic, he was in the process of draping a light chainmail mantle over his arms. “Forgive me, M'lady,” Rafnir said in a voice that was deep and quiet as he took the younger lady by the crook of her elbow. “A knight's work is never done. I do hope the three of us can-”
“For the love of the gods, Rafnir!” Drevin hissed.
The lady pulled her arm free, but gave Rafnir a meaningful smile over her shoulder as she walked away. Once she was a few steps away Rafnir turned to Drevin, his expression now serious. “Speak plain, Drevin.”
“Lucia has been taken from me,” Drevin blurted, barely keeping his voice low enough not to draw attention from the two departing ladies.
Rafnir nodded once. “So who dies for this?”
“That comes later,” Drevin replied. “First, I need your help going to retrieve her.”
“Well and good then,” Rafnir answered, closing the door behind him. “So where are we going?”
“To the Pleasure Wing,” Drevin answered as the two set off.
Rafnir's eyebrows raised questioningly. “And you need my aid?”
Drevin's feet did not slow, but his words did. “She's on the third floor.”
Rafnir's mouth made an “O” shape and he missed a step before recovering his bearing. “I see. Well, it's as good a night as any to die I suppose.”
“How lucky for the guards,” Drevin snarled.
Ramsdel castle's “Pleasure Wing” was a part of the fortress set aside for the relaxation of the lords of the court, well-stocked with Druidic pets, their bodies toned by ceaseless conditioning to make them more alluring and minds warped by hypnomancy to make them more lustful and docile. It was a place for the lords to have those whims and fancies fulfilled that they could not utter to Human women. It was lightly guarded, and open to any scion of Human nobility.
Its third floor, the King's Stable, was a different matter entirely. Sealed off from the other two floors and accessible only from an exterior entrance to an enclosed stairway at the far end of the wing, this floor was forbidden territory for any man other than Ramogoth. Its guards, the Order of Crawgath, were trained from childhood as warriors, and practiced a religion which recognized no deity but the King of Drakmark. Hardened by a lifetime of deprivation and brutality, and sharpened by both their faith and their martial code, their ferocity and their fanatical devotion to their self-styled god made them the object of nightmares.
In addition to guarding the King's person, this elite order's duties included serving as executioners in cases where unusual brutality was needed, and for the most loyal, guarding the King's Stable with a simple mandate: any man other than Ramogoth seeking to enter, or any woman seeking to leave, dies. The Order was known for not leaving enough of the bodies of their targets to be recognized.
Outside the Pleasure Wing lay the lush, sprawling palace garden. It was here, across the broad, green expanse from the entrance to the King's Stable and hidden by distance from the eyes and ear of the guards, that Drevin and Rafnir stood, planning what anyone else in Drakmark would have called suicide.
“Two Disciples of Crawgath,” Rafnir commented appraisingly as he stared across the garden at the statuesque brutes. Verdania's glow made their polished black armor gleam a menacing, reptilian shade. “Each one stands about a head taller than the doorway, and I'd wager their arms are as big around as our waists.” With a click of his tongue he added, “I must say, Highness, when you said you were planning to spill an ocean of blood for her, I didn't know you meant ours.”
“I may have neglected a few of the details,” Drevin quipped. “Now jokes be damned, Rafnir, we need a plan.”
Rafnir nodded. “Indeed we do, Highness.” For a long moment, nothing was said. Finally, Rafnir prodded Drevin further. “So, have we a plan?”
“Yes,” Drevin answered after a pause. “That is, we have part of a plan.”
Rafnir raised an eyebrow. “I'm listening.”
“The plan, as I see it now,” Drevin spoke calmly, “is this. We kill them.” There was a pause. “Then we enter, retrieve Lucia, and run before anyone notices two dead Crawgathites.”
Rafnir waited to see if there was more, before slowly nodding again. “A worthy plan, Prince,” he answered in a dry tone. “Though perhaps you could clarify part of it for me.”
“And that is?”
“Well, I seem to have missed the part where the gods agreed to swoop down from Heaven, smite our foes for us and cover our escape,” was Rafnir's response. “What signal has Your Highness arranged for them to give us to let us know when they're ready?”
Drevin gave Rafnir an annoyed glare. “Well, your sense of humor is as bad as ever. I'll take that to mean your courage hasn't failed you.”
Rafnir looked confused. “My sense of humor? You thought I was joking then?”
“What would you have me do then? Give up?” Drevin's voice came out in a fiery hiss as he forced a shout down to a whisper. “For the love of the gods, Raf...”
“The gods,” Rafnir cut Drevin off. “Your Highness, that's it. That's brilliant!”
Drevin froze, fearing his friend had lost his mind. “So, now you think they ARE going to swoop down from-”
“No, no Drevin,” Rafnir interrupted. “Not our gods. Theirs.”
Drevin blinked blankly. “I... I don't...”
“Highness,” Rafnir sounded breathless and excited as he always did when plotting. “You're the son of Ramogoth.”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it, I do seem to recall hearing something to that effect here or there,” Drevin answered with a roll of his eyes. “What of it?”
Rafnir gave Drevin a lopsided grin that Drevin's mirror would have recognized. “Who does the Order of Crawgath worship?”
Drevin contemplated Rafnir's words for an instant, then shook his head. “That won't protect me the moment I set one foot across the threshold of that door.”
“No,” Rafnir agreed. “But what about before that?” Silence greeted Rafnir's question, so Rafnir went on. As Drevin listened, Rafnir outlined a plan. Like most of Rafnir's plans, the most cunning thing about it was its simplicity and directness.
When Rafnir was finished, Drevin looked back at the guards, pondering Rafnir's scheme. “Raf,” he said at length. “The gods hand-crafted you as a model for mortals, though of madness or genius I'm not sure.”
Rafnir made a sound as if he had been struck. “I'm only one or the other? Your Highness, I thought my royal cousin held me in higher esteem than that. Now unless you have a better idea, the field awaits.”
Keeping his gaze focused on the guards, Drevin drew a deep breath to calm his nerves. “May fortune favor the bold and the foolish,” he muttered.
“Fortune is a woman, Drevin,” Rafnir answered. “And this wouldn't be our first time having our way with her.”
Ignoring Rafnir's jest, Drevin looked between the two guards. Seeing no particular distinctions between the two of them, he chose the one on his right and walked forward across the garden, making no effort to mask his footsteps on the brick path. As he came close enough for the green moonlight to make him visible to them, Drevin fixed the chosen guard with his most wrathful sneer, bringing to bear the full force of his experience in his father's court.
Both of the guards, in perfect unison, hefted their huge pikes, each the size of a young tree, in salute as Drevin came within their sight. “Hail, Son of Ramogoth!” they bellowed so loudly Drevin had to force himself not to cringe at the thought of who might have heard.
Ignoring their salute, Drevin continued forward, never taking his narrowed eyes off of the guard he'd selected. Only when he was within ten paces (a distance chosen mostly because he felt the height difference if he came closer would make the guard less likely to be sufficiently cowed) did he finally stop walking. His face, however, remained an unmoving mask of disgust, which he let both guards focus on for a moment before he spoke.
“Scum!” Drevin spat. “You cur! You faithless, feckless, honorless, trollherding goblin-spawn!”
The guard withered, and even with armor covering everything but his face, Drevin could tell he had begun to twitch nervously. “My... My lord?” He stammered. “I don't-”
“Silence!” Drevin roared so loudly that the guard immediately dropped to one knee. As the echo gave way to a deathly silence, Drevin continued in a ferocious hiss. “Your mouth has already been provocation enough! Did you think your words would not reach my ears? Or those of my father?”
The guard lifted his head uncertainly. “I... Forgive me, Exalted One,” he stuttered. “I-”
“I forgive nothing,” Drevin spat. As the guard bowed his head once more, Drevin turned his attention to the other. “And you,” his tone changed to one of wounded disappointment. “You, actually, keep company with this creature? Willingly?”
Now, the guard still on his feet had his turn to stammer. “But... but Exalted One, what's his offense?”
“You truly don't know then,” Drevin said with a sigh. Venom slowly returned to his voice as he turned his gaze back to the first guard. “This detestable cockroach was in the barracks this very day, boasting to his brethren over his evening meal, of his ambitions to avail himself of one of my father's Druids tonight.”
The accused lifted his face toward Drevin quickly, revealing a face that had taken on the pallor of Alabas. “S... Sire,” he choked on his words. “Nothing could be more untrue!”
“With due reverence, Sovereign's Son,” the second guard interceded, “that cannot be so. Braxis was with me on the training ground the entire day. We haven't been to the barracks since we rose this morning. And also, Sire...” he hesitated before going on. “We're eunuchs. What would we do with-”
“You question the word of the Son of Ram?!” Drevin snarled murderously. “To defend this maggot? Fool! Did you not realize that it was you he would have to kill in order to indulge his appetite for the King's property?”
Something passing for realization began to appear on the formerly blank face of the second guard as he turned to glare at the first, shifting his stance and setting his feet to prepare for battle. The first guard, the one who had been called Braxis, opened and closed his mouth, trying to form words, but Drevin spoke before he managed. “Kill him,” he barked, addressing the guard who was still on his feet. “In my father's name, kill this treasonous wart on the Order's ass and prove your loyalty!”
Braxis's face contorted in horror. He tried to raise his pike to defend himself, but it was no use. The wicked, serrated blade of his comrade's pike swung through the air with the howl of an unforgiving winter wind, propelled by a corded, muscular arm the size of an oak. It severed armor plates like parchment, parting Braxis's head from his shoulders before embedding itself in the stone outer wall of the Pleasure Wing.
Drevin gave the remaining guard a narrow-eyed smile bloodthirsty enough that any of the Order would have recognized it from his father. “Well done!” he exclaimed, the compliment dripping with feigned enthusiasm. And now, for a lesson in why guards are always posted with their backs to a wall. From the greenery behind the guard Rafnir emerged in a silent streak. Before the guard had time to tug his weapon free of the stone where he'd buried it, Rafnir's sword came down in flash...
...And glanced off of the guard's armor with a deep and echoing ring.
For a moment, Drevin, Rafnir and the guard all stood as if spellbound. The guard's face wore the slack-jawed expression of a pupil whose teacher was speaking in a foreign tongue. When he turned his head to look over his shoulder at this unexplained new presence in his life, it seemed as though his neck only permitted this movement on rare occasions and at great expense. Once his eyes fell on Rafnir, it appeared to still take him a moment to realize what had happened.
Then, as though all three were puppets controlled by the same sorcerer, the melee began in earnest. Drevin rushed toward the guard, seeking to flank him. The guard, now red-faced, yanked his weapon free of the stone wall, sending a stinging rain of shards upon Drevin as he freed his sword from its sheath. Rafnir, his grip on his sword now recovered, lunged forward in an attack that quickly became a desperate roll underneath a swing that would have turned his ribs to powder if it had connected.
Drevin found his vision blurred by what felt like a thousand tiny knives piercing his eyes. The hazy green moonlight was dim enough even for eyes that were fully open, and with fragments of rock seemingly embedded under his eyelids, the duel between Rafnir and the guard looked like a pair of shadows wrestling on the other side of a waterfall. Only the crash of steel on steel told him that the fight was not yet at an end, and fierce though Rafnir was, the Order's reputation left Drevin little doubt what that end would be if the odds remained one to one.
In desperation, Drevin swung his sword at what appeared to be the larger of the two blurs and was rewarded with the screech of metal being shorn as his dwarfsteel blade cut through the guard's pike. This was followed by a resounding clang and a scream of pain and fury from Rafnir. Drevin's vision came back into focus just in time to see the guard picking himself up off the ground and Rafnir clutching the elbow with which he'd struck the guard squarely in the chestplate.
With a frenzied roar, Drevin charged at the guard, aiming to take off his head before he regained his feet, only to have his blow blocked by the armor of the guard's upraised arm. Dwarven steel as well, Drevin thought, cursing himself for not anticipating that. The guard's metal boot connected with Drevin's stomach, doubling him over, and a hammering blow from a guantleted fist the size of a cooking pot would have shattered his skull from above if Rafnir had not thrust his sword between the plates that protected his foe's arm.
The guard's scream of pain seemed to shake the ground as he pulled his arm away from the attack. Rafnir's sword, now firmly wedged between dwarfsteel plates and embedded in flesh, was pulled from his hands and the guard began feverishly trying to pull it free with his other arm. Seeing his chance, Drevin forced his blade upward into the soft underside of the guard's jaw and into his head. The sickening, retching noise of a choked deathwail cut short was the guard's final testament in the mortal realm.
As Drevin pulled his sword free, the guard collapsed, first to his knees and then onto his face, and every part of his armor that hit the ground rang out like the tolling of a temple bell. Eventually the echo died away, leaving no sound except Rafnir panting from exhaustion and Drevin wheezing from the guard's kick to his stomach.
“Well,” the word came out of Rafnir's mouth in a huff as he wrestled his sword from between mammoth metal plates, “it worked.” A few breaths later he added, “we're alive... And they're not.”
Drevin's head bobbed up and down drunkenly as he sheathed his sword and started toward the door to the stairwell. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks to the gods when the hinges did not creak as they opened. As Drevin started to ascend the stairs he turned toward Rafnir to thank him only to find he was right behind him. “Um... Rafnir, what are you doing?
"Waiting for you to hurry up so I can follow," was the blunt response.
Drevin shook his head. “It's the executioner's block for any man who passes through this door. The deed I needed your help with is done. No one will ever know of your hand in it if you leave now."
"Which leaves you as the only one with cause to boast, Prince, and I'll not have that,” Rafnir replied with a frown of annoyance that turned to a grin as he went on. "Besides, this is the king's own stable and your beloved may not be the only beauty in need of, ah... rescue.” His eyebrows bobbed cunningly on the last word.
With a sigh of resignation, Drevin began climbing the stairs. “You know, Raf, just once it might do you well to think with what the gods put between your ears instead of what the gods put between your legs.”
"And remind me again why you're here, Highness,” Rafnir answered without a breath of hesitation. “And also, remind me whose plan it was that got us past the guards?”
The two climbed the rest of the stairwell with painstaking stealth, in as close to silence as they could manage. The windowless spiral staircase was not very forgiving, but neither one was willing to take the torch from the wall near the entrance, for fear of being discovered. This fear, Drevin reflected, as they climbed, was almost laughable, as was their attempt at climbing noiselessly. The guards outside were almost sure to be noticed.
“A better question,” Drevin answered Rafnir's jab as the two reached what Drevin guessed was the second floor hiehgt, “considering all the noise we made killing the guards, would be 'whose plan will it be that gets us out of here?' “
It occurred to Drevin that perhaps they should have taken time to hide the bodies of the guards, but this thought too he dismissed. For one thing, the task of moving such hulking brutes, covered in thick plate armor, would have been virtually impossible (and loud enough to awaken anyone in Ramsdel who had not already been awakened by the clash of swords) and for another, even if their corpses somehow avoided detection, their absence from their posts would be obvious to anyone even glancing into the garden.
As they neared the top of the seemingly endless climb, Drevin noticed something peculiar. The light coming from the top, which began to give form to the inky blackness, was not the warm yellow-orange of torchlight. It was green. The same algae shade as the pall Verdania cast over the garden outside.
“A bit odd,” Rafnir commented as Drevin wondered after this. “These walls are cool to the touch, yet it's as hot in here as it is outside.”
As the top of the stairs came into view, Drevin realized the reason for this, as well as for the greenish light. “That's because we still are outside.” As he said this, he emerged through the doorway at the top of the stairs, into the wing where King Ramogoth took his leisure, and found Verdania once again shining upon him.
Rafnir emerged after him a moment later and stopped short. “There's no roof?”
“If you put a roof over their heads to shelter them from the rain,” Drevin answered, recalling one of his father's frequent sayings, “they get the damned fool idea that they're worth protecting.”
A faint cry of distress drew the young men's attention from the open space where the ceiling would be, down to the floor beneath them. That cry was followed by a stirring, scurrying movement. Reflexes honed by teenage years that began on the battlefield went into action and Rafnir's sword was in his hand with the speed of a viper's strike. He did not realize until a moment later just how unnecessary this was.
As Rafnir's blade caught the mossy glow of the fifth moon, there came a cold, scraping sound of metal links dragging across stone tiles. The scuttling creature near their feet cried out and scrabbled away from the two, where other huddling shapes waited. It was another moment before Rafnir was able to discern the nature of these cowering creatures.
Drevin, having seen glimpses of Ramogoth's tastes over the years, needed only a glance to confirm what he had suspected (on the few occasions when he allowed his mind to ponder what might lie within this wing). Rafnir though, found himself transfixed in revulsion, as one who has come upon a mangled corpse and cannot bring themselves to tear their eyes away. “Gods above,” he said breathlessly, sheathing his sword again. “They're kittens. They're Druid kittens.”
Dozens of pairs of dull purple eyes watched fearfully from where the young Druids huddled against the wall, each bound in place by a chain around their necks. It was difficult to distinguish their emaciated bodies from the walls they cowered next to, clothed as they were in nothing but a thick coating of dirt and their own offal (which failed to hide the criss-crossing scars on their backs from the lash of a whip). They made incomprehensible, furtive, mewling noises not even recognizable as speech as they watched the two intruders with furtive, baleful eyes.
“Don't worry,” Rafnir spoke softly, holding his hands up placatingly. “We won't harm you.” The response to this was more of the same coarse, moaning noise the Druids had made before as they tried to withdraw even further. In their desperate scramble to get away, a few inadvertently kicked metal bowls -not unlike the ones from which hounds were fed- across the floor, and the clanging noise made by these bowls seemed to send them into a deeper panic.
“They can't understand you,” Drevin sighed, barely containing his disgust. “They've never been taught to speak.”
Rafnir made no response, but took a few slow steps toward one of the Druids and bent down to see more clearly. “Drevin,” he noted after a moment, “none of them have teeth.”
Drevin, by this time, was already looking around for signs of the one Druid whose plight was of greater import to him than others. “No doubt removed to prevent them from biting any part of the flesh Ramogoth doesn't want injured.”
Rafnir stood up again and turned toward Drevin, shaking his head as if to rid it of the thought. “For the gods sakes, the oldest of these kits can't have seen more than 8 winters. Most, not more than 5!”
Drevin stopped and turned his eyes back toward Rafnir. “Much happens in Ramsdel that isn't spoken of in the Outmarches, cousin,” he answered darkly. “Welcome to the king's stable.” Then his voice took on a tone of greater urgency. “Rafnir, they're beyond help. The gods alone know how long they've been here. For all we know they were born within these walls.” He forced himself not to linger on what this thought implied about the identity of the sire of the broken, timorous creatures, and pushed forward to the fundamental reason for the endeavor. “Lucia is here, Raf; somewhere on this floor of this wing.”
Rafnir's fists and jaw clenched. His nostrils flared as he took a long breath with forced slowness. This was followed by another, and finally by a third. “Of course, my liege,” he finally answered, teeth still clenched.
A bit premature, calling me that before my coronation tomorrow, Drevin thought, but said nothing of it. Ahead of them, some thirty paces, was a wall. Staring at this wall, it occurred to Drevin that if this stable covered the entire Pleasure Wing, this was too close to be the farthest end. Catching Rafnir's attention with a quick hand gesture as was their habit in battle, Drevin pointed toward the wall and made a sign that meant “door” or “passage.”
With slowness and caution neither of them could have given reason for (except perhaps to avoid startling the Druid kits enough that their cries would give them away), Drevin and Rafnir approached the wall. Its top was about twice the height of Drevin's head, even with the walls around them. As they approached it in the dark, a passageway came into focus. It was narrow and high, and curved outward on each side. The wall was thick enough that the darkness made it impossible to see what was on the other end of the passageway, and the passage itself was narrow enough that the two had to proceed single-file. As he emerged from the passageway, Drevin knew from the scene before him that this was where he would find Lucia.
Before them was an elongated chamber with two walkways, each lined with rows of identical wooden booths about waist high. Each booth contained something like a set of stocks, with boards locked together over a captive's neck and wrists, with anklets at floor level holding the captive's feet, so that one thus imprisoned was held on their knees, ankles apart, head and wrists locked in front of them with their hips pointed outward toward the walkway.
And held in each booth, their heads covered by locked iron hoods covering their faces and depriving them of sight or hearing, their backs and thighs criss-crossed by whipscars as their younger kindred in the previous room, was a Druid. Drevin's teeth ground together, and his fists clenched so tightly that his fingers drew blood from his palms as he beheld the sight.
“These aren't concubines,” Drevin heard Rafnir's voice as if through a wall. “They're furniture. This is our sovereign? This is the king whose battle standard we've spilled blood and shed our own to carry? Keeping a few women for your pleasure is one thing. There's no king under Heaven who's absent that indulgence. But this...” His hand made a sweeping motion as his sentence went unfinished.
And Lucia... MY, Lucia, is one of them, Drevin found himself unable to utter the thought. He approached one of the bound Druids. The beam where her head and wrists were bound had a metal hook with a key hanging on it. Drevin took the key, rubbed it between his fingers for a moment, and then slipped it into the lock on the metal hood over the Druid's head. He was not surprised when the lock clicked open. Matted, golden, sweat-soaked hair tumbled down over the helpless Druid's face as the hood came away. The owner of that hair made a whimpering sound not unlike her younger compatriots in the room before, giving Drevin little hope that he would find any help from her.
The Druid trembled as she turned her face as far upward as her bonds would allow. Wondering if the key to her hood was the key to the stocks as well, Drevin started to unlock the stocks that held her in place, but was stopped when the Druid let out a hellish wail and began to tug at her bonds so fiercely that it seemed her neck would break. If there's anyone between here and the Elvish Empire who doesn't already know we're here, Drevin thought, they will after another moment of this. Drevin made an attempt to quiet her with a gesture, but quickly decided it was no use. The hood went over her head again, the lock clicked into place, and the Druid fell silent and still once more.
With a sigh of frustration, Drevin backed away from the Druid and took another look at the room before him. The twin walkways were lined on either side with Druids held in bonds identical to this one, stretching farther than the dark allowed him to see. “One of these is Lucia,” he groaned, “and the gods alone can tell how we're to know which one.”
Silence followed, in which Drevin found himself gripped by a sense of dread that threatened to become despair. Finally, it was Rafnir who spoke. “Highness, I...” he swallowed before continuing. “I wonder. Does Lucia's skin have some kind of... some kind of scar, some imperfection or blemish we might look for?”
Drevin shook his head. “No more than if she was carved from unicorn ivory,” he said, longing more than ever to wrap his arms around her. “The only thing that mars her skin is-” he drew his breath in with a gasp, realizing Rafnir had once again shown more wisdom than Rafnir himself would have liked to admit. “Her brand!”
Rafnir stopped looking around at the imprisoned Druids and looked at Drevin in confusion. “Your pardon, Highness?”
“Her left thigh is branded,” Drevin answered quickly, pointing to the crest on his tunic, “with this seal.”
Rafnir looked surprised. “I never knew you had her burned,” he said with a note of suspicion.
“I didn't,” Drevin spat. “It was the work of our 'dear' uncle.” The last two words fell from his mouth like a bite of rotten fruit. “But for the moment, it means there's something to look for.” With that, he began hurrying down the rows of bound Druids in search of one with his crest burned into her thigh, trying not to think about what he was doing.
Rafnir gave his head another shake to clear it. “Well, gods be thanked for Dankirk's cruelty,” he muttered as he walked to the other walkway and began searching.
The search seemed to Drevin to be interminable. Verdania's glow was dim enough to make it virtually impossible to see without stopping at each booth to move the Druid held there, and each time his hand touched one of them she lifted her hips supplicatingly, giving Drevin an unavoidable sense of betraying his beloved. Worry, however, which grew with each passing moment, propelled him onward. After reaching the end of the outer wall side of the walkway and beginning to double back up the inside row, sinister questions began to whisper to his mind. Are we too late? Was Dankirk telling the truth? Is she even here?
“Drevin,” Rafnir called out.
Drevin looked up at the sound of that call. Rafnir's face left no question that he'd found Lucia. Without bothering to return to the door and go back up the walkway, he climbed onto the wall around one of the booths and vaulted over into the other walkway, dashing to where Rafnir stood. What he saw made his breath stop.
The Druid imprisoned here was Lucia, made clear by the “fin-Drevin” crest on her left leg, though it was hard to see the burn as her legs were covered in dark, angry bruises. There was a thick, dark stain where her legs met. It took Drevin a moment to realize it was blood. Everywhere, her skin was puffy and swollen as if an untold number of blows had fallen upon her. Her bonds failed to hide that she was trembling, and even through the metal hood covering her head Drevin could hear her weeping.
Rafnir, who had been standing by, turned away, though Drevin was not sure whether this was to spare Lucia the shame of seeing her this way, or to stand watch in case anyone approached. “I think there's a key-” Rafnir started to say but before he finished, Drevin had already seized the key from the hook next to Lucia's wrists.
Drevin's hands trembled so furiously that he nearly dropped the key but after a few seconds he unlocked the mask and tossed it aside. Lucia let out an incoherent cry of protest as she squirmed, but as she turned her head toward Drevin her cry turned back into weeping. The sight of her face, marred by blows as the rest of her body was, was enough to bring stark clarity of mind back to Drevin and in moments the lock holding the wooden board over her head and wrists was opened, followed a moment later by her anklets. Lucia's footing seemed uncertain as Drevin helped her to her feet and finally met her eyes, one of which was swollen shut as if by a fist.
At first there was no sound except Lucia's breathing, broken by sobs. Drevin's eyes traced her body, taking in each each bruise with more shock than the one before it. By the time they returned to her face, his vision had grown blurred from tears he would no longer be able to restrain. “Lucia,” his mouth moved almost silently. “What, what was...” His head swivelled helplessly from side to side.
Lucia held her silence for a moment longer before her lips began to tremble. Finally, she flung herself at Drevin, whose arms encircled her eagerly. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “My lord, my love,” her voice broke further as she continued, “my master. Forgive me.”
Drevin clutched her more tightly, cradling her head against his shoulder and kissing her head over and over as his tears began to mingle with hers.
“I tried to resist,” Lucia's words became barely discernible as her sobs grew in intensity. “I swear it before Heaven, I tried not to let him take what's yours. Even when he struck me for it, I tried. I...” Lucia spoke further but Drevin could no longer recognize words amid her crying. She pressed herself into his embrace as if she wanted to open his skin and crawl inside.
As Lucia continued crying in Drevin's arms, he looked over her shoulder at Rafnir, who looked back at him with eyes nearly as murderous as his own. Drevin's tears rolled over cheeks that covered jaws clenched like those of a dragon as sorrow turned to rage. “He dies for this,” he hissed. “Let my soul fly to Crawgath's talons if I fail. He dies for this!”
Rafnir met Drevin's gaze with no reply except a single slow nod of his head. It took time for Lucia's sobbing to die down to a level where Rafnir decided it was prudent to speak. “My liege,” he repeated the honorative Drevin had noted earlier, “we should go.” His eyes cast about for an instant before he added “quickly.”
It was Drevin's turn to nod as he loosened his grip on Lucia enough to pull her chin up so he could see her face. “My love,” he whispered, touching her forehead with his own. “Let's go home.” As he spoke, he pulled his tunic over his shoulders and handed it to her to cover herself.
Lucia looked doubtful. “Milord, what if he comes for me?”
Drevin took both of her hands in his own before he spoke. “Then my sword will come for him before my coronation instead of after.” He took Lucia by the wrist and started toward the stairwell leading to the garden below, and Rafnir followed quickly.
“Highness,” Rafnir asked on the way, “what of the others?”
Drevin shook his head. “Once I'm king, there will be time to help them. Right now we can do nothing.” To emphasize his point he reminded Rafnir, “you heard the way they reacted to us. What would happen if we tried to release them all?”
Rafnir made a grunting noise Drevin had come to recognize during years of battlefield decisions as his acknowledgment of the least offensive option from a list of bad options. When they reached the stairwell, Drevin went first, one hand holding Lucia's as she followed closely behind him with Rafnir bringing up the rear. The descent went more quickly than the ascent had gone, since urgency had now replaced subtlety and caution as their watchword. Less than a thirtycount after entering the archway, Drevin's hand was upon the door that would lead to the garden where he and Rafnir had barely cheated death barely half a glassturn before.
The latch turned without a sound. Drevin opened it, swept his eyes across the garden, and froze. Beneath the branches of the trees, hidden from Verdania's light, dark, marauding shapes loomed. Though he could not see them distinctly, there was no question of their identity. They were the Disciples of Crawgath. Nearer to the doorway, where the green moonlight revealed them plainly, two men with thick, wiry red hair and beards and fierce, sharp eyes stood silent and patient. One of them was Drevin's uncle, Dankirk.
The other was the man whose death Drevin had vowed moments before. It was Drevin's father, King Ramogoth Fan-Bjorn.
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