Freedom
Susan rode her palfrey down a natural archway of soaring beeches, the tallest she could remember. She smiled at the squirrels chasing each other along the branches, great tufted red ears quivering in fury. Birdsong echoed everywhere, a dozen melodies, few of which she recognised bar the churring of the ubiquitous chaffinch. A jay kept an eye on her from a branch, flapping fast to the next tree whenever she came too close. He stayed in front of her for half a league before losing interest.
The archway emptied in to a natural amphitheatre, towering pines to the north and knee high grasses twinkling with wild flowers. Deer raised their heads to look at her, mouths full of long grasses, while a snort to her right brought her attention to a massive cow with horns wider than she could reach. It regarded her for a long minute, lower jaw working ceaselessly, before returning to graze, its long tail twitching at flies. It turned away from her, huge shoulders moving easily, and revealed massive, pendulous testicles proclaiming his sex.
Susan guessed he was an aurochs, and wondered why he didn’t charge. She thought they were all gone, a figure of legend. Perhaps he was alone, without wives and she felt a pang of sadness at her own loneliness. It was five days since she last saw a person, a farmer’s wife who clucked over the boy too young to be travelling and gave her a fruit pie to take on her way.
The ancient scroll hidden in the palace library described the archway in amazing detail, albeit saying the trees were smaller, and giving an accurate description of the amphitheatre, though there was no mention of deer let alone aurochs. Convinced the king would find her anywhere in Harrhein, especially with the Pathfinders looking for their missing mascot, Susan wished to study herbs and medicine under Maelbelenus, an Elven scholar whose fame reached as far as Praesidium and to whom the Church sent occasional scholars. Following the instructions, she sighted on the far blue mountains, selecting as her lodestone a sparkling, snow covered peak, shaped like a broken spear point, stabbing into the sky. The palfrey didn’t want to go, the grass beckoned her and Susan understood. Although early, she paused by a babbling brook, dismounted and removed the saddle. The palfrey rolled in ecstasy, before settling down to feed in earnest.
Susan built a tiny fire, pleased with her Pathfinder-learnt ability to strike a spark from her flint and get it to take in the bracket mushroom collected from the forest. This mushroom grew on tree trunks, and inside the old, hard, white caps were fibres that made the perfect kindling for a fire. There wasn’t much fuel, some small dried bushes, but enough to heat water for tea, which she drank with some dried biscuits and the travelling food of the Pathfinders, a dried mixture of grains and fruit. She used her knife to cut a small piece off a stick of jerky, and chewed it in peace, wondering how close an inquisitive deer would come.
The doe closed to the other side of the stream before the wind changed and she huffed before jumping backwards, all four feet together, and trotted away. Susan smiled and used her knife to cut the long grass by the stream, packing it together to form a mattress. She hated sleeping on the cold ground. As she arranged it with care, checking for rocks, sticks, roots and stones, a hard push sent her flying forwards to land on the mattress, inelegant and legs apart, her face buried in a bush. Struggling, she pulled her knees together causing her bottom to rise into the air and another push, softer, went right in her crotch.
“Will you behave,” she said in annoyance, turning with her bottom down and coming face to face with the palfrey which nuzzled her face. “I’m running out of treats, what will you do when they are all gone?” She laughed as the velvet nose tickled her face and kissed the palfrey before pulling a wizened apple out of the saddle bag.
She made her bed, a blanket to roll into and a tightly woven cotton sheet infused with wax, almost waterproof, to go over the top. She could make a lean-to with her saddle and a few branches, but the red suffusing the clouds persuaded her the only water would be the morning dew.
After a brief dash downstream to pass water and rinse herself, she wrapped herself in the blanket and placed her head on the saddle bags. The horse surprised her by going down on her knees and lying down beside her. She whacked her on the rump with her hand and said, “You’re not going to roll on me, are you Irina? And if you fart, I will be really upset with you.” The palfrey so enjoyed being ridden, Susan found the name perfect. She had watched King Richard having sex with Irina, Lady Sarl, her best friend, in the palace gardens. Her subsequent revenge needed months of planning but didn’t unfold in quite the satisfying manner she envisioned.
The horse put her ears back, shivered with a ripple that went up and down her neck, and snorted. Susan lay back to watch the stars appear. She wished Timmy was with her, holding her in his arms. Sir Timothy Brown, her tutor in finance as she ran the Kingdom, had assisted her dash for freedom from the king’s violent temper in exchange for her love. Despite her fears, he proved an amazing lover, gentle and understanding, awakening in her unexpected desires and pleasure.
After a first night in an inn, she had met him in the house and stayed three days. In between lovemaking, she planned her escape, knowing she must do something unexpected. Once he realised she had run away, she knew the king would send the Pathfinders after her, and their ability to track was legendary. Timmy wanted her to stay, ready to take any risk to protect her. She refused to tell him her plans to protect him, but they did plot the course of the new company. He swore to protect her investment, those monies they could recoup from the sale of futures after their bank was closed by the king to finance his war. She would be wealthy when she returned to him. Leaving him thinking she was off to Galicia, she put on her favourite disguise and found a small inn for transients, refused the advances of the owner, which surprised her as she dressed as a boy with her hair up. It dawned on her that he did not think she was a girl and eased her worries with a firmly raised knee. As he writhed on the floor of the common room holding his mashed testicles, she assured him she was a Pathfinder brat and this was just a taster. Nobody bothered her after that, nor did any of the half dozen patrons seem surprised or bothered.
Cutting her glorious hair brought memories of the hours brushing it, a hundred strokes a night and she gritted her teeth before bagging it for later disposal. The dye needed to set for half an hour, which she spent gazing out of the window reviewing her plans and refusing to think on the past. She discarded returnign to Galicia or staying in Praesidium with the actors, knowing they would be the first places her seekers would search. She considered the Church, knowing she could hide in a nunnery, but grimaced at the thought of days of prayer. No, her first thought was the best, albeit full of unkowns but that made the challenge more fun and intriguing.
First light found her striding down the street, bare headed, just another boy seeking to make his fortune. The first horse coper tried to cheat her and she overpaid the second for the palfrey, but she had fallen in love with the horse.
She left town on the Galicia road, before cutting off towards Ricklaw’s Port. From there she took the well-used road towards Bardton, waving to the cattle herds coming the other way. It might have taken a week, but she felt not even Grey Fox could find her trail - the Pathfinder half-Elf who had led the revenge party on her rapist, Prince Fabian, and later trained the princess in winter survival.
A snort woke her and she found the aurochs observing her from across the brook. The palfrey grazed a few paces away, unbothered, so she continued her normal routine. The fascination of the aurochs with her making her toilet did unnerve her. She packed her saddle bags, rolled up her bed and spent ten minutes casting the mattress into the brook, making sure it didn’t clump in the reeds.
Happy her camping ground would not be found, she rode off.
Without a trail to follow across the meadows, she slowed as she neared the trees, searching for a route. As she closed to a hundred paces, she lost sight of her peak and started to worry. How would she manage to keep on course in the forest? Choosing a direction at random, she turned right and followed the forest edge till she found a well-marked deer trail.
Dismounting to inspect the ground, she could make out deer tracks, and hooves, but being a city girl, could not tell if they were horse, aurochs or belonged to a ridden horse. Droppings, she was sure from a horse, trailed along the path and she stared at them. With her toe, she nudged one and it rolled, dry and old. She knew it was important, and tickled her memory, seeking inspiration.
To the side of the path, a deer had dropped its dung in a pile and the sight of this brought to mind an old man in Galicia, talking with her as a child. His words rang in her memory – a horse will stop to drop its dung, unless it is ridden, in which case it will keep walking and drop as it goes. So the horse droppings were from a ridden horse.
She nodded to herself, swung up and kicked the palfrey into a canter, riding with confidence into the gloom of the forest. When the horse tired and slowed to a trot, she allowed the change of pace and adjusted her movement to suit, dropping down into the saddle and rising with the gait of the horse. Her mind ranged, her happiness with the forest view, the clean air and the freedom she felt combined to generate a warmth inside. She thought of Timmy, wishing his presence to assuage the loneliness, the warmth changing as she remembered the feel of his hands, the prickling down her back when he grazed on her neck and she closed her eyes to bask in the memories.
The horse faltered, stopping, and her eyes flew open to find a man standing in the path in front of them. No, not a man, she thought in triumph, but an Elf! A real live Elf, one of the gentle people, the great mystics and learned people she sought.
“Greetings from a traveler on this beneficial day where the sight of you raises pleasure in my throat,” she spoke by rote, hoping her accent was understandable and this was the real traditional greeting, though she still worried about the throat bit. The words cost her ten crowns, an extra two to correct her pronunciation. “I ride in search of the Elder Maelbelenus, to study and learn at his feet. Will you guide my path, kind sir?”
The Elf blinked at her and as she took in his appearance the thrill of finding him passed. Whoa, she thought, not just an Elf but a super-hot Elf, as Irina would have said. For the first time she understood Lady Irina’s excitement and interest in men as she took in the splendid physique, the broad tanned shoulders, the ropes of muscle down his arms and the corded waist. He stood bare-chested, black hair reaching to his shoulders, held back by a woven band around his forehead with a pale stone in the middle. Tight leather breeches reaching to above the knee left little to the imagination and she felt heat rising to her cheeks as she tore her gaze away.
The warrior smiled, replied in liquid Elvish, his voice seeming to ripple down her spine, causing an involuntary shudder. She understood not a word, but his welcoming smile and the gallant hand he raised to help her dismount twitched at her heart.
I hope his wife isn’t with him, she thought, as an electric jolt went up her arm at his touch, light as a feather, before catching her as she jumped down. She smiled up at him, completely forgetting she was dressed as a boy.
“I am so sorry, I speak no more Elvish, though I promise to learn in no time. I presume you are the border guard?”
Another liquid burst of Elvish as he retained her hand, placing it on his forearm and trapping it in place with the other. He looked deep into her eyes, so deep she thought she would stumble as he guided her into the trees. With a small exclamation she stopped, turning to her horse only to see another elf grinning as he followed behind leading the palfrey. Allowing herself to continue with the first elf, she avoided his eyes and instead examined the intricacies of his hair, tied with little baubles and flowers. A precise little wheel woven from a black vine hung at the very front of his forehead, above the stone. She now saw the stone possessed a milky blue radiance, power emanating in waves.
“Ah, is this your camp?” She asked, looking round a nondescript clearing with a small stream flowing along one side. Various items lay scattered around, and five bed rolls. She frowned, this was not the smart camp she envisioned, but perhaps they were on patrol and meeting her was simple luck.
The liquid Elvish flowed again, rising at the end in what she presumed was a question. He indicated a bedroll and she looked at it with suspicion. However, it appeared clean and, lacking any other seats, she knelt on it, tucking her feet under her bottom as she sat with as much grace as possible. She smiled at the Elf.
“Surely you speak Harrhein? I would have thought it required for a border guard.” She arched an eyebrow at him as he squatted in front of her. He reached for her face, and she sat perplexed as he examined her hair. He asked her a question which she failed to understand, before he plucked out one hair and held it in front of her as she squeaked at the sharp momentary pain. She saw the hair, yellow at the base and black after a fingerspan, realising what fascinated him.
“I’m in disguise,” she said with some heat. “It’s not easy or safe to travel in Harrhein if you are a girl.”
He looked at her without understanding before shrugging and returning to his inspection. Susan began to feel this was not just undignified but uncalled for, and not the correct way to greet a guest in your country. She put up with his fascination with her eyes, but when he started to loosen her shirt, she felt enough was enough.
“No,” she said in as firm a tone as she could manage. She removed his hand and placed it his knee, giving him a firm warning look. “Not the right way to act around ladies.”
His face expressionless, he let her settle back down before bringing his hand round in a roundhouse slap, hard against the side of her head, which flattened her, on her side on the bedroll. Semi-conscious, dazed, she felt chill on her body, on her breasts, and insistent fingers tugging at her breeches. Dizzy, unable to move, she was turned on her back and the breeches and undergarment removed, and now her whole body shivered in the breeze.
Her vision cleared to find the warrior filling her view, close in, nothing else visible. There was a weight on her chest and she could hear a scream echoing from the treetops. The realisation that it was herself screaming came as the warrior pushed into her a second time, setting up a steady rhythm that caused her to grunt as he pressed the wind out of her. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give him the pleasure of hearing her scream again before she erupted, bucking hard to throw him off and attempting to slap her hands against his ears to burst his eardrums. He twisted his head and slipped out as he brought his arms up to block hers, causing his full weight to press into her chest and stop her breathing. She restrained a moan of pain as he transferred his weight to his arms, pressing painfully into hers. She used her supple body to bend her hips away but he pressed down hard and entered her again, easily finding her centre, taking her breath away once more and causing her legs to fly up out of control. He continued to pound into her, fixated on her eyes as she relaxed, seeking an alternative and allowing her mind to work for the first time.
Taking stock, she wondered why it didn’t hurt. Why, the king had hurt her worse on many an occasion. Her head still rang, but the rape was not painful. Was he small? No, she concentrated and knew he filled her up to considerable depth. Nevertheless, there was no friction and she recalled her earlier reminiscing of Timmy followed by her desire for this wretched warrior, realised that this caused sufficient lubrication to remove the pain. Wonder filled her, followed by further wonder that she could be so detached as to think this way.
The warrior was taking his time, she thought, willing him to finish and get off. An errant thought came to her, something Irina once said. She concentrated, and on his next withdrawal she squeezed, as if she was pushing out urine. The warrior grunted and she relaxed, to squeeze again on the next withdrawal. Abruptly he increased speed culminating in frantic jerks just moments later, and Susan smiled in triumph, the warmth spreading inside her.
He pulled back, still inside her, but examined her face with surprised curiosity. She smiled at him, pleased with herself and feeling she had won the encounter, taken control.
Another face loomed over his shoulder, tapping on it and speaking in Elvish. Understanding shot through her, he was demanding his turn.
“No,” she cried, wrapping her legs around her warrior and pulling him back, her arms going round his chest and pulling. Caught by surprise, he fell back on her, pushing the breath from her body. She squeezed tighter.
“Just you,” she said. “I will be special for you.” Eyes widened, pleading with him, her warrior. She leaned up and kissed him on the lips, working her hips against him and feeling him respond inside her, beginning to swell. He groaned and the next warrior spoke in angry tones. The warrior snapped at him, before pushing up his torso with his arms, away from her.
“Cannot,” he grunted in barely understandable Harrhein. “Tomorrow, yes, today, no. Too long for them.”
She let her legs and arms go limp, falling away from him and lay unresisting as the next warrior took his place. She endured, heartened by his words. For they gave her hope. There would be a tomorrow. She was not to die beneath them this day.
The second warrior finished fast and the third pulled him away in his excitement and readiness. Susan let her mind drift, not concentrating on the continued indignity. An errant thought brought to mind the Pathfinder training against torture. Cut off the mind, don’t think about what is happening. She knew these men were dangerous, no longer thinking they were the border patrol with their messy camp site and treating her in this manner. Some sort of renegades or bandits. They would not appreciate a scared and simpering woman, she must be bold, she knew, as she plotted her next move to ensue survival.
The third finished even faster than the second and his replacement stripped off his breech cloth, standing to make sure Susan could see his rampant size. She glared at ‘her’ warrior.
“Are you going to let him put that thing inside me?” He shifted his feet, and looked away. She switched her attention to number four, who’s wide smile foretold pain. “Slowly,” she snapped at him, surprising him by reaching for him and guiding him in. She kept her hand in place, stopping him from pushing hard and hurting her. He complained in Elvish, trying to thrust hard, but she ignored him and eased him in with care. In the distance she could hear her warrior speaking and the man inside her grumbled a response, the thrusting easing. She stretched to accommodate him, then relaxed while he got on with it. He seemed to go on for ages, and she was not going to squeeze him for extra pleasure.
At last he finished, withdrawing in some annoyance. Susan guessed he was either upset not to hurt her or that she hadn’t shown pleasure. The last warrior came forward with a diffident expression on his face. Susan noticed he was the youngest, perhaps his first time.
She embraced him, giving him a kiss to upset Four. As soon as he felt himself near her, he gave a savage thrust that skittered up her belly, followed by a second that slid the other way. She shushed him, leaving her left arm around him while sliding her right hand down to encompass and guide him home, while her legs locked around his thighs. She considered faking an orgasm to really upset the others, but he was too fast for her, a couple of thrusts and he was finished.
He pulled away, unable to look her in the face, and Susan pushed herself up to a sitting position. None of the warriors met her eye. She bit her tongue to stop herself from shouting at them, groaned as she pulled herself to her feet and made her way to the stream to wash. Returning, the water dripping down her naked body, she grasped the nearest blanket and used it to dry herself before putting her clothes back on, relieved they were not torn.
She sat down beside the lead warrior, who placed a wooden platter in her hands, with some cooked meat and nuts on it, together with a flat bread. She ate slowly, savouring the strange flavours, before taking the empty platter and smashing it on his head. He recoiled from her fury, blinking, before standing in a liquid uncoiling of muscle, his arm raised to strike her.
She rose with him, equally supple and liquid, pushing her chest hard into his, making the imminent blow hard to strike. She pushed her face into his, eyes level and glared at him, her knee poised to rise, hard.
“Never do that to me again and never, ever hit me. Do you understand?”
He blinked at her a few times, dashed a glance to his men who all found more interesting things to do, before a brief nod followed by a forced laugh. She leaned in closer and whispered, ensuring the others could not hear.
“Protect me, keep me from the others and I will reward you. I will bring you pleasure and I will not embarrass you. Keep me alive and unharmed and you will benefit.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, letting her tongue slip between his lips and slide along his teeth, feeling the instant response below. Leaning back, she pressed into him while considering his face and rubbing her breasts ever so gently across his naked chest.
He shuddered and nodded, before stepping back and barking a swift order to his men. They dispersed, leaving just the two of them. She followed him to her palfrey, feeling the relief course through her veins, while he unsaddled and picketed the horse in a nearby glade. The saddle bags he brought into the camp and started going through them. Not finding anything interesting, he passed them to her after retaining the food. She took her bedroll and placed it beside his. Flat black eyes watched her without comment.
As dusk fell, warriors returned one by one. One bore a couple of large hares and a duck, which he fell to preparing, while the youth brought a selection of flat brown mushrooms and green shoots. The large warrior went to sleep, while another climbed the large tree nearby and the youth started to put together a fire. Susan moved to help him, inspecting the shoots with interest.
The two warriors cooked supper, with Susan helping where she could and learning all the time. They mixed flour with water and added it to a bowl, from which they first took out a risen dough, from the previous night. The dough made the flattened bread given to her earlier, cooked on a flat stone beside the fire. Perfect for collecting the juices of the cooked meats.
The warriors barely spoke as they went about their business, moving with an ease that spoke of long practise. The large warrior woke, ate and went out to the road while the warrior in the tree came down. The fire went out as night fell, and Susan sat back on her bedroll, sipping a new tea while she watched the leader through the steam. Aware of her earlier promise, she knew she would be required to make good and indeed, after checking on the sentry he rolled into the blankets, pulling her to him and yanking at her clothes.
She stilled his hands and removed the clothes, feeling his hands seeking her breasts as she did so. She tried to slow his urgency, without success and his premature entrance proved more painful than the earlier rape by all five. She endured, and, once he stilled, worked to revive him, using techniques she learnt during her three days with Timmy. Her lips and hands ran over his body, tracing the sculpted perfection of his musculature and raising a fire in her own being. Climbing on top of him, she controlled the tempo of their love making till she was rewarded with his cry of ecstasy, a duet with her own.
Twice more he took her during the night, once as she heard a watch change and again with the dawn as he returned from making water. Each time she climaxed with him and each time he held her close afterwards as they lay entwined in exhaustion. Contentment flooded through her, not from the sex but from the belief she was safe, her strategy working.
The first test came after breakfast, as the large man clearly wanted her and her warrior refused. He persisted and Susan made her way to her saddle, pulling out her staff and supporting herself with it while she watched the argument. She tried to follow the words, and thought the final agreement came when Big Boy was promised the next woman.
The elves dispersed again and her warrior beckoned for her to follow. Taking her staff, she did, wondering if she should brain him and make her escape. Fear of Big Boy stopped her, she didn’t like to think what he would do without the leader. They made their way along the stream, walking against the flow, while he inspected various plants, none of which she recognised. Occasionally he collected something, perhaps a seed, stem of flowers, leaves or a root. At last he grunted, and dug up a dubious looking root from a plant with heavily serrated edges to its leaves. He brought the root back to the camp, washing it in the stream before cutting into slices, which he gave to Susan, miming chewing.
She did so, whereupon he started language lessons.
Susan knew she was clever, but even so the speed and capacity of her retention astounded her. She resolved to ensure a permanent supply of this wonder root. By lunchtime she spoke broken sentences as he led her far afield to a little glade where he fed her berries and made love to her, patiently letting her glory in his muscled physique. She discovered his name, Caomh, and those of his soldiers, and that he was a follower of the old religion, not in thrall to the weak king who sat the throne of Coillearnacha. Her reading meant she knew this to be a euphemism for his being a renegade, and if he survived he would return to the fold after a few years having fun and gaining scars.
They were waiting for more warriors, and when they had a score they would descend into the plains and work their way to Fearaigh, and hit the Connorsons’ ranch for horses. If they were inattentive; which it seemed was not a high likelihood. The fall back plans if the ranch proved too well guarded were to hit other ranches, but the Connorsons were the dream target. Caomh had hit them once before, and the band in which he rode suffered badly, their leader killed by a boy, a young boy, with an arrow, and Caomh himself took an arrow through the arm, fired by, of all things, a girl. He showed Susan the scar and she tutted in suitable astonishment at his bravery.
While they waited, they would prey on traders taking the Old Road. The border guards moved closer into the realm during the late spring and summer, affording them more opportunity. Susan was the first flower to be plucked, a realisation that required he pluck her all over again.
They returned to the camp-site, where the boy, Oengus, sat with a bloodstained arm and a dead hare, amidst much embarrassment. It seemed that on taking the hare, it returned from the dead for one last kick, the toe nail splitting his skin from wrist to elbow. Susan watched in fascination as Caomh produced a bottle of strong spirits and soaked first the cleaned wound and then a cotton thread with a steel needle. Realising he meant to sew up the wound, she took the needle from him and bade him hold Oengus’ arm, saying she was a seamstress. He didn’t seem to know the word, but allowed her and said nothing as Oengus flinched. After a couple of stitches, he did suggest they could be a little further apart and she took the hint.
Three days later, Susan spoke fluent Elvish and Caomh revelled in her body at the slightest opportunity, amid Beorsach’s increased irritability. Susan took every care to not be alone with him. As she prepared the day’s picnic, the accumulated rubbish made her wonder if Caomh would find a new glade soon. Oengus appeared from the woods, hiccoughing in his excitement as he broke the news of an arriving party, a small party. Brioccha and Eriond were shadowing them, and would do their part. Beorsach arrived shortly after, and the three went to take up positions leaving Susan in the camp.
She scaled the tree, finding a perfect view of the path and the three warriors waiting in ambush. A cart came round the corner and she watched it approach. A middle-aged man and a younger woman sat on the front seat, the woman talking non-stop. Susan did not think the man enjoyed it. As they came closer, Caomh stood and strode into the path. The cart stopped and the man addressed Caomh with respect, switching to broken Elvish when he failed to respond to Harrhein.
Caomh asked what was in the cart, and asked to see the foodstuffs after the response. The woman eyed Caomh, and Susan’s irritation rose as she realised the woman lusted after her warrior. Never mind she was a captive and prisoner, he was hers. Susan didn’t like sharing, she realised again.
Caomh ignored her, and asked for a tribute of food which the farmer handed over with alacrity. He turned away and the woman protested. Caomh shrugged, and Beorsach came out of the trees, laughing at the woman. In moments they coupled, with Brioccha and Eriond awaiting their turn. Caomh spoke courteously to the farmer before bringing the tribute to the camp site. Oengus followed him and Susan slid down the tree to meet them.
She took the sack from Caomh, and inspected it.
“Not taking your turn, Oengus?”
The boy blushed and kicked the ground. “No, mistress.”
This was new, though Susan raising an eyebrow. She was not aware she was a mistress. She kept her eye on the boy, enjoying his embarrassment and deepening colour, so sweet on an elf.
“Not after you, mistress,” he whispered, with a sidelong look to make sure Caomh could not overhear.
Susan wrapped her arms round him and hugged him. Caomh looked up, annoyed and she waved him away. “That is so sweet,” she said, waiting till Caomh disappeared, going back to the wagon. Then she put her lips on his and kissed him deeply, running her tongue into his mouth. After a moments shocked pause, he responded with enthusiasm, running a hand up her shirt to envelop a breast and grinding an instantly erect manhood into her groin.
“Can we do it again, please mistress,” he asked, all earnestness.
Restraining the instinct to push him off, Susan considered while he kneaded her breast and started to breathe heavily, trying to kiss her again. She submitted to the kiss, thinking she needed allies and would take them where she could. He groaned and she felt him jerk, realising he found release inside his breeches. She held him tight, massaging his back, until he relaxed.
“Soon, darling,” she promised, “and we will take our time, so you don’t have to be quick.”
The boy’s eyes misted with tears. “I love you, mistress,” he whispered before dashing away. Susan shook her head, wondering at the ease with which she conquered the boy. She considered recruiting the others, shaking her head at the thought of Beorsach.
*
The next day saw another trader and a different approach. This trader had three wagons, larger and more expensive, with two outriders. When Caomh strode out, the two outriders charged him while the men on the wagons picked up crossbows. Two arrows removed the outriders and the waggoneers hesitated before putting down their crossbows.
Caomh strutted down to the wagons, asking questions and there was much shaking of heads. Unable to hear, Susan reckoned the leader was one of the now dead outriders.
Caomh picked through the wagons, throwing out the odd sack before pulling a girl out of the last wagon and calling to the trees. The waggoneer lunged at him and he pirouetted, his sword appearing from nowhere to spit the waggoneer as he arrived, the point going in his throat and ripping into his chest. The girl screamed, the other two wagons made off and the warriors came from the trees to claim the girl and the wagon. Oengus drove the wagon into their clearing while Brioccha brought the girl. Eriond and Beorsach disposed of the driver’s body, still twitching.
Susan wasn’t sure what was happening as she came down from the tree, in time to hear Brioccha speaking to Caomh.
“You going first, boss?” He ripped the girl’s dress down to expose much larger breasts than Susan possessed.
Caomh hesitated, transfixed by the sight, and Susan broke into the conversation.
“He certainly is not! What are you doing to that poor girl, put her dress back at once.” She twisted Brioccha’s hand off the dress and pushed it back up, while the girl clasped it to her, trying to hide behind Susan and crying without a break.
“It’s our right,” said Eriond, while Beorsach appeared behind Susan and dragged the girl away, causing her to scream out loud. Susan turned on him, the light of battle in her eyes, but Caomh grabbed her arm.
“It is their right.” He looked up at the warriors, all their attention on the girl, twitching in Beorsach’s grasp as he stripped her. “I forego my right and first duty, which I pass to Brioccha as my second. Further, I shall take the watch tonight.” He turned to Susan. “Make supper, and ignore what happens. I know what you think and you can do nothing but cause trouble.”
Fuming, Susan went to start the fire. Oengus joined her, lending his assistance while Caomh went to the road. As she blew on the tinder, the first screams rent the night and Oengus pulled her back and down beside him as she tried to go to the girl. He showed surprising strength and whispered in her ear.
“Please mistress. If you go to help her, they are in their rights to take you too. Stay here with me. I will keep you safe. The girl is dead.”
She lay supine a moment, with Oengus using his body weight to keep her down.
“What do you mean, dead?” As another scream pierced the evening, she wrapped her arms around Oengus, biting into his shoulder to control her anger.
“They do not care about her, they will take her until they are tired and she does not look strong, that one, nor clever like you. You cast your magic on Caomh, and on me, and he broke the custom, kept you for himself.”
“Magic?” Susan asked, as her anger eased and she held Oengus tightly. The screams faded away, so she could no longer hear anything. “It is not magic, my Oengus, I am just a nice person.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling down at her, “and a brave one.”
With reluctance, he slid off her, and she realised he was erect at being so close to her. She kissed him briefly, and returned to her cooking. She fed Oengus, and bade him replace Caomh while she went to the men. They lay around with contented smiles while the girl looked at the sky, no attempt to repair her hurts, blood soaking her thighs. Susan told them the food was ready and pulled the girl up, telling her to come with her to the stream.
Bathing her in the water, Susan inspected the girl and even in the half-light she could see the terrible tear in her inner folds. She brought the girl back to the fire, throwing a blanket on her, and found her food while preparing a tea for her. As the girl finished her food, Beorsach came up and reached for her.
“Stop,” said Susan without looking up. “You’ve done enough damage to this girl for one night. You’ve torn her up and it will take days to heal. I will tell you when she is healed and next time you take care to make sure she is ready.”
“Shut up, witch. I don’t care if she is healed, she don’t need to last long.”
“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” said Susan.
Beorsach, huge and threatening, roared in rage and reached for Susan, not the girl, his weight imperfectly aligned in front of his feet. Susan grasped his hair and pulled, crashing him into the fire from which he erupted shouting in pain with embers stuck to his face.
He swung towards Susan, face incoherent in fury, but by this time she had snatched up her staff. Beorsach never even saw the swinging stick, which crashed first into his groin, masticating his balls, then smacked against the side of his head before the end crashed into his knee, breaking it with a distinct crack.
He swayed on one leg while Susan prepared the coup de grace, aiming between his eyes. Before her staff began its journey, something twinkled in the dark, and feathers appeared in Beorsach’s chest. Susan hesitated, but slammed the end into his face anyway and he dropped to the ground, face down. Blood blossomed from his back and she blinked before taking in an arrow head sticking out, his life blood pulsing to a stop around it.
She swung around, staff in the ready position, wondering if she could see sufficiently to deflect an arrow, so spun the staff just in case.
Caomh lay on his back, an arrow through his eye.
She backed to the tree, trying to see what had happened to the others. The girl whimpered by the fire. Something rattled to one side, and she dashed a glance to see Eriond, his legs kicking spasmodically. She could not see the injury, but reckoned him dead. No sign of the others
A voice came out of the darkness, in heavily accented Harrhein.
“Sorry to spoil your kill, Morrigan, didn’t realise you had it in hand.” In spite of herself, Susan smiled. Even in Harrhein they knew of Morrigan, the warrior goddess of the Elves.
“You the Border Patrol?”
“We are.”
“You’re late,” she snapped in perfect Elvish.
There was silence for a moment. An elf appeared, just materialised, in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How long have you been here?”
“Four days. Did you kill the other one there?” She pointed to where Brioccha should be. “And there is a boy on watch at the road, but don’t kill him.”
“That one is dead, but we did not see a boy.”
“Oengus,” she called in Elvish, “walk in slowly so they can see you. Place your weapons down by the fire and come to me.”
For a long, still moment there was silence, before a shadow moved and Oengus appeared, eyes fixated on her face. He dropped to his knees in front of her, one hand resting on her foot.
“Mistress,” he said.
“Can you return him to the fold?” She asked the border patrol man.
“You have already done the work for us. The girl?”
“She needs a healer, or at the very least, time.”
“I’m all right,” said the girl. “She saved me, she did.”
“Remove the bodies,” she told the patrol man, issuing the order without thinking. “We shall spend the night here and move on in the morning.” The patrol man smiled as he did as she bid.
Susan took to her bed holding the girl, Naomi, in her arms, while Oengus slept at her feet. She could not sleep, as she explored her feelings for Caomh, wondering how she could both miss him and be pleased at his death. The moon rose, full and bright, casting unearthly shadows through the little clearing. With it came her tears, first a light dew trailing into Naomi’s hair, rising to racking sobs while Naomi stroked her face. Oengus moved up behind her, his arms enfolding both girls and holding them tight. Susan cried herself to sleep, not sure why she cried, for her dead lover or her ruptured innocence.
In the morning, she set the girl to preparing breakfast with Oengus’ help, while she brushed down her palfrey. The carthorse stood close behind her, nudging her every few minutes and blowing raspberries down the back of her neck as he demanded his turn. She shivered under his breath, smiling as she thought how all the males wanted something from her in Coillearnacha.
The patrol man appeared while they ate and accepted a plate of biscuits. On Susan’s question as to his name, he admitted to being called Cadeyrn.
“What now, Cadeyrn? I am on my way to find the Elder Maelbelenus for I wish to study with him. Can you set me on the right road?”
“Of course, I will draw a map.”
“I can lead her,” said Oengus. “I will be your guide, mistress.”
Susan raised an eye. “Is he free to go?”
Cadeyrn waved his arm. “The boy has learnt a lesson, I think. We all want to go renegade when we are young. Boy, apply for the patrol on your return. Give my name as sponsor.”
“What about me?” Naomi looked woebegone, sitting by the fire and wincing at some movements. “My man is dead, I’ve nowhere to go.”
“The wagon is yours,” said Susan with gentleness. “Take it and trade. The patrol will help you catch up with your friends.”
“Fuck ‘em, they didn’t care about me. I want to stay with you, missus. You take the wagon and let me be your maid. I feel safe with you, I do.”
“So,” said Cadeyrn, happy to be shot of all the problems at once. “You take the wagon and everything from this camp and follow the road to the Elder. You can sell the goods at his village.”
Lancers
The bay gelding went up the steep trail at a canter, while the princess on his back savoured the resinous scent of pine. This trail led along the mountainside and any observer would think she sought the Pathfinder outposts, as she did on regular occasions. Today, hidden from sight in the trees, she branched off on a deer track, winding up the hill to the crest. As deer require less space than a ridden horse, and will go under a fallen tree, she gave thanks for the thick pine covering which made the forest floor clear enough for the horse to bypass such blockages which became more frequent as she approached the crest.
She reached the top beside a tall pine, from underneath which she could determine the location of the open wold, if not see anything. Another deer track led in the right direction and she followed it to the edge of the wold, where she left her charger to graze without picketing him. Well trained, he would come to her call. Easing up a slight hill, she found a bush from which she could see over the open wold in front of her, short turf with the odd thicket of silver birch trees.
Several lines of tents caught her eye, even from the distance she could see the simple construction, just a length of dark green cloth over a rope, pegged down. No command tent of any sort, no infirmary, no armoury, all the same size. A number of horses grazed on the far side, while on the nearside riders took it in turn to gallop down a stretch and skewer something with their spears. The spears were very long, longer than any she had seen, and she realised the horses moved at a smooth gallop faster than usual, yet the riders had no difficulty hitting their tiny targets, for the game required several to be hit in difficult locations. Asmara grinned, this looked like fun.
Useful too, she realised, watching a hunting party return with deer and hares slung over the withers, while the only visible weapons were the long spears.
Thoughtfully, she looked for the pickets, realising there were none. These were not regular soldiers, she reminded herself, but astute plainsmen. They would have pickets, just not the obvious ones she sought. Pretend they are Pathfinders, she thought.
She concentrated on the perimeter bushes with no success, so instead thought where she would place a picket. Height, she thought and smiled in delight when she at last spotted a tiny movement on a neighbouring hill. Neighbouring, she thought to herself, before sighing in resignation.
“OK, boys, relax. I’ve seen enough and you can take me to your commander now. We’re in the same army.”
She wriggled backwards out of the bush and turned to find a short version of the spear levelled at her, held by a sandy-haired boy not much older than herself. His eyes didn’t blink as he studied her face.
Ignoring him, she inspected the spear in fascination. She didn’t recognise the wood, but it was far more slender than the usual ash used for spears. It eased into the point, a wicked foot long blade in a diamond shape, the double edges gleaming and showing signs of loving attention, hand sharpened without a nick. The spear was clearly one of the usual lances, snapped in half and put to a new use.
“Can I try it?” She asked without thinking and the boy’s eyes widened a trifle, as he jerked it back out of reach, taking up a more threatening stance. “It’s okay,” she added, “I am Lieutenant Starr of the Pathfinders, with despatches for your commander.”
“Walk down the hill,” he said, a deep Fearaigh burr making his accent hard to follow.
“My horse is tethered back there,” she began.
“My mate’ll bring ‘im,” said the boy, with a hurrying motion from his spear.
Asmara smiled and made her way down the hill, coming out on the plain and walking towards the spectators of the game. The boy followed behind her, the spear never leaving her back.
As they neared the group, the riders stopped their game and the entire group regarded her while she returned their appraisal with deepening interest. Why, they were all boys, she couldn’t see an experienced adult amongst them, until a bearded figure moved whom she recognised as the horse coper from his belts, festooned with brushes and grooming aids, while his muscular companion held several horseshoes in his belt, proclaiming him as the farrier. The rest were typical Fearaigh boys, mostly sandy haired, with the odd dark and one startling white. Able to ride before they could walk, raising the beef that fed the nation and the geldings that horsed the cavalry. Tough, wiry boys, who would drink anything they could lay hands on and drop a hat if it would start a fist fight. She remembered her father saying something about their habits with girls, but Asmara remained unworried – she didn’t consider herself anything like those flighty, silly creatures and couldn’t understand the fascination some boys held for them.
She halted a few yards in front of them, running her eyes over each in turn, trying to guess which would be the commander. She stood with her feet a shoulder’s width apart and her hands on her hips, unable to hide the grin of delight at these so different boys.
“I’m Lieutenant Starr of the Pathfinders, with despatches for your commander. Which one of you rabid, ugly dogs is Lionel?”
Two boys uncoiled themselves, rising to their feet, while another leapt lightly from his horse, alighting inside her personal space. Her grin deepened as he moved round her, before stopping in front of her.
“Well, how nice of the Harrheinians to send us entertainment instead of supplies,” he said, putting one hand on her hip and reaching for her insignificant breast bud with his right.
Asmara knew the right waited for her counter to incapacitate her, and stepped into him instead of away. She smiled as he felt the point of her knife, slipped out in a fluid motion and resting against his neck as part of the forward motion.
“Always pleased to cheer you up, darling,” she said as he backed away with a smile. He turned as if returning to his horse and his right foot swung up at speed, knocking the knife from her hand. She reacted without thinking, a backwards somersault to give herself space and drew her rapier as she arrived on her feet, her cap flying off and her hair spilling free, an auburn mane framing her hard features.
The boy laughed in delight, performed a back flip to his horse, removed a sabre with a substantial curve in it and with a forward somersault arrived in front of her with a lunge at her midriff. Asmara took the blade in carte, deflecting it sideways and her riposte should have taken his biceps but for inhuman reflexes pulling him out of the way. She stamped her foot and lunged again, for him to slap her sword sideways. She caught her lunge, kept her wrist low while stabbing upwards for his face. The boy still kept his sabre in the previous parry, unable to get it up to save his face and threw himself backwards, lying on the ground looking up at her with surprise.
“You are quick, boy, but you have little skill. I’ll give you some lessons later. Now, are you Lionel?”
“I’ll be Lionel if I’m getting a lesson,” he said, “especially with my sword.”
This caused a laugh around the onlookers, and most of them cried that they were the real Lionel.
One boy, dark haired like the boy she fought, raised his hand and the banter slowed to a halt.
“Enough, Jez, can’t you see this is the Princess? I’m Lionel,” he said to her and her heart did a most uncharacteristic flip as she looked into his dark eyes. She studied him as she approached, sliding her rapier back into its scabbard. Short black hair, parted on the right, the broad shoulders and slender waist of a rider, rather than a thickset knight. He was younger than most of the boys, and bore a distinct resemblance to the boy with whom she had fenced, though his chin was more square and chiselled.
He held out his hand, palm up, and she slapped the papers into it, fascinated to see he could read as he scanned the orders. Silence reigned across the plain, broken by the sound of Jez’s horse cropping grass. All the boys waiting to hear their orders. Asmara glanced at them as Jez came up to read over Lionel’s shoulder, brothers she guessed.
“What are the words?” Lionel asked, without looking up.
“I’ll take you to the vantage point overlooking the field where the armies will be drawn up at first light. I’m thinking you boys are woodsmen, so we can approach closer than the marshal suggests. Take out the pickets, if they have any, Spakka often don’t bother. And we wait. If we hit them too early, we won’t break the whole army. They must commit to a breach so they can be destroyed.”
“Who decides when we go?”
“I do.” The words caught his attention, and now he studied her, eyes meeting the strength in her own, before checking her hands and limbs. Asmara managed to restrain a voluptuous shudder under his gaze and wondered at her own reaction. Towards a commoner as well.
“I will not commit us to die by your word,” he said, his voice hard edged. “We did not come to sacrifice ourselves to Harrhein politics.”
“I ride by your side,” she answered with an infectious grin which he did not return. “It is not Fearaigh that Harrhein wishes to humble, but Spakka. Though it would be nice if the churchmen take a beating, which they will.”
“We will not rescue churchmen,” said his brother Jez, a hard gleam in his eye. “Bastards cause enough trouble as it is.”
“There is more to this,” said Lionel. “Breach, you said. I presume you mean in the shield wall, but I don’t understand.”
“The general prepares a trap.” Asmara considered the array of boys hanging on her every word, doubting she should continue, before deciding the impossibility any could be Spakka and surely too young to subvert. “The wall is not strong enough to hold against the Spakka and will break. Here I will show you.”
With rapid strokes, she swept the ground clear, retrieved her knife and cut a river along one side of the cleared ground. She collected some of the targets from the game, small stakes, and used them to lay out the armies, stating who they represented as she went. Purloining a blanket, she arranged it to represent the hillside.
“This hill is deeply forested, though with clear slopes to the plain, much like here. We will approach to overlook the field of battle, and indeed slightly to the rear. When the shield walls engage, you will see that the general keeps two reserves, heavy horse and infantry. Our wall will break on the right, and through the breach will pour the Spakka, to destroy the fleeing army. Waiting for them will be the Pathfinders, arrayed in a new square formation. This will channel the Spakka and the heavy horse will clear the channels. As the Spakka rush to fill the break, we hit them from the hill.”
Asmara rocked back on her heels and considered the impassive faces looking at her model. “According to the general, you boys can hit the running Spakka from behind and stop them from following down the breach.”
“Unless the fuckers put up another shield wall,” murmured one of the boys.
“Nobody has ever recovered from a broken shield wall,” said Lionel.
“I know.” Asmara gave him her most brilliant smile. “We’ll be the first.”
*
Princess Asmara fidgeted as the Fearaigh lancers packed up their camp. She would have liked to leave earlier, but the men refused to leave the deer and other game brought back by the hunters. These now roasted over fires, overseen by constant arguing and copious amounts of beer. She wondered where that came from; there didn’t seem to be enough baggage to bring it.
Lionel strode to her and passed over a mug of ale, which proved surprisingly good for being transported on horseback. Asmara remembered another document she carried.
“What is your family name, Lionel? Nobody knew at headquarters.”
“We don’t bother with such stuff in Fearaigh. More important what you can do rather than who’s your dad.”
“There are other Lionel’s in Fearaigh, how do we tell them apart? Who is your father?”
Lionel allowed suspicion to creep into his eyes. “He’s the Summoner of the Law Court in Barndton.”
“Think your crafty, don’t you?” Asmara smiled at him. She pulled out the paper and found a quill which she sharpened before mixing up a smidgen of ink. With fast sure strokes, she wrote on the parchment before handing it to him. His eyebrows lifted as he read it. “Call your men over, I will tell them.”
Lionel thought a moment, before calling to a nearby rider. “Hugo, call the men around. The princess wants to say something.”
Hugo’s stentorian voice brought men and boys from all over the field, less those guarding the fires and the sentries. As they assembled into a ragged crowd, no military formation for them, Asmara rose to her feet. They towered over her, the ones at the back quite unable to see her.
Sensing her trouble, Lionel’s brother rammed a lance deep into the ground and pulled the strapping Hugo beside him. “Here you go, Princess, use the lance for support and stand on our shoulders.” His eyes challenged her and she raised her chin.
“My thanks, Jez,” she said, having overheard his name. She disdained climbing but used his linked hand with Hugo’s to vault onto their shoulders, turning to face the men while holding the lance for balance. The men cheered, enlivened by this theatre and she grinned at them. She adored performing in the royal manner, and her father afforded her far too few opportunities, knowing the liberties she would take.
“Lancers,” she cried. “Today I ride with you so it is not right to call you the Riders of Fearaigh, instead I decree you are the Royal Lancers of Fearaigh, first of that name, and may you lay waste to our Nation’s enemies.”
The Royal Lancers cheered to this, many raising their mugs.
“Shortly we will come up to the main Harrhein army, with leaders and commanders having no idea how to use light riders in warfare. These leaders will delight in five hundred troops with no noble to lead them and seek to bind you to their service.”
The men fell quiet at these words; indeed something they discussed around the camp fires.
“Therefore I present to you Lionel Summoner of Barndton, Colonel of the Royal Lancers, appointed by my hand, The Crown Princess Asmara, this twenty sixth day of Maret, in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen Ninety Two.”
A brief mutter swirled through the crowd, and Asmara realised she shouldn’t have mentioned the Church chronology, but there was no counting of the years in the old ways.
She leapt from the shoulders to land on the turf with barely a tremble of her thighs, whipped out her rapier and turned.
“Kneel before your princess, Lionel, rider of Barndton.” Her voice rang through the silence of the plain, while the riders craned and shoved for a better look at this little girl, so confident and she believed in them.
Lionel went down on one knee, his face solemn as he raised it to her. He pulled out his sabre, laying it at her feet.
“Princess, I swear by the True Gods, my Ancestors and my Blood to be your man, to come at your call, to fight your foes and to defend the weak in the Realm. I shall lead my men to my best ability, to ensure their success and the safety of the Realm.” He raised his sabre, slicing his palm and smearing his blood down the blade before running his bloodied palm over his face. A murmur of approval went through the men and the Princess withheld her smile.
Not quite the usual oath, but it would do, more than do and a good thing no priest to witness the sacrilege. Asmara decided to follow the old routine which she was not supposed to know about, but had found in a banned book. She sheathed her own sword, bending to collect his sabre.
She raised it to her lips, feeling the men tense behind her, and kissed his blood on the blade, feeling the rich saltiness on her tongue, with a metallic under-taste she knew to be from the blood, not the blade.
“I take thy blood for mine, Sir Knight, and let it mingle with my own.” With solemn ceremony, moving with slow precision and holding her left arm aloft so all could see, she sliced her own hand, smearing her blood down his blade. “With thy blood and my blood I do bind thee, Sir Lionel, to my care and to my guard, my personal guard. From this day forth you are mine to call and to cherish, FOR THE BLOOD!” She saw his eyes widen and knew his awareness of the old stories. The last personal guard belonged to her great aunt, Rowena, a fearsome lady killed in battle with the Spakka more than sixty years before, much loved by the people.
The riders behind also remembered the old ways, as they erupted, cheering, “FOR THE BLOOD” and throwing hats in the air. A few on the edge bestrode their horses, which now reared and neighed adding to the confusion.
She rested the sabre on first the right, then the left shoulder before returning the sabre to his grasp. Asmara hesitated a moment, knowing what she should do but finding herself shy and hesitant, ‘I’m only thirteen,” she thought to herself, for the first time in many years worrying about her age. Following her great aunt’s custom, she leant down and kissed Lionel lightly on the lips, smearing his blood and hers together, before recoiling sharply as his tongue shot out, taking from her lips much of the blood and for the briefest instant slipping between to touch her teeth.
She steadied her nerves as unlooked for emotions whipped through her, holding her breath to calm her racing heart, before taking a backwards step and crying out in a strong voice. “Arise, Sir Lionel Summoner of Barndton.”
Lionel arose, turning to his men with a silly grin on his face and found himself met with a torrent of good natured abuse, while Asmara tried to come to terms with her first kiss and the uncomfortable feelings it engendered, feelings and emotions with which she had no truck, being most unsuitable for a Fighting Princess.
“Hey, Princess,” cried one bearded rider after pummelling Lionel’s back. “If he’s your personal guard, and he’s our boss, means we all are, right?”
“She hasn’t got any others, Matt,” said Jez before she could speak. “I reckon she’ll need us all when her dad finds out. Church won’t be too pleased either.”
“Church is finished,” said Matt. “The Duchess sorted them out, didn’t she?”
Asmara found herself amazed at the knowledge of ordinary soldiers, knowing Susan Taylor as the Duchess which she thought was a nickname reserved for the Pathfinders.
“Only some of the corrupt side,” said Jez. “Rotherstone is here with the army, isn’t he, Princess?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. Jez sidled a little closer, taking her arm and whispered in her ear, while Matt leant forward, eyes shining and nodding at his words.
“Want us to have a little accident as we race past the shield wall tomorrow? I’ll run a lance through his ear, see how he likes that,” Jez grinned as he made the offer.
“Oh yes,” said Matt. “It’ll be easy, nobody will realise it is not an accident, hey, they will probably think it is a Spakka spear.”
“Don’t put yourselves in danger, boys. Besides, there is no way he will be near the front rank. He will be quite out of reach surrounded by his personal guard.”
“That isn’t something we offer, Princess,” said Jez. “We move too fast to be guards, and all the lads want a tilt at the Spakka. You will need to stay in the middle of us and we will take it in turns to ride outside and spear a Spakka.”
“I want to spear one too. Will you teach me how to use a lance as we ride?”
“Sure, for a kiss.” He smiled at her in a roguish way, causing her to feel pleasure and alarm at the same time, while she glared and punched him, aiming for the nose but glancing off the cheekbone as he dodged, laughing.
“Grub’s up,” cried Hugo, interrupting the moment and the troopers moved towards the fire. A tall skinny boy with big eyes came running up with a plate full of venison and hare for the princess, with slices of camp bread.
“Hey Lenny,” said Matt, his mouth full of bread and venison. “Have we got time for a dance before we ride?”
“No, we do not,” said the Princess in some alarm. “I’m a fighting princess not a bloody dancing one.”
“We ride in fifteen,” said Lionel. “Make sure you all have fodder and breakfast. Will be a cold camp on the hillside tonight.”
“I’ll get fodder for your horse, Princess,” said Matt, pushing the last of his meat into his face and turning away.
“Get some for me too,” said Jez. Matt replied with a raised finger, which Asmara knew to be a rude gesture, and filed it away for later use. Probably best to experiment on Andy, she thought, her master-at-arms, before wondering what kept him. He should have caught up by now.
*
Sergeant Russell, her master-at-arms, arrived as they assembled for departure, bringing with him a change of clothes for the princess and information, which he passed on to the princess as she rode beside Sir Lionel. He brought with him a squadron of Pathfinders, their job to clear the hillside of Spakka pickets to allow the horses to approach as close as possible.
The Lancers watched as each man in turn came and knelt to the princess, where she touched their foreheads and whispered a word to them. She knew their names, a fact not lost on the Lancers, many of whom began to look at this young teenager in a different light, while the Pathfinders mounted and rode ahead.
Sir Lionel led off, Asmara by his side and the Lancers came behind in column of two, with gaps between companies. Asmara wondered at the formation of the regiment, but given the lack of talking, refrained from asking. She noticed every trooper moved quietly, nary a metallic noise from steel parts of the harness colliding, nor even creaks from the saddles. This brought her attention to the saddles, quite the smallest she ever saw, unlike the ponderous chairs of the Heavy Horse. She wondered how they could spear armoured foe when the shock would send them clean off the horse. Why, there was but a single girth strap around the horses’ bellies, rather than the double strap with extra chest holder worn by the shock cavalry. She anticipated discovering their abilities in the morning and in the meantime went to sleep on her horse, content to follow along.
The cessation of motion woke her, and she found Sergeant Russell holding the reins while extending a hand to help her down. A quick glance and her night vision allowed her to see the troopers dismounting around her, giving the fodder bags to their horses and rolling up in blankets. A night camp, lancer-style.
She noticed some of the troopers cajole their mount into lying down, where the horse would act as a pillow, while others picketed their horse and slept further away. Sergeant Russell dropped her bedroll from the saddle, along with her bags, and led the horses away. Without saying a word, she unrolled her bed, took off her boots and slid in, munching on a now stale slice of bread with meat inside. She fell asleep before the sergeant returned.
When she awoke, the camp bustled with men preparing. The dew soaked her bed and she felt cold, accepting a hot mug of tea from Sergeant Russell as she sat up. She drank the brew, wondering what he had found this time, and chewed the remaining meat on a hard biscuit. Her eyes roved the camp, missing many faces.
“Where’s the colonel?”
“At the forward observation point, overlooking the battle field. Armies are appearing already.”
“Let’s go.”
They walked, moving through a camp preparing for war; men sharpening lances and sabres, their stones moving with slow, sure strokes, making just a quiet buzz. Asmara found herself impressed with the professionalism; ordinary levies would make far more noise; these boys were up there with the Pathfinders. She knew life on the plains of Fearaigh could be harsh, especially on the Coillearnacha border. She found a strong suspicion growing deep inside her that these boys honed their skills raiding into the Elven Kingdom. It just wasn’t possible for them to be so good without active service.
Singularly lacking the proper guilt a princess of the realm should feel in the company of raiders and renegades, Asmara strode through the forest, down the hill, her eyes bright with excitement and taking in the sights, from the red squirrel, his ear tufts twitching in outrage at their presence, to the axe blaze on a tree where a Spakka had marked a trail. She knew Andy would test her later to ensure her observation skills kept improving.
They turned down a spur of hillside, thickly forested with pine, heading towards a brighter spot which foretold a gap in the canopy. Nearing the point, Matt’s face appeared as he winked at her and indicated a route. Bending down, she made her way through some shrub to find Sir Lionel, Jeremy and a couple of others on the edge of a cliff, hidden back in some bushes, which gave them a panoramic view over the Harden Plain below.
Off to the left, the massive black bulk of the Hardenwall brooded at the entrance to the plain, somehow emanating a feeling of being nettled at the Spakka bypassing its walls, and its malevolence thick in the air.
The Spakka army camped at the head of the plain, perhaps three leagues from the city, and filled the plain with a hive of tents, and soldiers exercising. A steady stream of men followed a route for the hills, which she pointed out to Andy.
“That’s their resupply chain,” he said, “porters going back for more. They are landing supplies on the beaches to the north.”
She nodded, realising that these men must have over-nighted with the army for security, and wondered why the Pathfinders were not picking them off. Her attention moved to the arrival of the Harrhein army, processions of men marching up the plain towards the Spakka. All the regiments marched together, their different coloured uniforms catching in the early morning light while their banners and flags flew above them. The sound of martial music wafted on the breeze and the Spakka camp began to unfurl in slow motion.