《Avarice Secret Unquiet》


 Perfect is the Son

    The world was certainly not what it had once been. The rhythms of nature had been very much interrupted. The weather was beyond strange, and the humans who had survived the calamity were sure it was they who had caused the upheaval. True, they had not been so kind to the earth they inhabited, raping the wilds for resources, manufacturing detritus that lay in the environment for decades or more, and waging ceaseless wars that seared and desecrated a once beautiful world.


    However the real threat remained largely unseen, and if discovered, unidentified to most. An enigma to all those who still led some semblance of civilized life and embraced science.


    *****


    Somewhere on another continent, in a large metropolis that had survived the conflict, alley cats fought and litter blew through the untidy streets on the cold north wind. People huddled in drab trench coats pulled their collars up about their faces and hurried on their way, eager to be inside out of the icy tempest. They had been the victors, the lucky ones, and yet their hedonistic way of life had suffered since the fall of globalism. Even the victorious had not been left unscathed.


    Deep beneath this city landscape down in the endless cistern of sewers something nameless and otherworldly black seeped forth, as it touched the fouled waters that flowed from the plumbing above the reaction was violent.


    *****


    A great stag paused on the edge of a forest clearing, Cernunnos personified. His magnificent antlers were crowned with tines like a spreading oak, the velvet shreds hanging. He grunted in a low growl calling for challengers as he appeared from the treeline and scented the air, haunches quivering awaiting the specter of challenge. The moss was a vibrant green on the rocks that lay scattered across the open sward.


    The stag sniffed the air again and this time instead of calling a challenge, made a growl of alarm. His neck arched and he pirouetted gracefully about on his hind feet and vanished back into the safety of the primordial forest.


    In the clearings¡¯ center lay the fast-emerging blackness eating away at the earth. A strange umbral haze sat above it and rounded gems rolled across the moss like living creatures spilling from the fissure.


    *****


    The beach was stark, bright, and beautiful. The gulls swooped and whirled high above. A vista of clean blue and white, a feast of purity for squinting human eyes. The grizzled, white-haired fisherman made his way to the shoreline and prepared to cast out his line. He shielded his eyes from the brightness, and as he did so he noticed an irregularity in the ocean''s azure continuum. Blackness like an oil spill rising from below, dead and dying fish littered the shore. He frowned and decided he would cast his line for today''s catch elsewhere.


    *****


    The lone polar bear¡¯s white coat looked yellow against the icy backdrop of its habitat. It paused briefly scenting the air at the edge of the glacier shrouded in the pristine icing sugar dust of new snowfall. The majority of the earth¡¯s glaciers in recent years had melted, but a few holdouts remained. Little had changed here for thousands of years and humans rarely visited. This continuous world locked in ice, a place of bright whites and every delicate shade of soft blue, now blighted by the emergence of a black stain that rent the world with an unquiet hiss.


    *****


    The oasis in the desert had once given life and respite. Now it stood surrounded by the deceased skeletons of trees and the beasts that had drunk of its waters. An ode to death as it once was to life. Large the spreading black pool of impossible darkness even beneath the harsh sun¡¯s glare.


    *****


    The native tribesmen sat, clad in no more than belts of bright shells and headdresses of vibrant feathers. Boars tusks through their noses and faces painted jet. They pondered this strange newness that had emerged almost overnight near their village. They watched the birds and beasts that came too close to the dark nothingness vanish, or weaken and die.


    They feared their god Areop-Enap was angry, and they too would be imprisoned in the darkness of the giant clam shell just as their spider god had been before human creation. They went home to their families prayed, and made sacrifices.


    *****


    In the past, these unions would have been different between him and Sheharizade. The pair had often dallied here away from the eyes of his court. White flesh entwined with sensuousness, senses filled to overflowing. Sometimes joined by their servants, or Lords and Ladies in an orgy of tactile bliss and sumptuous pleasure.


    Though for many centuries the denizens of the under-earth had largely lost the capacity for procreation, they had not lost the desire for great pleasure. Perhaps immortality had rendered this ability almost obsolete, or perchance it was the product of their own wickedness, for their species was decidedly cruel to anything they believed to be lesser. This lost ability was often the subject of great debate, the sharpest minds among the Nethris could not rightly say why this physiological change had befallen them, or when it first began. Simply a child of pure demon blood had not been born for many centuries.


    Xonereth reclined on a plush divan of the most inky blackness. Elegant alabaster hand draped idly by his side, carelessly clasping a silver goblet about the lip of the most beauteous design. An ebon vintage pooled within half drunk, nectar to his lips, yet fatal to mankind. Sheharizade, lay quietly at his side in her voluminous robes. Xonereth was looking up to the high cupola of the basalt roof above. Mind on upper earth, and all he had witnessed there during his recent sojourns by night...


    So many places of secret unquiet the dark ruler had discovered in his quest for knowledge. No longer did he attend the upper reaches and walk among humankind to sow mischief and discord in the ears and minds of the unwary. He passed by those places where he would have once lingered and indulged his salacious lusts, for humans and their intrigues to demons were as irresistible as candy to a child.


    Misery and suffering crowded the upper spaces, palpable in the very air and every living thing. Even to demon kind the world of the humans felt cloying, crowded with a veritable cacophony of sadness and despair.


    It was not just the emanations from the human world that reviled his senses, all the other creatures that inhabited this place were similarly suffering unspoken misery. Demons were usually drawn to these emanations and were themselves often the causation of such events, but this was something far more sinister than anything Xonereth had ever felt in his long existence.


    As he passed among those mortal souls whose lives were to him ephemeral, he overheard their concerns. He listened to their theories, fables, and fears, and the sadist in him chuckled as he understood how wrong their feeble minds were. The humans believed they had done this to themselves, with their bombs, wars, and hatred. Admittedly they were rather hateful and careless spies, but Xonereth knew that there was something greater at work. Something inextricably broken in this world and his own.


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    The demon King had encountered in his travels numerous sites where the substance of his own plane had bled through into this one. Some were no more than mere tiny puddles almost completely hidden from sight, others dark and large, scarring and searing the landscape.


    The ink-dark water that the humans had mistaken for all manner of things such as oil, radiation, or the black rain seeping forth, were in fact the seas of his world. The living gems of his earth that the skilledGrishak so lovingly and beauteously crafted into weapons and jewelry of great design lay scattered in the red sands, the dark primal forests, or about the snowy tundras. They were things that did not belong there. Wrongness was afoot, and he felt a great disquiet burden him.


    The proud ruler snatched himself away from his troubles, all he seemed to be doing was going about in circles without any resolution. It was very unlike him. Tenderly he touched the shrunken form huddled by his breast. He loved her still his scintillating Princess, though her withered form was hard for him to reconcile. The sensuality of flesh Xonereth had withdrawn, though he would never depart from the caress of Sheharizade¡¯s wonderful mind.


    He lay dwelling on millennia past, of overflowing wickedness, desire, and rampant narcissism. He and his people drowned in such sensations and sought them to excess. The Nethris were truly a pride-filled people.


    None though more so than Xonereth¡¯s twin brother, Valefor, who had desired it all, adoration, excess villainy, a cruelty unmatched. Nothing short of God status would appease him. He took what he wanted, defiled the tenets of Nethrizil with impunity, and created what should never have been created in his black wake, and Xonereth wondered, did Valefor have something to do with all these recent events and the tearing of the worlds?


    Though they were of identical flesh, Xonereth realized very early in his existence that his brother was fundamentally flawed. However Valefor was the firstborn by only some moments, and by default held the paramount right to rule.


    Their mother was the highborn consort Ardat Lili. She was the lover of the ruler at that time, the dour Semiazas. Though he had many consorts, Ardat Lili was quite the beauty, arresting in her charm even by demon standards, and she quickly became his favorite. The irony was that the humans associated her with the ghost of a young woman who had never experienced any sexual desire before her life was cut short, causing her in death to revisit men to attain that which she had never experienced in life. Xonereth found this quite amusing the human¡¯s ignorance.


    Xonereth¡¯s Father Semiazas was a careless ruler who was more interested in his charges, the fallen and misguided angels, who in those days surrounded the Gods that lived, breathed, and cared about their newest creation, the human planes above. In the absence of her Sire¡¯s direction, Ardat Lili groomed her beloved firstborn to rule, and she was as many mothers, blind to his shortcomings. The Nethris could not be flawed, least of all her royal son.


    Over the millennia Valefor did as a cruel prince was want to do. Wreaking his cruelties on upper earth by the light of the stars, pestilence, and plague were his handmaidens, and a cloak of misery was his lot. His treacheries were both large and small. Pauper, Prince, or King, all fell like ripe wheat before his grandiose depredations.


    If it pleased him to destroy an entire city he did so, if a maiden of such fairness spurned his evening dark advances, she too would fall in the most terrible fashion possible. From fire and disease, he brought forth creatures of blight. The ill-informed humans labeled them the scourge, but to Valefor they were his children, and simply a reflection of human fears made manifest.


    Xonereth though he could be equally cruel in his own right, often toying with humankind, found his brother¡¯s penchant for twisting of the earth¡¯s creatures and the resultant ugliness an abomination. Yet Xonereth was not to be Regent. Relegated to a Prince of the court, and that should have been his destiny. Until Sheharizade...


    Though their first meeting was eons distant Xonereth starkly recalled her beauty, a mortal man could not encompass all that was Sheharizade and not have his vision scored by bloody tears and irreversible blindness.


    However, beauty was not what had initially been Xonereth¡¯s attraction to the diminutive Princess the first he lay eyes on her at court. It was instead her brash personality. Though young among the Nethris she would dare to have her voice be heard. Audacious enough to speak directly to the Regent or his consort if she felt she must, on any issue of the moment.


    Most of the highborn females were quiet and demure, preferring to let the male nobility decide the course of justice as they watched on mostly indifferently. Sheharizade was passionate and burned with an emotional short fuse. Xonereth was smitten with the princess''s at times uncourtly displays, and he had decided then he would woo her for his mate.


    Xonereth was never sure if his brother had truly loved Sheharizade for the reasons of his own mind, or if he had in his avarice simply decided he would hurt his sibling and take what another desired. Merely because it was in his power to do so.


    It was not long before both Princes were seeking the attention of the same demoness. Though Valefor would be crowned King someday and would be the logical choice to have the edge in courtship matters. It was Xonereth that impressed Sheharizade and committed to her heart.


    In the company of such vast egos throughout the history of his race, many individuals had teetered dangerously close to the path of conflict. However, with such powerful beings, any act of war was strictly forbidden. To make hatred on another Nethris was the highest wrong and punishable by the most heinous sentence. Death was not readily possible in the world of immortals unless, of course, the sentence was banishment to the light; however, there were other sentences that could still strike fear even into an immortal''s heart. The most feared being immobile, yet cognizant exile.


    Xonereth sighed when he thought of all the past hatreds that his royal blood had brought to his kindred. It was a terrible legacy, and still very much unfinished.


    He was about to rise and return to his pressing studies, petting Sheharazade gently on her bony shoulder when one of his courtiers Nysrogh, one of the lesser caste of demons bowed to this lord in the doorway. His long tresses raked the floor before him mimicking a nest of black serpents. Xonereth cast his imperious gaze at the courtier, who remained bowed and motionless in his ruler¡¯s presence awaiting acknowledgment. The demon King noted though that his courtier was somewhat agitated even in his suppliance.


    ¡°Rise and speak.¡± Xonereth¡¯s voice was rich and embodied darkness and all its mystery.


    Nysrogh rose with a beauteous fluidity, his dark eyes averted from his Regent''s gaze as was deemed appropriate.


    ¡°My King, there is something you must see... immediately.¡±


    Xonereth raised a questioning eyebrow, it was rare anyone told him he must do anything, let alone immediately. He could sense the handsome demon''s palpable panic, this was usually reserved for the lesser of his kind. The ones who did not speak, the ones who tore their hair and remonstrated in the dirt. An unseemly trait this anxiousness in one of his highborn. He liked it not.


    He rose and followed Nysrogh swiftly through the high basalt corridors of his palace, the crippled Sheharizade somehow keeping pace by his side. They reached the entrance to the palace grounds proper and made their way down the moon-white colonnade, the columns entwined with black vines that bore large open flowers that looked like magnolias, with lush petals that appeared to the passerby to be cut from the finest sable velvet cloth.


    Xonereth averted his eyes from the distressing spectacle of the leafless Nethrizil, and the depleted seabed that lay beyond. He found he no longer had the courage to look at that which ailed his world, a sentiment that he found distasteful for one of his supposed might. He did not wish to be ruled by his feelings, and yet he found he was.


    He was surprised to see many of his citizens were assembled at the end of the colonnade. Princesses in their diaphanous finery that left nothing to the imagination. Princes resplendent in midnight robes trimmed with every beauteous design in stunning silver brocade bowed courtiers swathed in the finest black velvet, and the lesser demon kind crowded about the end of the terrace. All shielding their faces. Some spoke in frightened whispers, but most remained silent. Sheharazade plucked at Xonereth¡¯s sleeve and he shot her a glance full of meaning and concern.


    Before him in the far distance, he beheld it. Something of such disturbing ugliness, a blight on his world, something to demon kind that was composed of the purest horror. An enormous pillar of light shone from an indeterminable point in the night sky and crashed into the lands beneath. The above was now below.

 A Woman Scorned

    ¡°This is crazy!¡± Aurianne had exclaimed. ¡°Can¡¯t you see Isabou has gone almost five days without water! Look at her Mr Brannon! Look at her! She can¡¯t possibly go much longer!¡±


    Jhary sighed at the angry outburst. ¡°Please Aurianne, try and understand the water on the ground and the plant life is now very poisonous. You just can¡¯t let your horse eat it, she will sicken and die.¡±


    ¡°Well we can¡¯t just stand here either, what do you propose we do then?¡±


    The bard had not expected this and struggled in the face of heated Aurianne''s tirade. He had never been good in the face of aggression. Let alone from a woman he was beginning to have a very strong affection for.


    ¡°Please, just one more day Aurianne?¡± Having said this he gathered up the remaining canteen and held it out to the angry redhead.


    ¡°There is a large river here not too distant, on the strength of that information let your horse drink the water that remains. Then we will fashion a muzzle for her so she does not eat any of the contaminated foliage, tomorrow we shall take her straight to the river. That I promise. At least the dampness by then will have dried, and we will make our way to the Bridge. Please, Aurianne listen to me.¡±


    Such appealing and disarming brown eyes Aurianne thought, as she clutched the last almost full canteen in her arms.


    ¡°All right.¡± She sighed and made to fashion a leather trough out of the body of her coat that Isabou may drink.


    Kario sat idly on the pump housing piping loathe to contribute to the argument that had raged most of the day. He was most tired of it honestly. He had found Jhary''s vehement caution most strange. He personally felt there was nothing to fear, but had given up trying to explain this to his companions. He was weary of being told the exposure had possibly already made him sick. Kario felt absolutely fine.


    *****


    The next morning found Kario up and staring at the dawning sky, perhaps he had never slept, accommodations were hardly conducive to any sort of restfulness. He had frequently walked outside much to Jhary¡¯s insistence he not do so. The dark man chose to ignore him.


    ¡°Would you look at that!¡± Kario exclaimed.


    Both Jhary and Aurianne peered through the door of the shelter. Big Isabou keenly nudged her mistress in the hope of pushing further and gaining long-awaited access to the outdoors. The sky was the vaguest hint of rosy pink.


    ¡°Oh!¡± Aurianne exclaimed in wonder.


    ¡°The upper atmosphere is cleansing itself.¡± Jhary indicated.


    Aurianne didn''t know about that, but she was overjoyed to see some difference in the sky once again. Even more delighted as the party prepared to depart to sight the hints of soft blues behind the clouds as the sun rose. There were even some shafts of stray sunlight. On seeing this Aurianne felt great joy. She had fashioned a crude muzzle for her horse and was warned on no account to let the mare try to eat. She tacked up her beloved mare and added a short eating reign to help prevent Isabou from the temptation of grazing.


    I guess we are ready.¡± Jhary announced, as much as he felt he was not. He led the way from the iron shelter to what he hoped was the vast river valley and floodplain he remembered snaking below.


    Isabou fought heartily with Aurianne, and she found she had to ride to at least get some control of her hungry and thirsty mount. This would be a long trip she thought silently as she struggled to control the two thousand pound mare, who desperately tried to grasp every mouthful of plant life she passed by heedless of the muzzle.


    They had only gone a short way when the trio came on a sobering sight, Jhary''s mare lying on her back already bloated in death. Hooves pointed skyward. It appeared as though she had not died a dignified death either. Beauty ran about the carcass sniffing wildly, as Jhary paused to retrieve his saddlebags.


    ¡°Now this is what I¡¯m talking about.¡± Jhary finally had some visible benchmark to illustrate the point he had so struggled to communicate earlier. ¡°Killed by radiation from the sky.¡±


    He struggled to pull the leather bags out from under the mare¡¯s dead weight, the saddle was irretrievable. Aurianne kept turning and staring back at the mare even long after she had ridden away. Making far more effort to ensure her horse didn''t touch anything at all. It seemed Jhary had not been telling stories.


    They had walked all morning, the sun breaking the clouds on occasion to cast the world in light. Its presence was uplifting. At midday, they sighted the river.


    ¡°We will head there, the water I hope should be somewhat safe. We have little choice but to drink it.¡± Jhary stated and led the way, saddlebags slung over his shoulder, guitar in its battered case dangling in hand.


    *****


    They let Isabou drink, she stood quietly, muzzle hovering over the waters slurping at intervals eyes half closed. Aurianne too was thirsty, but now she was doubtful to so mindlessly imbibe. Jhary had said the waters were possibly less contaminated. Perhaps she would try and wait until they got to this town? She noted that Jhary did the same, though Kario seemed to find no issue with drinking his fill.


    ¡°The Bridge will be further to the southwest, I hope not too far.¡± Perhaps there we can get your horse safe hay and decent rations for ourselves?¡±


    Aurianne nodded to Jhary and took up her mount''s reins. Isabou seemed to be content now she had sated her thirst, and allowed herself to be led far more easily. Aurianne was glad of it, this morning had been a struggle.


    *****


    They had eaten the last of the flatbread weeks ago, but Dwayne thought about it incessantly for the duration of the homeward journey. Unlike the older men in his clan, he had been no more than twelve when the bombings had disintegrated polite society. He was struggling to remember his schooling and the foods he ate as a child. He spent more time longing for what he had and knew presently than fretting over the absence of anything that had gone before.


    He often listened in puzzlement to the elder members of his clan speak about so many things he had little to no recollection of. Things like porn, beer, and ice cream. Those things seemed strange and trivial to him, phantasms almost. He sensed Jormugar felt the same, they belonged firmly in the present, even with its adversities.


    Jormugar had felt better in subsequent days, however, he puzzled over his strange and sudden sickness. At times he still felt uncharacteristic weakness and headaches. Though being a creature of the wild he had an endurance most could not match, and he kept pace with his captors giving no sign he was weakened.


    His weapons were not returned to him, though he had expected that. At least he was no longer bound. He didn''t ask what the strange metallic cylinders were for, or contained. Working for the likes of men like Master Jacques had taught the young man to be very judicious with what he said. He simply did as he was asked, got paid, and pondered it no more.


    Gareth was content. He had secured the prize of a new future, and his latest deed would cement his position as the second most powerful man in the clan. Though the return journey would be slow and lengthy, he felt unusually satisfied. He cast his eyes back to the four horses, they looked tired but not alarmingly so. Tired horses were often obedient horses, the last thing he needed now was one flighty animal to undo all they had gained.


    He again pondered the handsome, brown-haired man who strode behind. Gareth sensed no malice there. Though he was very unsure if the man had completely confessed the entire truth during the rough interrogation. This Jormugar seemed very independent and calm, he looked strong and capable and if he could be trusted, a worthy addition to the tribe¡¯s warrior rank.


    Gareth had spent some time the night before perusing the young man¡¯s possessions that were stowed in his saddlebags. This self-confessed bounty hunter was certainly not an individual of scant means. He possessed gold and plenty of it. Unlike others, he displayed none of this wealth on his person. Choosing wisely to keep his abundant riches out of plain sight.


    Gareth had returned all of the man¡¯s belongings to the saddlebags, handing back to Jormugar his rabbit cape, and bedroll. The young man had received the items gratefully, for the nights were still very cold. Though desirable Jormugar''s wealth was not Gareth¡¯s to distribute, but that of his leader Wezley Bennett. The wealth did mesh with the story of hunting scalps, Gareth knew very well that there was good coin to be made with that unsavory and dangerous work. Though instinctively Gareth still felt the young man had not revealed everything.


    *****


    Dahlia had not been herself since the fall of the black rain. Though nothing here had appeared to outwardly change. Except perhaps her little ones were forbidden to go outside into the manicured gardens, where despite the cold they had so loved to play.


    With this change in the woman''s attitude, Aran began to realize his freedom by winning the maiden''s heart was possibly an illusion. He was seen not as Thorne was, an equal, a paramour, he still held no more status than a slave. He contained no thoughts or motivations that mattered to Dahlia. She never inquired of his past life, feelings, or preferences. He was simply an empty vessel to be used and put away.


    Privately Aran had begun to despair, he feared being a slave deeply and had taken to looking at the brand in his thigh with a new revulsion. He vowed silently when he was freed he would cut it out even if it killed him.


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    *****


    Aran had woken to the gaze of a child. Koemi, or ¡®little laugh¡¯; her inquisitive eyes taking him in with all innocence. She had dropped her doll, and it lay invitingly close. As he took the toy into his grasp he could see it was fashioned expertly from rags and hand-sewn in the manner of antique toys of yesteryear. The expert work clearly that of Koemi¡¯s talented mother.


    He held the toy in his large hand as Koemi looked on, to his amazement from her round face framed in silky black hair a pair of bright blue eyes peered forth. She had the best of both world¡¯s beauty and would grow to be a striking woman for sure. However, that was not the real tact of Aran¡¯s thoughts that day. He listened and scanned the room swiftly, he could not afford a mistake. Koemi¡¯s elder sister Kokoa sat reading her lessons as her mother had instructed. Seemingly unaware her younger sibling had wandered into Aran¡¯s vicinity to play.


    He smiled at the child who seemed uncertain, he was a forbidding and unusual stranger after all. Though Aran was sure the little girl was quite used to the rough and fierce men who formed the Finks that her mother seemed to command. Carefully he smiled again, trying his best to be reassuring as he proffered the toy. Koemi in her innocence edged closer. Aran¡¯s green eyes furtively sought out her elder sibling to sense he had not been detected. He offered the doll again hoping the little girl would edge a fraction further. Obligingly she did.


    Aran¡¯s strong hands closed on the tiny body swiftly. The girl cried out in terror and surprise struggling in his sure grasp. The bars of his prison were sturdy but placed wide, Aran with his muscled bulk could not escape, but the tiny frame of Koemi he pulled easily inside.


    Kokoa looked up, crying out loud as she registered her little sister in Aran''s clutches. At three years of age, the little girl was too small to fight, and quite helpless in Aran''s arms. Kokoa screamed shrilly for her mother, and Dahlia came running into sight as fast as her flowing traditional mode of dress and wooden sandaled feet would allow. She looked across at Aran in a blank-faced stare, unreadable as always.


    ¡°Release me Dahlia.¡± Aran demanded. Suggestively placing his great fist about the child''s neck, so that her mother might see better the merit of his request. He had no issue breaking a grown man¡¯s neck, or strangling a struggling woman, Koemi would perish easily.


    Dahlia stood in silence, she said not a word though Aran could read the language of her nervously twisting fingers.


    ¡°Free me Dahlia, you have had your game. Free me and I will return your daughter unharmed, and go on my way. I ask no more than that.¡± It seemed to Aran¡¯s direct way of thinking, a pretty good deal.


    Dahlia pressed her remaining daughter behind her and proceeded to cross the chamber, toward her unruly property.


    ¡°Release my daughter, slave.¡± She whispered. ¡°Do so and I will forget this happened. Harm her and you will know the most hurtful slavery that you shall never escape.¡±


    Aran looked at her coolly. He was not used to being threatened, and never by a female. Koemi had ceased to struggle and lay gently at Aran¡¯s great breast, pretty blue eyes staring upward. She was too tiny to completely register her peril or the tension between the two adults, as her life hung in the balance.


    ¡°This is your last chance slave.¡± Dahlia stated.


    Her voice did not waver but her body language did. Aran was good at reading human posture, he relied on it extensively in his art of war. She was afraid, but crazily enough the woman was prepared to lose her pup to get him to stand down. He had not anticipated this at all.


    Suddenly things were not so clear. If he slaughtered the child he remained a prisoner. Though perhaps he would earn a clean death. However, had not Dahlia just said dying would be too good for him? Aran was beginning to wish he had not snatched the child. However, he could not find it in himself to rescind Koemi to her mother.


    He did not believe Dahlia¡¯s assurances for one moment, that she would meekly forget this. Suddenly he did not know what to do. Perhaps he thought Dahlia did not believe he had the stomach to butcher an innocent? Aran smiled whimsically, as he knew quite otherwise. War, is not the kindest mentor.


    Dahlia caught the warrior¡¯s unsettling expression. She said no more, instead gathering up her kimono along with her remaining child and leaving the room as swiftly as she had entered.


    Aran decided to stand. Koemi gazed up at him, Aran found himself wishing she was older, he was most curious at what her beauty would be. Arresting likely. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. He supposed he was afraid, yet he told himself it was just his body being ready. This was not like battle, even faced with uneven odds he had not felt this way. He was caged, and that was not likely to change, he could kill the child but what then? It dawned on him he had quite possibly made a huge mistake based on a head full of stereotypes of what a woman should be.


    They were not long in returning. Dahlia the delicate flower with the ice-hard mind, surrounded by a knot of capable and rough men. ¡°Attitude Violence.¡± The club motto announced embroidered in faded golden embossing on black leather hides and laced waistcoats, the King¡¯s Jester in accompaniment.


    The party advanced on Aran as he stood eyeing the impassive and bearded faces of every man there. Mostly his sights came to rest on Dahlia, she had nothing in her hands, unlike the ragged bunch of men who comprised her court. Metal bars and lengths of bright chain promised pain.


    Aran stood his ground, hand placed strategically about the child¡¯s throat. Koemi had once more begun to cry, more stridently this time. He would not surrender the child the warrior had decided. He would goad Dahlia¡¯s force to kill him. They would presumably have pistols stowed discreetly in their clothing, and be forced to shoot him cleanly if they thought Koemi¡¯s life was in peril. If he could not be free he had decided, then death was what he sought.


    He positioned the child so the men would have a clear shot at his heart, and waited for the bullet. Dahlia did not demand anything more this time. She stood quietly, her black eyes boring into Aran¡¯s own green-eyed gaze as though communicating her wishes with no more than her mind. She seemed to Aran¡¯s mind, very disappointed.


    Dahlia was not communicating anything, however. She was merely looking one last time at a possession that she was not destined to keep. She recalled a well-recited Buddhist saying that was often a source of comfort to her.


    ¡®In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.¡¯


    Dahlia knew Aran was one of these things, and that she must let him go. She prayed Koemi would be safe, and that it was her destiny to raise two daughters to womanhood. She turned away then, for Dahlia was not the kind to look back, and departed from the room.


    Aran watched her scarlet form depart. The woman''s resoluteness and pride would have matched that of the greatest general. The warrior felt great respect, and that awe for the moment had caused him to lower his guard.


    On the periphery he registered a man move, he made to turn, and there was something red in his hand, a canister... White smog exploded forcefully in his face, though the man was some feet away. Aran was disorientated, it was hard to breathe, and he labored to do so. Keys grating in a lock, he tried to orientate himself, where was the girl? Did he still have hold of her? He had fallen, he could not make top from bottom but could taste the distinct flavor of metal in his mouth.


    He shook his head to be rid of the confusion but it didn''t help much, and that¡¯s when he felt the first of the hands on him. The sound of the screaming child was by now no place in his immediate vicinity. He had lost. He was going to pay Dahlia¡¯s price.


    The first hard blow jarred him across the back, and he tried to rise only to be struck again. The iron bar was heavy and inflicted large damage. It would have broken the bones of a lesser man. There was a succession of steel-capped boots jabbing him in the ribs, sparing no quarter.


    Disorientated he tried to fight, a length of chain wrapped itself around his wrist, he felt lightning pain as the sturdy links collided with his knuckles and arm, but he still had the presence of mind to try and pull on the length of chain to down the wielder. It was no use, there were too many men, and he had fought from the outset greatly disadvantaged.


    Someone kicked him in the mouth, and he pulled back his face from the attack with a swift reflex. The sharp blow cut the length of his lower lip badly on his teeth, he spat blood, his tongue was cut also, and bled even more profusely. He growled in anger, there was no need to spare himself and again tried to rise. Men were shouting overhead. Aran through the haze of fury and pain could not distinguish the words. He had become a beast, devolved into a strong animal only fighting for its existence.


    The brutal struggle ensued for some time. Blood traced the floor, as though someone had sloughed it in great swipes with a careless mop. Breathing in ragged gasps the blond warrior struggled, someone had placed a stout length of rope about his neck and was tightening it in the style of a garrote.


    Kill me! His mind screamed. Aran could think of little else. To gain his wish Aran attacked mindlessly, any limb, face, or vulnerable body part that came within reach was fair game. However even the strongest man cannot fight without air, and as the rope tightened to an unbearable restriction, Aran almost unconscious slumped to the floor. He was then bound.


    Above him, the men spoke almost casually in between panting with exertion, and inspecting their wounds. Someone had his boot on Aran¡¯s back as though he were a prize hunt being displayed.


    ¡°Fuck! He can fight, never seen the like. That fire extinguisher should have made that easy.¡±


    ¡°What did you expect he was a pit fighter.¡±


    ¡°Dahlia was crazy to have bought him.¡±


    ¡°Yeah Blade, but sometimes you got to let the lady just find out for herself...¡± Their voices trailed off as the familiar sound of wooden sandals entered.


    It hurt Dahlia to gaze at her property. She did not enjoy seeing perfection despoiled. Indeed she had sought to avoid such visions by creating this sanctuary in the first place. A place where she and her daughters may live a full and meaningful life. Thorne¡¯s last gift to them all. She missed him, his absence tore her heart. Dahlia realized at that moment it had been folly to even try and replace him. She would not be so foolish again. She would close her heart and her passions, and give her husband the respect he was due. Her bold experiment with men was over. At least, though shaken, Koemi was safe, destiny despite Dahlia¡¯s error had been kind.


    Aran breathed slowly and tasted his own blood. The vision of her white-toe socks and sandals swam before him. She has such tiny feet he observed, and yet nothing was tiny about this woman.


    ¡°Take this man somewhere useful.¡± Dahlia said. ¡°I do not want to see him ever again.¡±


    Aran made a supreme effort to look up. He felt the downward pressure of the boot increase on his back. ¡°Dahlia?¡± Aran entreated hoarsely. ¡°How can I know you when you cannot see me?¡±


    ¡°I see you,¡± she said. ¡°You just wanted my confidence so you could cheat me and leave. A liar who has no true heart. Take him,¡± and with a rustle of silk, she was gone.


    *****


    Aran was shaking in soreness and the aftermath of the brawl, and medical attention was not granted. Though he was hardly surprised at this. Dahlia wanted him to suffer and she would enforce it. He was taken to an underground basement and chained by his neck to a steam boiler unit. He was advised gruffly he must keep it fueled, and that failure to do so would result in more beatings.


    It was dark here, the only light that leaked out to stripe the floor in orange lines was that of the molten firebox, which sat on squat legs before him. Provided was a dirty blanket on the floor covered in ash dust, it smelled sour from the body odor of the previous occupant, and a metal bucket that stood a short distance beyond emanating a foul stench. Both these ¡®conveniences¡¯ were reachable by the length of the chain he was afforded.


    The boiler ate the wood eagerly and Aran found he had to tend it often, the positive aspect was that at least he was not cold. He passed mindless, timeless days here, his only distraction was the procession of gaunt men who brought him barrows of wood, all slaves such as he was, and the occasional poor-quality meal he was served.


    Aran didn''t want to be beaten again, so he complied. This was mindless work, but relatively easy. Slowly his bruises and lacerations healed, but his meager rations both demoralized and disturbed him. He was ever hungry, and he realized over time he was rapidly losing condition and vigor.


    He was a big man and needed a considerable intake of good food to remain in reasonable shape. With Dahlia as his mistress, he had dined very well. Aran tried to convince himself initially, that it was just he had grown soft, used to good food and variety, and that he would get used to this in time.

 Directing the Dictator

    Victor had felt triumphant at least for the duration of the journey home. However, that satisfied feeling was not to last. The reality was, that he had returned to the fortress to be immediately mired in despair and trouble. His Lord had taken violently ill in the doctor¡¯s absence, and the skill of Victor¡¯s understudy Merton had not been nearly enough to combat the septicemia that had manifested in Lothar¡¯s pressure sores and had gone as far to infect the underlying bone.


    The awkward young man in a panicked, glazed-eyed state, clearly denoting many sleepless nights, met Doctor Krosse on his arrival in the courtyard. Merton was terrified as he stood trying to swiftly impart his concerns to a man he plainly feared. After all, he had on occasion assisted Victor in his lab of horrors and well knew what the Doctor was capable of.


    Victor tired and cold from the journey was not happy to hear this news. He longed for some quiet, a hot bath, and the ministrations of his lovely slave girl. He stared down from under his black and silver Death¡¯s head cap, eyes cold as ice. There was no pity there or any discernible emotion. He didn¡¯t answer Merton directly and left the frightened man standing in the courtyard in the cold wind.


    *****


    The weeks following had been difficult ones as Krosse fought to save his Lord¡¯s life. It would not be expeditious to Victor¡¯s cause should Lothar succumb. Victor was not popular here, only feared, he was smart enough to recognize he could never rule effectively in his own stead. The disabled man was the perfect sock puppet, a mask of transference for his own agenda. This was how it had to be regrettably, and Lothar could not die.


    Victor with his great medical genius spent many sleepless nights and long days worrying over his patient. He must repair him to health. The man was listless and mostly delirious and required serious surgery to remove bone and necrotic tissue. The procedure was long and risky, but somehow Lothar made a steady recovery, under Victor¡¯s expert care.


    *****


    As his charge recovered his lucidity in the following days Victor had to ¡®regrettably ¡¯inform his Lord of the situation regarding his new bride. As expected he took the news badly and plummeted into a dark aura of hopelessness and revenge.


    Always swift in his mental acuity, Doctor Krosse decided to harness this to his advantage. After the fall of the black rain and the beginning of what seemed like brighter skies, Victor used Lothars¡¯ morose feelings to generate policies to his liking. Further prodding the man to wish revenge on the farming settlement, and Stephan who had so openly betrayed them. After all, peace held no interest for a man like Victor. War meant injuries, and bolstered his importance to the community here, and it also meant captives. Poor wretches who filled Victor¡¯s days and nights with experimentation, and joyous cruelties in pursuit of medical science.


    *****


    One evening when his charge had felt somewhat better Victor and his Lord had dined alone. Lothar was still too ill to rise from his bed and get about in his wheelchair. So Victor had dined by his bedside. He was relieved to see his Lord slowly recovering, the skilled surgeon had been very much afraid he could not stem the rampant infection that was beginning to devour his Lord¡¯s body and bones. Yet by some miracle, he had.


    Though very much an atheist Krosse had to confess he wanted to thank some a higher being this evening for his fortune. He took a grateful sip of the piping hot tea, it was excellent and he looked over at his Lord who was half sitting, propped up against numerous pillows in his great bed. At least today his skin had a pinkish color, the man looked the best he had in many days.


    Lothar tentatively nibbled on some lean white chicken breast, constantly stopping to wipe his hands and mustache on the napkin.¡°There was sun overhead today you say? The servants spoke of it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Lord, and what a fine sight it was.¡± Victor answered, placing his fine china tea cup down and taking up the heavy silver fork. ¡°The weather should start to clear, I imagine that Stephan could proceed to plant our crops soon. The bio-diesel is getting precariously low my Lord.¡±


    Lothar paused in his eating and eyed his second in command closely. ¡°I want to say thank you Victor for preserving my life.¡±


    ¡°Think nothing of it.¡± Victor responded with a practiced humility. ¡°It is a Doctor¡¯s duty and a sworn oath.¡±


    Lothar cleared his throat carefully, and engaged his Lieutenant''s cool eye.¡°Yes, but I can still thank you. I guess this means with the weather normalizing we should show our military might, and take our revenge for that betrayal.¡±


    ¡°I think my Lord it¡¯s probably the best course. We need that canola oil, and soon, or the fortress will shut down. Vast portions of the compound are closed already, we are only running on the bare minimum to maintain the most occupied areas.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I see.¡± Lothar was rubbing his thin salt and pepper goatee and thinking carefully, gazing at his uselessly withered legs that lay before him prudently covered with a sheet. ¡°I feel so damn helpless, Victor!¡±


    Victor nodded. ¡°Yes, perhaps my Lord but you are still the leader here.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Am I?¡± Lothar¡¯s dull brown gaze bored into his second-in-command''s ice-cold one.


    Victor did not look away, for that may convey some sense of guilt, or subterfuge, but instead softened his harsh demeanor with a rare smile. ¡°The people look to you, my Lord. No one else could command here.¡± This was not necessarily a half-truth.


    Lothar sighed heavily his gaze returning to his mostly uneaten dinner perched across his lap. ¡°Sometimes, just sometimes I feel so tired Victor. I feel my time is run, I feel like the King on a chessboard being protected by pawns and a pretty skirt.¡±


    ¡°No, not at all my Lord. The people look to you truly.¡±


    ¡°We shall see, we shall see.¡± Lothar announced in a downbeat tone. ¡°Then I advise you to begin to drill the men, we will have vengeance, and we will obtain that crop!¡± This was indeed what Victor had hoped to hear.


    With his Lords frail but improving health the dinner did not last overly long. Victor was glad of this, the drills today had been tiring and cold, and all he now greatly desired was some rest and quiet downtime. Not that the fort''s only surgeon got much of that. There was always some medical emergency at every hour, with the hundred and fifty or so souls who occupied this place.


    He informed Merton on parting that he did not expect to be interrupted for the next few hours for any reason. The fumbling understudy muttered something unintelligible in reply, however Victor was already gone.


    *****


    The door to his sanctum opened on silent hinges, she was there before him, kneeling in the nadu pose, just as he liked. His precious slave. Her demure gaze cast to the floor, yet she held her head high. Slave steel glistened against her swan neck, about her wrists and shapely ankles. Mimicking shining silver serpents. Invitingly her knees were spread wide, shoulders pushed back, and her back arched ever so slightly, lovely pert breasts thrust outward. Her graceful hands lie on her thighs, the palms facing upward. Her full and lustrous auburn curls cascaded over her ivory flesh.


    On seeing her Victor felt less weary. No matter where he was or how difficult his situation was, the thought of her waiting for him lent him new strength. He allowed himself the liberty of an unseen smile. Wordlessly she rose to help him from his trenchcoat, taking his proffered gloves and cap and waiting for him to sit so that she may ease off his shining riding boots. She dutifully massaged his aching feet, and Victor sat eyes closed relishing all she could provide. Delighting in the scent of her, vanilla, violets, and female musk. He leaned back in the large studded leather chair and languished in her touch.


    To his ears came the pleasant strains of music. Something that was now only reserved only for the elite. His own idol''s personal favorite, as it was his, Wagner. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the strains of the music, he was finally warm, comfortable, and satisfied.


    Victor may have been in his mid-fifties, but unlike many men, he had not felt the onset of age. He was still very much possessed of a strong libido. It had always ruled him. He remembered her his beautiful Cassandra, she still even in faded memory, took his breath away. She had spurned him at every turn, a veritable spitfire he could never truly tame.


    He was young then, and far more brash and foolish than the present-day version of himself. Not only that, he had to wrestle with such impediments as law and order and regulation of his craft. He had lived two lives back before the conflict, attempting to be the compassionate Doctor, upholder of all that was good, and in his own private life, a kidnapper and keeper of a woman who did not love him. It was a strange time.


    It was not supposed to happen that way, Cassandra should have loved him, she should have been here by his side today. The three of them; his family. His love for her still burned bright even if it had been well over two decades since her untimely passing. It sickened him to think of it even now, he had been too late, there was nothing he could have done¡­


    Hands on him light and sweet as butterflies, rousing him from his memories. He wished for a bath, he smelled of horse and the drill grounds. As always she knew of his needs before he had thought of them, such a good slave she was. He could have demanded a bathtub of water, but the rationing had bitten deep, even the elites were feeling it currently. So a hot washbowl and clean clothing would have to placate him.


    One by one she eased off his garments, hanging his outer clothing up to keep their neatness. Victor liked to be neat. He understood the impression he made with his attire. He was a man to be feared and respected after all. Next came the shirt and underclothes, and he felt great relaxation as she deftly washed him with the water she could always seem to provide at such a perfect temperature. She was both practiced and beautiful. Victor thought fleetingly.


    No one knew she existed here not even his Lord. He had told Lothar that his daughter had died some years back, and his Lord felt no need to question that. Victor knew that for him to have a paramour would be most inappropriate considering his Lord was without. Not that Lothar couldn''t have had his share of any available woman here, or even a harem if he so desired. Yet the obdurate man had remained resolutely single, searching for that elusive unicorn that may never arrive. Victor though, possessed his unicorn, and she would remain his best-kept secret.


    The hot of the washcloth felt good, her touch exquisite. Other passions were stirring within needing to be sated. With silent efficiency, she toweled her Master off and brought him a sumptuous black, velvet bathrobe. He let her dress him in it and he returned to the large leather chair once more. She again set herself before him in the position of the nadu, waiting, ready for his next command.


    Victor never knew his parents, all he had ever been told was his German mother had abandoned him as a baby to the orphanage. Victor was a very slight boy, often and easily bullied. Like the weed that grows distorted and cruelly in the pavement, he had been ravaged by his childhood experiences. Bad where he should have been good, darkness where there should have been light.


    She knew what he wanted his slave girl, this daughter of his could read Victor¡¯s every thought and gesture. She opened his robe and leaning forward put her lips to his manhood. The symphony reaching a crescendo, and Victor felt his body stir to the occasion.


    He must of course maintain tight control. Victor closed his eyes and concentrated, willing his desire, at least for a time into the background. She must work for his seed, and the recognition she could, only when he chose to relinquish it, command his pleasure.


    He did not moan with desire, he did not growl with passion. He simply sat, appearing emotionless and cold as he often did. Her lips and teeth on him nibbling with hot caresses, the prelude to what was to come. Then taking him deeper without hesitancy or shame. His little girl knew nothing else. She did not have to question. She was kajira, slave, property, and valued.

 The Commissioner

    The trio did not sight the entrance to the Bridge until late in the afternoon. They had climbed some distance previously out of the river valley and skirted the high fossil-lined cliffs that shone orange in the fading winter¡¯s light. They paused for some time to admire the sun¡¯s handiwork on the vibrant layers of orange earth that plunged below. Aurianne gladdened in her heart that finally Mother Earth was appearing to mend herself.


    The sun was not warm, and a rather frigid breeze did blow here especially on high as they were. The wind ruffed Isabou''s full mane, it was almost the identical color of her mistress''s hair. Aurianne stopped to pet her horse momentarily.


    ¡°You have been such a good sport.¡±She cooed, as she caressed her mare some moments further admiring the orange, glowing landscape.


    ¡°Should be there before dark.¡± Jhary announced, he seemed pleased and relaxed. ¡°I expect maybe a bit of chaos, after all the black rain would have caused some casualties. So we may have to deal with that.¡±


    Kario nodded, but he was still very honestly mystified by the fear of this so-called black rain. He wished longingly he could get his companions to understand.


    They pushed on, the entrance to the Bridge as Aurianne could see clearly defined its name. A vast metallic structure adjoined what was left of the highway to the north, reaching for some miles in black incompleteness by the way they had journeyed.


    Beneath this behemoth span of engineered gray steel, a checkerboard of stone-fenced fields stood, ready for planting. The hues of browns and newly sprouting greens forming a pleasant mosaic. On the other side of the river squatted a vast and sprawling township. Original brick and stone buildings stood, some two and three stories. A haze of wood smoke drifted above on lazy wings. The cold air kept it anchored among the building tops in the stillness of the river valley.


    ¡°This is quite a civilization.¡± Aurianne commented excitedly.


    It was easily the largest habitation she had entered since she and her mother had fled the city shortly after the nuclear strike. The young woman found she wished her mother was at her side to see this amazing sight, and the thought saddened her a little. Though Aurianne sensed her mother would not have been as appreciative, to gaze on or enter what she called the evil civilizations of men.


    Her mother had seemed happy to shun city life and continue as she did in a small settlement where she knew every individual with deep sincerity. Aurianne realized that though she loved her mother dearly and had known her on a rudimentary child/parent level, she had never begun to glimpse the true woman her mother was or the insecurities and pain that were inside her.


    Her companions pressed forward, and she was only torn from her reverie by Isabou Impatiently nudging into her back. Aurianne smiled and petted her equine companion.


    ¡°We will get food soon I promise.¡±


    The three continued down into the neck of the roadway and to the checkpoint, that stood prominent on the bridge.


    ¡°Let me do the talking.¡± Jhary cautioned while the party was still some distance out of earshot. Kario and Aurianne nodded in agreement, the bard was known for his sublime verbiage.


    ¡°Greetings!¡±Jhary called cheerily waving his hand at the ranks of men who stood guarding the bridge.


    The forbidding row of guardsmen nodded but looked gruff and unaccommodating toward Jhary''s good cheer. Aurianne had to resist looking nervously at Kario, so instead she turned to pet her mount, using the interval to remove the muzzle that was by now annoying her mare greatly. Beauty sat quietly by her mistresses¡¯ feet.


    Jhary walked up to the man closest to him.


    ¡°Is it possible good Sir, for us to get admission to your wonderful city?¡±


    The bearded man looked him up and down with gray eyes hard as flint. Jhary just continued to smile as the man assessed all the travelers closely. Patiently waiting for his response.


    ¡°Your papers?¡± The man finally condescended to answer.


    ¡°Oh...¡±Stated Jhary with surprise. ¡°We have come to that so soon.¡±


    ¡°Your papers or leave.¡± The man stated flatly. The sentries behind him fingered their weapons shifting from their previously casual stance.


    Jhary raised his hands slowly. ¡°Good Sir I mean no trouble. You misunderstand me. I was just so very surprised that we had come to such organization so soon. Does this mean we have a Government and law enforcement of a sort? Last time I was by here there was no such paperwork required.¡±


    The large and solid man put his hand to his chin, he scratched at his steel-colored beard idly, eyes never leaving the handsome traveler.¡°We have had a Governor here for quite some years now, and he commands the law enforcement. You must have been long away. Do you have anyone here, kin or an employer that can vouch for you?¡±


    ¡°Sadly Sir we do not.¡±


    ¡°Hum.¡±The man¡¯s response seemed very negative.


    This was not going well. Aurianne felt trepidation as she watched her usually persuasive companion speak to the human wall of indifference. She felt even more unsure as the man began to gaze at her and her horse with assessing eyes.


    ¡°Is the woman yours?¡±


    Aurianne blanched, but not as much as Jhary did. Oh, the bard wished, however, he was very afraid his rather fiery companion might take sudden offense to be discussed in this manner, and he swiftly answered to divert the tangent of this unsavory conversation.


    ¡°Oh, no, Sir, no. My companions are as I, free as the wind. Travelers, merely looking for some rest in your wonderful city.¡±


    ¡°Prove it.¡±


    Jhary just stood a time dumbfounded. It seemed he would not easily pass the gruff guard or his retinue. He thought about simply retreating, and making his way into the city on the far bank by stealth. Perhaps they should have just done this, to begin with? However caution told Jhary his presence here and that of his companions had now been duly noted, and he was sure he would be detected in the Bridge eventually. There may be awful ramifications then. Sometimes the most difficult method of admission was the only one to take. He sighed unsure what to do.


    ¡°Look,¡± the gruff sentry continued somewhat with annoyance, ¡°I can give you papers, but I need absolute proof you are not just run away slaves.¡±


    Jhary looked awkwardly about him and back to the man before him. He set his guitar case and saddlebags slowly down before him on the scarred pavement. He put his hands slowly to his belt buckle, careful to not appear as though he would draw a weapon. The bard undid his belt and let his trousers fall about his knees, his shirt hem was all that preserved his dignity.


    The man gazed intently at his exposed thighs, searching for a mark. There was nothing there to see.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°All righty, you are a free man. What about you?¡± He pointed a rough finger at the swarthy Kario who had stood some distance behind. The blue-robed man stepped forward and dutifully lifted the fabric of his robe to expose both his thighs as well.


    The guard then smiled lasciviously at Aurianne.


    ¡°Well I can see you belong to no one clearly in that outfit. Seems a waste.¡±


    He shook his head. The guards ranged behind him laughed in unison, and Aurianne''s hair prickled on the nape of her neck. Perhaps so soon she was envisioning what her mother disliked about the city after all? She had to admit the attitude of the men here bothered her rather extensively. They were nothing like the men of her village, helpful, understanding, and kind.


    It had not been the young woman''s original intention to go into the Bridge proper, however the advent of the black rain had put a rather large dent in her plans. Isabou must eat, and after witnessing the other mare''s terrible demise Aurianne''s entrance to the Bridge was now nonnegotiable.


    Jhary hauled up his trousers, feeling waves of embarrassment as he re-buckled his belt, and retrieved his belongings from the roadway. He looked at the man hopefully.


    ¡°Perhaps papers can be found.¡± He said. ¡°However you would need to make my effort worthwhile.¡±


    Jhary sighed inwardly at this tangent but he had expected it. He was unsure just how much the man wanted in this exchange, he did not have nearly the resources he possessed before they had been captured and become the property of Master Jacques. Everything he previously owned but his guitar had been confiscated. Still, they were ahead, Jhary was just grateful at this moment that none of them had been branded. It could so easily have been a different story.


    ¡°Name your price,¡± Jhary inwardly winced as he said this, hoping he could pay.


    ¡°The man cast his eyes over Aurianne''s fine mare. ¡°What about the horse, you won¡¯t be needing it in the city?¡±


    Oh, how considerate, Jhary thought.


    ¡°No, I can¡¯t part with my mare,¡± Aurianne replied stiffly. Holding Isabou''s muzzle protectively, the horse blew soft breaths into her mistress'' cupped hands. She was not going to part with her best friend, for the sake of another who had only hunted her.


    ¡°I see.¡± Said the man. ¡°So do you want admission or not?¡±


    ¡°Well yes we do.¡± Jhary replied, fumbling for the contents of his gold purse, it was very empty, far lighter than he had hoped. He held out the remaining currency to the blunt man. The crusty, bearded head of the guard inspected the few remaining baubles carefully, seeming quite unimpressed, at last lifting his eyes, shifting them to Jhary''s waist. The bard followed the tangent of the man¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°What about your sword? The Bridge is a peaceable town, you would have no need of it there. Violence is heavily penalized.¡±


    Jhary nodded, eager to seal the deal before the man changed his mind. The sword meant little to him after all, and they would need the few baubles he had saved to get food and shelter at least until he could play to a clientele. He unfastened the weapon in its holster and presented it to the man. The guardsman looked the blade over with an experienced eye and tucked it into his broad belt already brimming with weapons.


    ¡°We have a deal. Harold would you escort these visitors to the Commissioner, before the offices close?¡±


    ¡°Yes Sir.¡± The man replied.


    ¡°Remember your stay here should be very peaceful, failure to comply will see some very heavy penalties applied. Good day to you and good luck.¡±


    Jhary nodded his thanks and the three made their way across the great steel span into the heart of the Bridge.


    The evening was settling over the town. Shops were being closed and children were being called to dinner. However, there also seemed to be a small undercurrent of chaos here. Some streets were cordoned off, and the passers-by attempted to peer into the darkening recesses of these alleyways gleaning little. There were knots of what appeared militia forces, stationed at intervals in the streets. The Bridge though for the most part promised order and comfort.


    It was not long before they reached a substantial tan-colored, double-story, stone building. The faded sign above the windows read¡®Municipal Offices.¡¯ The roof was clad in faded mint green iron that had seen better days. It was patched with mismatched metal in places. Their escort indicated they should tie Isabou to the only tree that grew from the footpath and enter. Aurianne felt difficulty with this and paused.


    ¡°No one will touch your horse or possessions here.¡± Harold reassured. ¡°There are heavy penalties for theft here.¡±


    Aurianne petted her mare and commanded Beauty to stay behind and protect her belongings. She departed still feeling disquiet even after Harold''s stern assurances.


    Candles were already burning in lamps throughout the institution. There were guards stationed inside, and on a brief exchange, Harold left his charges in the company of the guardsmen.


    ¡°Please leave all your weapons here, they will be returned to you after your interview.¡± The rather impersonal man had announced. Jhary hoped there would be no more bribes needed, he was precariously close to being a penniless pauper.


    They left their weapons, and other possessions in the front room and were promptly escorted down a grand corridor that appeared to traverse the length of the building. Offices stood to either side glass doors tightly shut, windows dark.


    The trio emerged into a very high vaulted room, where a clean-shaven man sat in a black and white uniform at a large raised desk in its center. There were rows of benches like the pews in a church, though there was no one seated there. To this man''s side sat another individual, he was hunched over papers on a desk writing profusely in the fading light.


    The man in the uniform looked up. He had on a cap, its black and white visor bearing the state emblem of a magpie bird. His short snowy hair was carefully barbered.


    ¡°Travelers, Commissioner Sir. Here to see about papers.¡± The man announced, his voice echoing in the large empty space.


    ¡°Thank you Ron.¡± His voice was deep, smooth, and authoritative, as though he was accustomed to vast bouts of public speaking. ¡°Please guests take a seat.¡±


    They did so on the wooden pew immediately in front of this man. A gold and black sign on the desktop proclaimed the name Commissioner Gary Davis. The other desk simply announced secretary.


    ¡°Welcome to the Bridge¡± He stated. ¡°I am Commissioner Davis. I¡¯d like to know your business here?¡±


    Naturally, Jhary spoke up. ¡°We are a traveling performing troupe Commissioner, and we are most delighted to be here.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Commissioner Davis raised his bushy black brows in an attitude of question under his visored cap and examined the trio closer. He was of neat appearance something of a rarity these days, though if one looked closely his once glorious state police uniform had seen better days. There were scratches on the bright silver buttons, and small black patches stitched into the once fine garment at the elbows and sleeves. Still, the man did present a strong representation of no-nonsense law and order. ¡°Humor me with a short excerpt, would you?¡±


    ¡°Err most certainly Sir, but I would need my guitar.¡±


    ¡°Ron could you please retrieve this mans guitar from the lobby?¡±


    ¡°Yes Sir.¡±


    There was an uncomfortable silence as the man strode away, boots squeaking on the shiny gray linoleum. Commissioner Davis sat silently, his hands folded closely observing the three companions until the guard had returned.


    Jhary carefully extracted his twelve-string from its case and with very little ado began to play Led Zepplin¡¯s ¡®Stairway to Heaven.¡¯ Commissioner Davis seemed clearly impressed. This indeed went far to breaking the ice. Even the gray-suited man at the secretary''s desk had looked up with an approving smile.


    ¡°Very nice indeed, a fabulous rendition and all by memory too. So what do your friends here do?¡±


    Kario fidgeted nervously, but Jhary did not give either of his companions the time to bask in difficulty.


    ¡°This Commissioner is my fiancee Aurianne, she is my assistant in my show, and this here is Kario and he does the magic acts.¡±


    ¡°Ah I see, I do look forward to seeing the entire show.¡±


    ¡°I shall see you and your family all receive complimentary admission.¡±The bard smiled one of his most winsome smiles and added a bow from the waist though he remained seated.


    ¡°Just one recommendation.¡± The Commissioner gazed across at Aurianne. You will find that your fiancee as lovely as she is would do well to wear more modest apparel here. And to all of you, I would caution you to remember there will be no disorder in my city.¡±


    ¡°Yes Commissioner, I will heed your advice.¡± Jhary acknowledged in his most dulcet tone.


    ¡°Provide them all with papers secretary.¡±


    The balding, gray-suited man nodded and set to work, inscribing on the paper before him, melting red wax to create an official seal. He handed the trio the newly created documents. Jhary tried hard to suppress a chuckle. The official seal was no more than some generic Justice of the Peace, wax stamp.


    ¡°I suggest you lodge at the Four Roses. That way should we need you to answer any further questions we will know where to find you?¡±


    ¡°Thank you again Sir.¡± Jhary smiled one more time before the trio was directed away.


    *****


    A man had been tasked to show them the way. It was dark now, and the tired travelers were glad of a guide.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe he told me to cover up.¡±Aurianne fumed, though her voice was a whisper as she did not want anyone but Jhary to hear. ¡°No wonder my mother didn''t like the city. I feel like some kind of leper here.¡±


    ¡°Trust me Aurianne you are not, it¡¯s simply...well it¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what?¡±


    Jhary sighed. ¡°How do I put this. Well you are lovely, and well... very distracting for the male gender.¡±


    ¡°What! Boys and girls were all equals in my village.¡±


    ¡°Well yes, Aurianne that might be the case but your village is no more¡­¡±


    Jhary stopped immediately knowing he had just put his entire boot in his mouth. Aurianne made an angry sound, she could not believe she was putting up with all this, just to get a manger of noncontaminated hay.

 The Four Roses

    After a small discussion, the price was settled, and the liveryman took Isabou to her stable for a well-deserved rest, a manger of good hay, and a welcome drink. Jhary looked into the corner of his dark coin purse, he was in possession of very few riches. The bard would have to work soon to replenish this dwindling wealth, though, in this bustling place, he was none too worried about this. Jhary then retied the string on the small purse and stowed it away in his coat. It was time to explore the comforts of the ¡®recommended¡¯ accommodations.


    She had been long ago named something else, some would remember, but many who stayed within her walls would not, to them, she had become simply The Four Roses. A grandiose building that stood on the corner of Bridge Street and East Terrace, overlooking the river, housing the most pleasures to be had, in the fair city of the Bridge.


    Though the town was ruled by tight marshal law and penalties for dissidence were tough, many of the ideas and morals that had been embraced in more civilized times, had been shed. Prostitution, drug use, and slavery were all lawful in the Bridge.


    The trio pushed their way into the smoke-filled lobby, well aware they were being watched, especially Aurianne. Beauty sulked by her knee no more than a shadow. She was not the only hound here, others too had their animals in tow. A great Irish wolfhound sauntered up to sniff at her and her mistress. Aurianne petted the huge dog¡¯s head before it slunk away at the insistent shout of its master, who sat at a bar stool in an animated conversation with a fellow drinker.


    Unlike the municipal offices, the patrons here were armed, and no insistence was made that the travelers surrender their weapons. Many carried bows, they were a common weapon here, relatively cheap and easy to craft, and a mainstay for hunting. Some of the more impressive individuals carried firearms or swords, one man even had a rifle complete with bayonet. Though rough machetes or daggers were more commonplace.


    ¡°Mary¡¯s, still very ill...¡± Kario overheard some worried patron comment to his friend. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the recent rain will do her in.¡±


    His companion nodded sympathetically, scarred hands clasping his mug of cider as though it was the most valuable thing in the world. Kario well knew to some men it was, and in these times it was easy to see why. The world was harsh and rough, the slightest stumble could see you fall. With no one to care if you did. There was other talk too, about the recent black rain. The people seemed immersed in a climate of fear, many had been taken ill or died it would seem by the conversations taking place about him.


    ¡°Interesting clientele,¡± Jhary said sarcastically, as he made his way to the check-in desk. A bored young man sat there looking at the three visitors, with a gaze that bordered on hostility. ¡°How much for a room?¡± Jhary inquired pleasantly.


    The man didn''t answer directly but looked closely at Jhary and his companions, perhaps trying to assess if they were a risk to the furnishings or not, or maybe how much they could afford to pay?


    Jhary did not know the man¡¯s mind, but smiled congenially and waited. The man looked at his ledger book and scribbled something illegible in one of the columns with a sharp-tipped pencil. Behind them, there was an uproar of laughter, and the trio turned about, however, they could not be sure what it was about, perhaps in response to the rather ribald entertainment that was featured on the small stage at the other side of the room?


    Jhary returned his attention to the man. He knew everything here would be bought with barter and a keen process of haggling. A sale could not be rushed. It was up to his negotiation skills as to whether they paid an outrageous price or a fair one.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be your little leg humping doggie... let me be your dirty¡­¡±


    The trio once again looked to the stage, a faux female in a graveled falsetto howled to the crowd. Yes, the show was very lewd. Jhary though half interested in his competition turned back to the hotel clerk, and laid some of his gold on the counter. The young man squinted through the hemp smoke at the valuables.


    ¡°How long you plan to stay?¡±


    ¡°A few days.¡±


    The clerk held up the gold ring, it held no sentimental value to Jhary, simply one he had acquired along the way as currency. A small ruby sat in its setting. The bard had long ago decided not to think too hard about the sad stories his little bag of treasures may have accumulated.


    ¡°This one for tonight, and this one for a security deposit.¡± The man took into his hand a much heavier piece, a man''s signet ring set with a square of dull onyx, hardly a valuable stone. However it was the gold content the clerk was after. ¡°With a similar token for every day you choose to remain here at the Four Roses. All meals are extra, and we have many other fine services, though I can see gentlemen, you seem to be well covered.¡± The man looked down his aquiline nose at Aurianne. Aurianne shot him a fiery glance and looked away.


    ¡°Thank you Sir.¡± Jhary beamed as he took the keys he was proffered.


    ¡°Room thirty six, up the stairs and to the end of the hall. I do not need to tell you the privies are outside to the rear of the building.¡±


    *****


    The accommodations were serviceable enough, though well-worn. The trio is just happy to sit quietly for some time surveying their new surroundings. The room was a little cool, but at least in the window panes, the glass remained intact. The large building being constructed predominantly of stone was a boon, ensuring the sound in the hallway and the floor below would not disturb its sleeping patrons. This particular room did not boast the best view, overlooking a bland back alley, and the vague stench of the before mentioned conveniences wafted up to greet them. Aurianne closed the window.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Ugh!¡± She grimaced in distaste. She was quickly disliking this city and regretted coming here. ¡°I hope Isabou is doing okay?¡±


    ¡°She will be,¡± Jhary assured. Taking off his boots and massaging his tired feet.


    Kario sat quietly on the chaise lounge, he assumed this would be his bed as there was only this and the double. He would leave Aurianne and Jhary to figure that out. He lay back fully dressed and closed his eyes staking claim to the chaise. ¡°I had not realized how tired I was.¡± Kario half yawned as he tried to get the statement said.


    ¡°Me either,¡± Jhary responded. ¡°I think it¡¯s an early night then. Let¡¯s ponder what we want to do tomorrow after a good rest.¡±


    *****


    Beauty crossed the floor to lick Kario''s outstretched hand. The swarthy illusionist too was uncomfortable amongst the throng of humanity, and yet he craved acceptance. ¡°It¡¯s probably worse being a woman.¡±


    ¡°Phifft, I can take care of myself.¡± Aurianne huffed, as she sat on the corner of the unmade bed. ¡°But I don''t want to stay here too long. I hope we can get this business concluded swiftly, and be gone.¡±


    Kario nodded, he felt the same.


    *****


    Though Jhary Brannon¡¯s exquisite musical talents could have easily landed him a spot in the Four Roses lineup, he chose to decline. Instead deciding to play for an intimate little cabaret club just down the street, simply called The Velvet Box. Even before the devastation of the Allied bombings, there had not been much in the way of entertainment in the Bridge. A visiting band perhaps playing in a pub¡¯s beer garden, or a trip to the cinema.


    For its real beauty lay in the natural surroundings and the serenity of its wide river. Most came to boat, relax, and fish. In some ways since the strife the entertainments were now more varied, there were many survivors of the city central here, and they demanded a lot more than a few rural pursuits as the town became more established. So in this new climate different pastimes thrived, such as the rather ribald and colorful Four Roses lineup, of acrobatics, song, and sleaze. The more intimate establishments that catered to the Bourgeois and those of the upper class here such as the one Jhary played for. Then there were the pit and cage fights, promising spectacular brutality. Society in the main had equalized into its raw and carnal self. For it was the notion of most men.


    It was logical the trio centered their initial search on the pit fight circuit. Surely to Jhary¡¯s mind, this is where Aran would have been sold. They wasted no time in investigating the old school building on Mannum Road that had since been repurposed into a holding compound for the unfortunates who fought in the bloody entertainments there.


    It had once again become an age when only the upper echelons of society would have any hope of tutoring their children, and schools had swiftly become redundant along with such things as electricity, refrigeration, and a sense of settled law.


    As Jhary could not procure any believable documentation, it was decided the best route would not be to ask after an escaped slave directly. Papers of ownership, even well-crafted forgeries would have been a great help in expediting matters. However they did not have this luxury, and the last thing they needed was to arouse any suspicions in this militarized town.


    The old school grounds were well fortified, and the trio soon realized they would have no opportunity to penetrate the defenses here and remain undetected. So all the bard could do was agree to entertain during the intermissions, as much as he hated these spectacles.


    Kario accompanied the bard as a helper. Aurianne had decided it was best if she did not accompany the men on this reconnaissance, she was deeply afraid to be confronted by Aran again. Though she would never admit it. Then there was the matter of how she felt personally in this city, where life was cheap and women mostly appeared as property or at best creatures to be displayed on pedestals.


    *****


    They had been lodged in the Bridge for some three weeks, and still no sign of Aran. Not even a lead. Jhary was demoralized search-wise, though he had to confess he did enjoy the city life as long as he could drown out the brutality. The things that he thought he sometimes glimpsed in doorways behind curtains or down dark alleys. There were other distant memories he had hoped to quell also, but the warm gold on his finger, and the familiar sights sometimes grew too much. He remembered why he had wandered north after all.


    Aurianne was restless. The entire excursion seemed futile, and her honor was still to be avenged. It seemed Aran was not here, and the politics of this place sat about her shoulders like a mantle of lead. She longed to be gone. The city had its comforts but she knew she could never thrive here. She would go north very soon, with or without her companions.


    Kario was patient. He had no agendas. He could well afford to watch the world wander by. He watched those he could never truly join live their daily lives. Sometimes he longed to be human, and others he longed to be of demon kind. He assisted his companions when he could, and kept his own council. For mostly there were no words for the disembodiment he felt.


    The Commissioner had not bothered to check on his guests again. Perhaps he had better things on his mind, it was a sprawling settlement after all.


    *****


    ¡°So who are the guys in the jackets with the wings and skulls? I don''t at all like them.¡± Aurianne had thought to ask one evening when the trio had settled down in the sanctuary of their room. It was a rare evening Jhary was not out entertaining, and he had swiftly amassed a considerable fortune. Tonight they had even purchased some wood to burn in the fireplace.


    ¡°They are the Banned Angels, a terrible amalgamation.¡± Jhary sighed.


    He looked into his ¡®coffee¡¯ cup wishing it was real coffee not just some unusual concoction that served as a poor imitation.


    Aurianne at once sensed Jhary¡¯s reluctance to speak about them and with a woman''s intuition she honed in on the subject.


    ¡°Are they like the law here or what? I saw them beating a shop keeper of all things in front of a store today.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±Jhary nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Years ago, after the war, the two biker gangs merged, the Banditos and the Hell¡¯s Angels, and became what we see today. They no longer have their bikes but the attitude remains. I guess the Commissioner saw some wisdom in siding with them and using them as his militia. After all beggars can''t be choosers.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think they make the place feel at all safe.¡± Aurianne stated.


    Jhary just nodded.

 Audience at Narkeem鈥檈zet

    Faded were the endless moments of pleasure, the gatherings of orgiastic dancing, and the much deeper pleasures of the flesh. His sensual and beauteous people¡¯s cravings had all but died, becoming almost as stark and bare as the great tree of Nethrizil. Not a singular leaf remained on the great tree, the ancient black skeleton of it hung over his world, its stark twisting canopy a reminder that all was not well.


    The King of demons had hesitated to do what he now knew he must. In his majestic vanity, Xonereth had believed that he alone could do what was needed to right this travesty. He with all his great powers could mend the fracture between the two worlds, the above and below. He had irrefutably believed in his own abilities, and not since the War of the Brothers had he even paused to question that fact.


    He and the other highborn had always lived a life of unrestrained debauchery and privilege. Though all the Nethris led lives of similar excess, even the lower castes. Pleasure and its overflowing cup called to them, in ways that humans could never fathom. If a mortal could even experience a fraction of what the demons enjoyed it would be enough to snuff out their existence entirely.


    Perhaps the Nethris had these inclinations because of the world that surrounded them, a world of monotone, for their universe was devoid of color completely. There was no wind, no rain nor snow in this strange monochromatic universe, there was no moon, no stars nor shadows cast by sunlight. Only the eerie phosphorescent glow ranging from muted grays to stark blinding silvers, and every shade of gray in between.


    This continuum was comforting to the demons, yet like many things of this place it would¡¯ve caused lesser minds to run to madness. Perchance this was why the Nethris were hardwired in this way, like a stunted tree growing for the sunlight on the canopy floor, craving that missing component; the rampant color of the upper worlds.


    Xonereth being a high-caste demon and natural master of all he surveyed, as a result he had thought himself unstoppable in a very grandiose fashion. His new situation sat with an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders, and the heaviness did not relent but only grew with the passage of time. Since he had assumed power in his twin brother''s stead many eons ago, he was the divine King of all, and as a result, he had thought himself beyond such helpless feelings.


    The most intelligent of human minds were simplistic to the Nethris. They would gaze on our brightest as we would gaze on ants. Thinking us no more capable of anything but the most rudimentary of thought, and for as long as humankind had walked the earth the Nethris had toyed with humankind as pieces on a chessboard. They had been present by the shoulders of Dictators, Kings, and Queens. Figures embellished in history larger than life were ruled and directed by demon madness. Pushing, goading, and cajoling, bending the history and fortunes of men and women to their will.


    The Nethris broke all the rules of what humankind would find moral and palatable, even those who considered themselves evil, or those who strayed far from the beaten path. The moral boundaries of the Nethris did not stop at bending powerful humans to their will and interfering with the destinies of those who dwelt above. Being highly sexualized beings and possessing a great curiosity, humankind was not their only prey. They freely fraternized with all the creatures of the earth, even the botanical kind. Many a scientist who had long studied, trying to fathom quantum leaps in nature''s evolution at various points in the earth''s timeline, those freakish occurrences that were seemingly inexplicable. Many of these events were the handiwork of the Nethris, in all their liaisons on the upper earth.


    Yet the upper reaches where the humans made their homes were fraught with danger, for even these mighty beings. There had to be some form of balance after all. To go about by daylight and feel the sun''s golden caress would spell almost certain dissolution, even with their immortality. There was only one recorded demon who somehow had survived such an incursion into the daylight, and she bore terrible disfigurement from her experience, Xonereth¡¯s beloved Sheharazade.


    In this world of no time but limitless darkness, that was until the light pillars had descended to slice the night like blades. The haughty ruler cast his raven gaze towards the ink-black waters beneath the great tree, they were almost gone. Seeping into the fractured world above, poison to that plane of existence. Warping and shaping environments, maiming life. In turn, robbing his own world of its lifeblood. How had his pride let this continue for this long? Would it now be too late, as he sought resolution in his heart?


    All the demons had believed quite wrongly that these recent events and the portents of the prophecy had been some kind of competition for their offspring, a trial, a race. They did not enjoy the idea that somehow they had been wrong, and the ramifications of their seemingly childish games had put their world in jeopardy. It must be set right.


    Xonereth stood, still graceful and unbowed despite his private agony. If any being of this universe had the answers to the riddle of the prophecy, and his people¡¯s plight it would be the Oracle. Part myth and part religious reality often sought by humans and demons alike. Deep within the tunnels of Bai? Italie.


    The proud ruler had been loathe to admit defeat, as he traced his black nails that resembled talons on the shining surface of the basalt table top. Talons that were tipped with ornate silvered finery. The demons could not touch or wear gold it burned them like acid, so silver was the main precious adornment worn by all.


    The Oracle may be his only salvation to solve this rending of his world. It had been millennia since he had last been admitted audience. Not since the War of the Brothers had he sought the Oracle¡¯s guidance, and it was a difficult path even then. The unbent pride in him did not wish or seek this audience, and yet he knew he must.


    Travel to any destination was easily within his powers, he merely had to wish and he had arrived. However, Xonereth could never chance to course the upper planes by day. To do so would spell disfigurement or worse, one misjudgment, and the risk of nonexistence was high.


    That was very much how most of his kind came to their end. How his love Sheharazade had survived he did not know, and he did wondered if there was anything critical to the problem he now wrestled with, he had missed in her survival? This terrible ending did not happen often, but many such happenings had been recorded over the eons. It was always a great risk.


    He didn¡¯t wish to dwell on endings, yet today he did. Like all rulers he was expected as his father had before him, to go to the great tree one day and meld with his ancestors. To return at the end of long millennia like all the highborn will, once they had grown weary with the long existences they lived. However what if no more demon kind were born, what if Nethrizil was only a dead husk? It was a fearsome thought.


    *****


    It had been eons since a full court had been held in the palace of Narkeem¡¯ezet. Not since the War of the brothers had Xonereth seen such a turnout of his subjects, from the most high caste demons to the clever but distorted Grishak, and even the ghostly Nruz from the far lands.


    The Grishak were the artisans of his kingdom, they constructed the great palaces and buildings, carved the monuments, and forged the beautiful armor and weapons of his people. They wove the finest magical textiles and painted great art. They were to the high caste¡¯s eyes, ugly in appearance. Short of stature and thick of limb. Yet none could speak ill of their creative prowess, the kingdom owed its beauty and grandeur to Grishak''s ingenuity and design.


    The Nruz were different, entirely. Hailing from the far lands that the demons rarely visited beyond the mountains. None really understood how the Nruz came to be. Some speculated they were a people that had inhabited this plane of existence when the demons were new. Others surmised they were the manifestations of demon spirits that refused to conjoin with the great tree in eternal rest. Incorporeal and transparent beings. Many viewed them with distrust.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Xonereth cast his eye over the assembled crowd of courtiers and supplicants, aware of Sheharizade who crowded close by his shoulder, her face and snow-white hair tucked deep within the cleft of her raven cowl.


    ¡°It looks as though we shall have a lively debate.¡± She said softly. As what she had to say was for her consort''s ears alone.


    ¡°Yes. I expect trouble from Belial, Karau too, and I imagine Abbadon will not go quietly.¡± Xonereth replied with an air of resignation.


    ¡°It is not like they can refute the truth my Sire, it is there for all to see in that hideous burning lightness.¡±


    Xonereth glanced across toward the Gothic arched windows at the ugliness that lay beyond. Rays of light pierced the ink-dark sky like the tips of many swords, and he fretted at how long he may have to repair the damage, and if his action would come too late.


    Worried he may have been, yet it did not demean his proud carriage as he made his way to the singular basalt throne carved in all its grandiose glory with designs of intertwining death, decay, hatred, and lust.


    The demon''s society was mainly a patriarchal one, there was room only for a singular ruler, one throne. There was no lesser one by its side for the King''s chosen consort. She like all the others were his subject, she did not rule. She would stand among her peers in the crowd as he spoke, there was no favoritism here. Many demon kings did not listen to the demonesses that became their consorts, and in recorded history, there had never been a Queen of the demons.


    His people silently parted as he made his way among them, traversing the immense approach to the throne, their voices lowered to a whisper and becoming altogether silent as he passed them by. He registered the defiant expressions of a few in his court, some of the most highborn demons looked at him with admonishing stares, something he had never witnessed before the prophecy had reared its ugly guise.


    For this important audience with his people, he had dressed in his full royal regalia. It was essential in this time of crisis he appeared calm and in control. Robes of the finest demon darkness covered his perfect, lithe masculinity. The unadorned silver diadem of every day was replaced with the heavy jag-toothed crown of his office. It too of silver, heavily encrusted in a myriad of diamonds. It was worn by his father before him, and his father before that. An artifact of old. Its uneven teeth rose up like pointed spires through his night-dark tresses. He was as he trod the path to his throne most conscious of its weight on his brow, as he was equally conscious of the weight of his rule on his mind.


    He sat his throne and in one collective movement, his people bowed before him. He let them bask in silence for a time, sparkling black eyes searching among them for the defiant. Then he spoke with a commanding, dulcet darkness.


    ¡°I Xonereth, son of Great Semiazas and the Prime Consort Ardat Lilli come before you all on a matter of great precedence.¡±


    The crowd was silent, all eyes on their ruler, expectant.


    ¡°I do not have to tell you of which I have called you forth today, or of the peril it represents to our kind.¡±


    He raised his bony, ebon-clawed hand endowed with many rings, and pointed at the vague obscene light that could be viewed through the ornate Gothic windows of his basalt citadel. The eyes of the crowd followed his gesture, and then back toward their leader.


    ¡°Our world has been invaded by such obscenity! The swords of light come for us to pierce our dark, and they grow brighter and more numerous by the day! And we do not know why! I believe we may have very little time to determine our fate. The great tree lies bare as you have all witnessed, and the seas have all but dried. The upper world it would appear is bleeding into our own, as our world is bleeding into the above. All of us are aware of the prophecy and its riddled words, slowly it manifests into truth before our very eyes. No new demons have been born in many centuries, and it would seem our society is in a terrible decline, a decline that MUST be arrested!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the infighting with your brother, and the curse of your families legacy!¡± Someone remarked loudly in the crowd, quite unafraid of the wrath of their leader.


    ¡°The War of the Brothers has brought this on us!¡± Someone else shouted.


    Xonereth had feared this, he did not know who had spoken, but the crowd was no longer reverentially quiet as before. Whispers abounded, the sound echoed in the vast royal chamber resembling the hissing of a nest of serpents. He raised both his bejeweled hands for silence.


    ¡°I propose in this dire time to seek audience with the Oracle.¡±


    There was a collective gasp from the crowd at this statement. Few returned from the Oracle unscathed, yet history had told that their ruler had returned from such a meeting once before.


    ¡°So you are telling us my Liege that you have no idea or method to avert this catastrophe that comes for us?¡±


    The voice that had risen from the crowd was none other than Abaddon one of the most powerful of the highborn. Just as Xonereth had expected. The high noble had always felt that he should have ruled in Xonereths¡¯ place after the War of the Brothers. He was always the first to make trouble in any rational debate. He was lord of chaos after all.


    The proud ruler stood abruptly at Abbadons¡¯ outburst, one must never interrupt the supreme being when he spoke, and his subjects gasped at Abbadons¡¯ impudence. Would he be punished? The crowd wondered.


    ¡°I see Abaddon that old wounds still run deep, perhaps you would wish to venture before the Oracle in my place?¡± The ruler drew his thin black lips back from his pointed teeth in a disdainful sneer.


    Abaddon was clever enough not to continue. The threat of the Oracle was not to be taken lightly. Instead, another booming, angry voice rose above the others. ¡°Let our Ruler finish!¡±


    It was Geryon, a demon who did not appear in the usual demon guise. Though all of demon kind were free to express themselves as they wished, often taking many different forms, very few actually chose to do so. He pushed forward through the throng, his powerful jet-black equine shoulders parting the concerned populace with ease. Geryon was a hellish centaur, powerfully made, tall at the shoulder, with a sweeping tail that trailed the floor in his wake. His hard hooves struck sparks on the stone.


    Xonereth continued, pleased with his cohort''s show of solidarity. He knew he could count on the guardian of hell.


    ¡°As I said I must without further delay seek the Oracles help. I believe we have little time. As you all know the path to the Oracle even for one of power is a difficult pilgrimage. Yet it must be made, preparations are being made even as I speak.¡± Yet his congregation was not finished¡­


    ¡°We are dying!¡± Jahi a female demoness exclaimed as she tore at her hair. ¡°Our numbers slowly dwindle, no new children have been born to us since the War of the Brothers. We are being punished, punished I say for the sins of the Royal family! Yet the highborn play with the humans and sow their seed upon them, creating half abominations. Where are the pure born!¡±


    Xonereth countered the frenzied demoness swiftly.


    ¡°The lack of the quickening of pure born among us troubles us all! As it has done for many centuries Jahi.¡± Xonereth chastised her. ¡°The half abominations as you put it, are scripted in the words of the prophecy. I and many others believe they have a part to play in all this. The Oracle may shed further light unto their usefulness!¡±


    Chastened Jahi slunk away back into the crowd becoming almost invisible.


    ¡°How do we even know the full extent of the damage to our world Sire?¡± A graveled voice asked respectfully.


    It was one of the elder Grishak, thick of torso and limb, white-haired, a stark contrast to his dark flesh. He bowed low as he spoke, and took much time righting himself due to his vast age. It was rare to hear one of the Grishak speak at court unless directly questioned. ¡°I know the lights are present in the mountains where we call home. I saw many light shafts on the way here, though we did not pass close by them directly. Has anyone been sent close enough to investigate?¡±


    ¡°No, they have not. Xonereth replied somewhat more gently than he had with Jahi. ¡°I fear it would possibly be death or terrible disfigurement to approach too closely.¡±


    Most of the crowd nodded in assent at this statement.


    ¡°What if the light suddenly opens above Narkeem¡¯ezet!¡± Someone exclaimed!


    The audience chamber once again echoed with many voices all muttering concerns.


    ¡°Why did we not do anything sooner?¡± Another demoness added, bolstered by her sisters¡¯ remarks.


    Xonereth knew her by the name of Nyx, she was both sister and wife to Erebus, a demon he considered a friend. His eyes flicked through the crowd spotting her highborn mate, he neither appeared angered nor appeased by the proceedings.


    Xonereth again spread his arms wide for silence, it was half-heeded. Sheharazade shot him a look of loving concern. Simultaneously the gargoyles and bats above all shifted, at once leaving their roosts, fluttering with a discordant madness against the vaulted ceilings above, animated by their ruler''s anger. The crowd gazing upwards went silent at the creature''s collective distress.


    ¡°It is true.¡± Xonereth continued. ¡®We have spent far too much time in contemplation, delightful wickedness, and mischief. We are all to blame. However, as your Ruler the weight of the blame falls largely on myself, and shall I take up that responsibility. I will have audience with the Oracle whatever it costs. In my absence, Sheharazade will be my Arch Councilor at the Royal Council''s apex.¡±


    There were again many murmurs at this appointment. It was highly unusual for a demoness to take on this responsibility. Kings rarely sought the council or assistance of their consorts.


    ¡°I must make preparations, we have little time.¡±


    The demon King strode from the chamber flanked by his closest advisors, Sheharizade again at his shoulder. The gargoyles screeched and bickered returning to their stone-like stillness, once more seeming to meld with the basalt of the columns that rose high above. The bats too fluttered to their rest, and slowly the crowd began to leave the chamber. Though some stood in groups conversing in hushed tones about the severity of their plight and the effectiveness of their appointed monarch.

 Joe鈥檚 Demise

    Despite the naysayers and the doomsday, glass-half-empty preachers, who had arisen during the darkest hours to speak the most stridently to his people; Stephan had continued to guide his settlement through the crisis. It was true they had lost a large percentage of the livestock, and he was unsure the losses were over. However, it was obvious the land was on the mend after the deluge of the black rain.


    Though the past few months had been heartbreaking, for both Stephan personally and those who shared life with him. The wizened leader felt great compassion for his people, even those who sought to undermine the common good.


    They had sheltered inside, the remaining livestock and the precious store of seeds housed safely in the barns. Stephan knew that residual radiation still lingered on the pastures and furrowed fields, however, he also knew that the harvest must be planted to hopefully capitalize on the finale of the winter season. It was a gamble he had to undertake. The seeds would not be as potent this year, for they had sat out one full growing season, and hence the viability of the germination would be reduced.


    Perhaps the radiation would render some of the animals infertile, and Stephan expected deformity and lower fertility rates to occur. He could see George Hanson already trying to preach his doom prophecy with every subsequent deviation from the norm that would arrive in the livestock. He sighed at the thought of this. The man in his religious fervor and fear had made the last few months truly far more harrowing than they had needed to be.


    Fortunately, the vast body of his people was still behind Stephan, and any protest had remained peaceful. Most people here believed in the Christian God and gave thanks each day for his blessings whether they be small or large.


    The heavy-hinged and padded door to the library opened, and Stephan turned to smile at the visitor. His wife Anna of many years came toward him with a cup of hot apple mead cupped in both hands.


    ¡°You should rest more love. The fields will wait for the morrow.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I know dearest.¡± He took the simple stoneware goblet from her slender hands and kissed her lovingly on the cheek in passing, as he turned again back to the window.


    ¡°If any man can do this, it is you my love.¡± Anna reminded him.


    ¡°I hope you are right. I grow tired Anna.¡±


    ¡°You will,¡¯ she assured her husband, coming closer to put her arms about him, she did not enjoy hearing his rare confession.


    ¡°I miss them.¡± Stephan said as he sipped at the warm, deliciously spiced beverage. ¡°It seems a terrible injustice that our son and daughter are not here to continue our good work. Sometimes even after such a long lifetime I cannot fathom the machinations of our Lord.¡± He sighed and felt his wife''s arms encircle him.


    ¡°We have all suffered in various ways my love. Each of us has our own cross to bear.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are right as always Anna dear. I think tomorrow we will give the go ahead to plant the crops. Time is marching on.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my love it is. Before we know it the clouds will completely clear and any hope of a growing season will be gone.¡±


    ¡°Well, tomorrow then. Stephan announced draining the cup and handing it back to the safekeeping of the graceful fingers of his wife.


    ¡°You should rest.¡± She chided him, turning from the library room.


    ¡°I promise I will be along in a moment.¡± Stephan smiled at her knowingly as Anna turned away.


    *****


    Aran idly looked up from his hard pallet at the cause of the disturbance. Glancing at the lean and dirty slave, clad in torn, colorless rags, who had come to retrieve the evil-smelling, and almost overflowing bucket. The man paid him no heed, it was apparent this slave was familiar with this task and did it as an automaton. The contents of the pail slopped onto the floor, as the weak man struggled to balance its weight.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Aran wrinkled his nose in disgust and rose onto his elbow. The chained warrior had hoped there may have been a meal served, and he wondered if the man who tended this boiler previously had perished from lack of food, or if Dahlia had specifically ordered Aran''s rations reduced? He suspected the latter, the doll-like woman had warned Aran that his slavery would be abhorrent after all.


    The warrior who was now feeling much better at least physically from the beating, debated for a moment grabbing the man and causing a disturbance. He was tired of being here and declining by slow degrees, realizing with terrible starkness he must do something soon to relocate himself. Living in this lightness space, and surviving on one mean meal a day, did not bode well for his future.


    To that end, Aran had decided he would simply let the boiler go cold. He had been warned not to after all. It would be some time before his defiance got their attention up above, but invariably it would, and he would be ready. So he positioned himself on the floor leaving the appropriate length of slack chain, and waited. As he watched through slitted eyes the bright lava orange of the firebox interior faded to a dull red.


    The footfalls came soon after, heavy boots scuffing on concrete. Only a single man, folly really. A smile crossed Aran¡¯s face at these odds, the guard was used to his previous charge and saw no need for backup. As he came into view, the warrior sighted the heavy club in the man''s hand. Aran waited silently, well aware the man could see nothing coming from his well-lighted post into the darkness.


    ¡°You lazy son of a bitch,¡± the silhouette of the man growled, ¡°what were you doing, sleeping?¡±


    Aran watched him step closer, hand on the slack arc of the chain. Just a little further now¡­


    ¡°Get up you lazy fuck!¡±


    The chain arced upright with precision striking the unsuspecting man in the face. The guard pulled his arm up to shield himself in a reflexive move as Aran in a deft and practiced maneuver wrapped the slack length of chain about the man''s legs to bring him down. The struggle did not last long, The warrior easily divested the guard of his baton and hit him savagely over the head. Bone flew, and blood coursed slowly across the concrete floor, finding its way to the floor drain, and dripping at intervals below. He left the man to lay exposed to passers-by. Knowing shortly the guard would be missed.


    His ploy had worked. Some hours later a knot of men stood in the doorway, arms folded staring at their unfortunate comrade. He had hoped to sight Dahlia but this airless place was Aran guessed beneath her presence.


    ¡°Joe didn''t deserve that,¡± one man said solemnly. Gazing on Aran with eyes of hate. The others nodded and argued what should be done.


    ¡°I don''t see why we just should not kill him.¡± Another said angrily. He had his hand on the inside of his leather jacket presumably on the butt of a handgun.


    ¡°She ordered us not to,¡± another man warned.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± the original man snapped back heatedly.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Yet another of the men growled, he had a rather spectacular red beard. ¡°We will do as she wants. ¡°Now be careful we don''t want to end up like ole Joe there.¡±


    Aran had not planned to fight, at least not here. He had no desire to be beaten senseless like last time. He desired a change of location, possibly someplace better to facilitate his escape, so it was in his best interests he let the men move him without incident. He was sure the men were bewildered as he allowed himself to be freely bound and released from the chain attached to the immovable boiler.


    ¡°Get Joe out of here and go find someone else to tend this.¡± The red-bearded man barked.


    Aran could tell he was mighty nervous as he escorted his charge through the darkened hallways beyond. For a terrible moment, Aran began to fear that perhaps now he would simply be incarcerated, and forgotten. This was a jail after all, and they passed many underground isolation cells which appeared to stand empty. He kept expecting to be pushed into one at each cell they passed by.


    The escort reached a flight of concrete stairs, which were very steep, these led up and out to an outside exercise yard. These environs still looked much like one would expect of a prison. Chain link fencing crowned with ribbon wire and locked gates. After being housed some days by the warmth of the boiler Aran shivered, and being almost naked the cold air was a rude awakening.


    Aran looked up and about him, as he was ordered to stand in place. He turned to look back at the main body of the complex and was struck hard in the shoulder. He again cast his eyes forward, then up at the heavens above. It had occurred to him the sky did appear much less clouded than before. Though it was growing dark and it was hard to really tell.


    ¡°If you were mine you''d be dead. I¡¯d insist you pay for Joe. We¡¯re a tight knit family here. You should thank the lady for your worthless life.¡± Aran¡¯s red-bearded antagonist growled at him gruffly. ¡°Still, some time on the on the chain gang clearing fields you will probably wish you were.¡±


    The man did not laugh, this was simply a statement. It was very obvious he was most unhappy with this Joe¡¯s passing. Aran took great care not to goad him, this man¡¯s grief was real and would lead to nothing of benefit. He cast his eyes to the ground and did his utmost to appear benign.

 Bai? Italie

    ¡°May we walk... and talk awhile?¡±


    Sheharizade sidled up to him in the darkness of the corridors lit by pools of phosphorescent light. Her bony hand touched his and he did not pull away, instead wrapping his long black nailed and bejeweled fingers about her own in comfort. He noted she did not curtsy in his presence as the others did. He should have been angry at the lack of respect, and yet he was not. His consort had earned her place in his affections many times over. She would need this boldness to rule in his place while he was absent he realized. Instead, he smiled at her beautiful audaciousness.


    ¡°I wish you did not have to go¡­¡± She said wistfully.


    ¡°I know.¡± Xonereth answered wishing it could be so.


    ¡°I know it will not be long but I shall miss you terribly.¡±


    ¡°Your visit to the world of humans must have addled you, my sweet Sheharizade. You are starting to sound like one of them with all that sentimentality.¡± Xonereth chuckled lightheartedly, though deep inside he did not feel the sentiment. ¡°You will be fine, you have your instructions, I trust you implicitly to rule in my stead.¡±


    ¡°I shall my Sire.¡±


    ¡°Beware of the nobles, they may stray in my absence my love.¡±


    She squeezed his hand in answer, and looked ahead, their robes gliding over the polished stone with a gentle hiss.


    ¡°I will return with the answer.¡±


    Sheharizade nodded in affirmation. ¡°Please be careful my love.¡± She all but whispered.


    Xonereth stopped abruptly and turned about to face her. They were alone, except for the bats and gargoyles preening themselves above in the blackest alcoves.


    The Demon King cupped his princess¡¯s bony face in his ivory hands, caressing her cheeks ever so tenderly with his thumbs. He bent and kissed her with great tenderness on her forehead, his lips lingering for long moments, his eyes closed.


    ¡°I will find a way to fix this, and to restore you as well. I will do all the Oracle asks of me, and I will not return until I have the answers as difficult as they may be.¡±


    They held one another in a tight embrace willing the moment to never fade.


    *****


    Xonereth looked up as he sensed a disturbance in his chamber, the palace at Narkeem¡¯ezet was so vast and cavernous there were few doors. The King''s inner chambers being no exception. Very few dared to venture here unless by direct invitation. The King¡¯s wrath was not something to be flippant about.


    As he gazed across the expanse of shining dark tiles, he could see his courtier Nysrogh framed in the arch of the entryway. He was bowed as was the usual custom awaiting his Ruler¡¯s notice.


    Xonereth on seeing the handsome demon did not speak, instead, he rose crossing the floor to walk about him. He was handsome this young demon, and his very presence aroused the troubled ruler even through the gnawing teeth of his worry. Nysroghs¡¯tight fitting garments left little to the imagination, and his beautiful raven hair which was unusually wavy almost brushed the floor, appearing as a rich and shining cape behind him as he walked. The courtier did not move but suffered his ruler''s scrutiny in silence.


    ¡°I take it it is time?¡±


    ¡°Yes my Sire.¡±


    ¡°You may rise.¡±


    Nysrogh stood, his dark lashed eyes still politely averted in his Ruler''s presence, he gave off an air of demure submission. Xonereth held out his bejeweled hand and the young demon kissed it with reverence. Xonereth felt a shiver of desire course through him as the young demon''s lips brushed his flesh in the tenderest gesture of worship. In less troubled times he would have taken him to his bed. He was both beauteous and appealing.


    ¡°You are one of the youngest of demons, yes?¡±


    ¡°I am Sire.¡±


    ¡°I thought so, I could sense your new soul, such delightful purity. Tell me Nysrogh have you been to the upper planes?¡±


    ¡°Only once or twice your Majesty.¡±


    ¡°How did you find them?¡±


    ¡°Most chaotic your Majesty.¡±


    Xonereth nodded more to himself than anyone and smiled whimsically.


    ¡°Well thank you, Nysrogh.¡±


    He made to leave the chamber. As he brushed by his courtier he caught his parting words. ¡°My Sire please come back to us safely.¡±


    Xonereth paused in his stride but did not turn about, he was unused to such sentiments. ¡°I fully intend to, and with the answers to our troubles, be assured.¡±


    *****


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    The ceremony that would permit the Demon King to journey into the Oracle¡¯s realm was both lengthy and elaborate. Strong magics must be invoked to allow successful travel to the underworld. A rare silver zilant had been captured and sacrificed on the altar, such a beautiful and majestic creature it was. It closed its silver eyes for one last time as the High priest removed its still beating heart, and its midnight-colored blood bathed the top of the basalt altar stone and ran into pots to create the sacred ink needed for the ceremony. Its skull would join the others numbered only seven, that sat on the recessed ledge high above. Legacies of the seven moments in demon history when the greatest of the Demon Kings had crossed over into Hades seeking answers.


    Xonereth lay looked up at the zilant¡¯s grinning skulls, promises of past sojourns, surrounded by his attendants, clearly remembering the last time he had completed this rite so many eons prior. He was young then and inexperienced much like his courtier Nysrogh, he had hardly been ready for such a task.


    Xonereth appeared dead as he lay eyes closed, pale as fine porcelain on the slab of sacred basalt, his lengthy, straight midnight hair hung over the end of it tracing the floor. He lay upon the still warm zilant''s blood, the entirety of his naked body being etched in sable runes. Words of power that would allow him to make the sojourn and appear before the omnipotent being unscathed. He bore not a single adorning jewel or the coronet of his reign. He must go before the oracle simply as he was made, no more and no less, for judgment. His attendants hovered and fussed, and mentally he readied himself for the trial ahead.


    He had drunk of the sacred vessel, the skull of the first of demon kind, after which there could be no return, and now he would sleep readying himself to pass into the Oracle''s realm. Demon time did not move the same as the time on earth passed above, though it be just days for demon kind, two human years would elapse before the King of Demons could traverse the corridors of Bai? Italie and seek his answers.


    Xonereth would not awake until he had been judged, and if found wanting he may never wake at all. Sheharizade kept vigil by his side and saw to all royal matters in his absence.


    *****


    Xonereth emerged by night in the high-domed Roman baths of Bai? Italie, fed by the hot springs from below. To begin with, he had felt somewhat surreal, light, and strange, as in reality, he had left his mortal essence behind, as only his incorporeal one could make this pilgrimage.


    He sought out and found the deep passageway that ran far into the earth, traveled by many feet over the centuries, all seeking their answers from the powerful being that resided within.


    Termed as the entrance to Hades and the river Styx. Humankind had long ago forgotten the true purpose of the tunnels ofBai? Italie if they had ever known them. In historical times there had been appointed a succession of drugged young women, probably priestesses, or even slaves that stood in for the oracle in this place of stifling darkness. Many fearful petitioners would come to ask their god''s favor and to beseech that the future be kind. Leaving offerings and gold depending on the magnitude of their request.


    Before the greatest of Wars, the ancient baths above and parts of the tunnels had been turned into a tourist attraction. Many historians and archaeologists studied them hoping to glean their secrets, everyone had vastly different theories as to their exact purpose. Many of the dark passages had become impassable due to cave-ins from seismic activity over the course of many centuries. Tourists came here to marvel at the hot spring-fed Roman baths that still lay beneath the beautiful domed ceiling. All who journeyed to this site saw something different, some beheld sin and vice, some fear, some darkness, and others an acute closeness to the divine.


    Most who dared walk the dark interior tunnels that were still whole, commented on the heat as they descended. By torchlight, they saw little more than a narrow arched passage that dove deep into the earth, with empty receptacles for candles cut into its sides. At least that is what human eyes saw with their dulled senses.


    There were many other sites of power such as this one scattered across the upper earth, places where the dimensions were conjoined. The sites scholars and scientists puzzled over, full of unplumbed mysteries. All of these power points were entryways to the Oracle''s presence, but not an audience with a drugged slave girl or priestess as had been the circus in the Roman days, but the real Oracle, a being of immense wisdom and power.


    The entry passageway was narrow and slightly arched at its top, Xonereth would descend some two hundred feet into the earth. Yet that task he knew would not be so simple. Two hundred feet hardly sounded like a trial at all. To demon eyes, the tunnel was not bathed in impossible darkness, as it appeared to others. At intervals of some thirteen feet, there were small ledges carved into the walls. Where in the past candles must have been set in the entrance passage. To demon eyes in their place shone a ball of luminescence, a fey light, not unlike that of the moon in miniature. Yet the dull-witted humans could see nothing but all-encompassing darkness manifesting their greatest fears.


    None had traversed this passageway for many years. Although Xonereth was effectively out of his body which still lay motionless on the basalt slab covered in the zilant¡¯s blood, his passing left his foot marks, and he could very much feel the dust and the terrain under his feet.


    As he descended he could sense the increasing humidity and heat. A feeling of dread rose in him and he felt his heartbeat quicken, and the blood in his temples pound. It was not long before he came upon a divide in the passageway. Xonereth remembered this moment well, he had after all made this journey once before.


    Before him extended two identical shafts, both narrower than the initial entrance. One going barely to the left, and one barely angling to the right. He paused trying to sense which one to take, and he knew as he looked into the narrow darkness that beckoned before him this was where his trial would begin.


    He had gone left last time, and he shuddered, glad his court could not witness the unease he felt. Yes, it was a mercy he was alone, yet terrible, everything was on his shoulders. He did not even wish for Sheharizade who knew his heart to see him this way, he was a King, and he was supreme power. Right now he felt none of those things, his birthright and Royal legacy stripped bare. A new vulnerability rested over him and he did not revel in the sensation.


    He vividly remembered the last trial, even though it was eons ago, it had almost killed him, or even worse reduced him to a maddened imbecile. He would not go left, this time the right corridor beckoned. It was possibly the one he should have taken the first time.


    He committed to the right on this reasoning. Whatever lay beyond could not be more difficult or harder to endure than the last time. He was more seasoned and wise now, no longer at the beginning of his reign with all its insecurities and unknowns. He would be far better at this task. He would hold on to that.


    Once he had taken a few steps over the threshold he thought the heard whispers, or were they the rustle of bats wings? His acute magical senses told him he was not quite heading west. The orbs set in the passageway were less bright but set at closer intervals. He heard the whispers again and suddenly distinct words came to him.


    ¡°So great ruler this time you thought you were smart, why did you not take the trial you already knew how to complete, it may have been the easier?¡±


    Xonereth shuddered, but it was too late to turn back...

 Links in the Chain

    There were many bullocks and horses that could still serve to break the soil in the fields. However, these beasts ate copious quantities of forage and performed little other useful work in the Mobilong compound, or the fields beyond. In this new age, the backs of men were cheaper. For a few pieces of gold, a sturdy male could be purchased. Most slaves once they tasted the lash a few times were relatively docile and could work long, hard days on far less of a ration than a large bovine or a horse. They were also easily replaceable.


    Aran had been brought to the farmland in heavy chains, making any attempt at escape impossible. Today the weather was somber. The sky an unbroken, deep, steel gray, conditions were far from ideal to be outdoors. There hung an ever-present, atmospheric fog between the red cliffs; uncharacteristic of the usually dry river flats. The dampness clung to every surface and in no time Aran was wet and miserable. Still, he hoped this would be better than starving slowly in the boiler room. Perhaps a way to escape would present itself in time. He had to stay optimistic, to lose hope would be to embrace defeat.


    Even though she was his owner and all Aran possessed was now hers. Dahlia had never attempted to confiscate the one possession Aran had on his person, the twin dragon ring which he still bore on his ring finger. However today even in the dim light the avaricious head overseer sighted it immediately.


    ¡°Take that off, give it to me.¡± He barked, holding out his hand for the magnificent bauble. Cruel whip ready to strike at the slightest hint of defiance.


    The trinket served no real significance to Aran, it was merely another spoil of war, and when he would be free there would be countless more. So at the order, he did not hesitate, at once easing it from his finger, the trinket, pretty as it was, was not worth receiving pain over. He placed it in the man''s outstretched palm, only to see the man yelp in pain and drop it like he had been stung into the gray mud.


    ¡°What the fuck!¡± The burly overseer exclaimed exasperated and confused, holding his wounded palm to his chest. Aran caught sight of the angry red welt of a burn in the center of the overseer''s solid fist. The bewildered man poked at the ring that now lay in the squelching mud with the butt of his whip. It rolled about embedding in the mire at his feet innocently.


    ¡°What kind if fuckin trickery is this!¡± The oaf accused.


    Aran just stood quietly in his chains as expressionless as he was able. Part of him even in his predicament found it very amusing. Fortunately, the greedy man did not share this incident with the others. This prize would be his alone, so he picked up a nearby stick, threaded it through the ring, and retrieved it from the slop. Wrapping it securely in the black and white bandanna he had tied about his wispy and unruly hair, mindful to not let his skin come in contact with it again. He folded it into his tunic and herded Aran toward the others.


    *****


    Aran stood on the gray-brown field, ankles, and feet caked in the sticky gray mud. It had a heady stench all of its own, of nascent life and places dark and seldom seen. The entire town of the Bridge was permeated with it.


    The cold wind whipped his wet hair in his eyes, for it had rained again today. White stones littered the earth in scattered profusion, and it was these the slaves had been tasked to remove and place at the far side of the clearing in an ever-growing pile. The stones would be used later to build the sturdy and artfully constructed rock walls that bordered the farmlands here. Nothing was wasted.


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    The man next to him groaned. Aran was aware the individual was faltering and had been for some days, and he could see clearly the reason. Though the guards that tended the men had done nothing to ease his misery. The poor wretches'' ankles were sloughed open almost to the bone by the heavy leg irons he wore. An infection had set in and the man was weakening by the hour.


    Aran tried hard to not tug on the connecting chain as he went about his labors. It was an art to move in unison tethered to so many other men. He shuffled carefully as he gathered up another armful of the stone. His hands were bruised and bleeding, nails torn and sore. He was stronger and faster than the others, and he waited patiently for his companions to do the same so they could proceed in a slow shuffle to the designated rock pile.


    The big man shivered, he was wet through. Though his coverings were minimal, just a length of dirty cloth wound about his waist. He watched his struggling companion drop the pitiful handful of stones he carried onto the ever-growing pile. The day before the chain gang had been relegated to clearing scrub, and digging out the iron-hard mallee stumps with long iron bars to clear more farmland. He was not sure which task had been worse. He was tired and demoralized. Aran stood in a dumb daze as he waited for the other men to move.


    The foundering man had made it back to the center of the field, to fall there. He pulled the man next to him down into the muddy wet. The man swore rising from the mire covered in the sticky river mud. Aran too heavy to be moved stood there and watched on. They would grow rice here shortly, once the floods came after the snow melt. People were saying it would be a peak flood this year. Aran hardly cared.


    A guard showed up and hit Aran and the others. The man was unchained, his limp body carted away. Aran was unsure if the slave was already dead. He was hit some more and the gap in the chain closed, his closest companion now the man covered in river mud.


    *****


    They had worked all day. From first light to the last rose of dusk. Some evenings they would remain on site under guard, the line chained to a tree or large boulder, and on others they would be escorted back into Mobilong proper, for some thin soup and gobs of suspect meat. Then they lay down beneath the verandas that surrounded the exercise yard. There was no excuse to be detached from the line, unless you were dead or dying you were expected to work.


    After one exceptionally long day clearing brush Aran sat, broad, scarred back to the brick wall, running his fingers through his mane of gold hair. It had attained quite a length and as a result, was often very tangled. He found he spent much time in the evenings resting and running his fingers through it patiently tracing out the snarls. Unlike many about him, he still retained the will to care about his outward appearance.


    He scratched at his jaw, he was bearded now, not something he cared for but he had little control of. It itched so badly that he greatly desired to shave. He was used to going long periods without the luxury of bathing, but tonight the warrior wondered if he would ever have the sensation of cleanliness again?


    Life had swiftly deteriorated into this terrible creature, a creature he was only a part of, a segment. Every man chained to him was a piece of this collective, every tug on the chain, every whisper, cough, and action. Independent once, and now all as one, it was a misery of great magnitude.


    Aran was still hungry. The evening meal he had all but fought for was never enough to fill his aching stomach. He was still large but had become very chiseled and lean in appearance since his induction into the chain crew. He cast about and tried to forget his hunger.


    There were other sturdy men in Aran''s group, and often when he could get the chance he tried to speak to them about uniting and trying to escape. The men looked at him with dull eyes and did not bite. Most would look away, and some shook their heads. It began to seem he was the only one who was not ¡®domesticated.¡¯


    The smaller men mostly did not last unless they were of unusual disposition, most older men did not last long at all. This was the sum of his existence, and every night as he lay down on the hard concrete or the mud in a field to sleep, he cursed Dahlia with all he had.

 Fortune Favors the Brave

    Wezley Bennett sat, one hand toying with Nathans¡¯, light, ashen hair by the fireside. ¡°I¡¯m sick of the sight of you all.¡± He said somewhat vehemently. Ice-cold gaze leveled at the real object of his distaste and dilemma, Carlos. As the captives were shuffled by him in chains.


    He was tired of the struggle after owning such a compliant and clever slave in Nathan, and close to abandoning his project of many years. However, he could never quite find it in himself to completely just give up. He gazed long and hard at Carlos¡¯ retreating back, he looked taller, prouder, or was he simply imagining this? He shrugged and turned back to the boy at his feet, he probably was.


    With the onset of finer weather, Bennett felt a weight lift from his shoulders, at least in part, for he had many ongoing concerns. Perhaps the lumber they had stockpiled would last for a time after all, and their exodus could be delayed. He was thankful because he was not remotely ready. In the vicious cold, the tribe had been burning fuel in copious quantities in recent weeks. While they had waited for news from the north.


    With the realization the extreme weather had abated, he had ordered the three male captives removed from the cave. He grew tired of them in his living space, with all the clan so tightly quartered, and had his men inter them, fettered in chains to the prison of the cattle trailer. He had plans for Renard. He just as yet had not formulated them. Though he was really not so sure what he would do with the others when the time came to leave.


    He was at that moment remembering television, as he watched the coals and the blackened vessel simmering heating water before him. That far distant time of his childhood. He did not choose to revisit those moments in his life often. These memories were for the most part very unpleasant. The plethora of Hollywood shows and movies all glorifying violence, and yet no man in real society was allowed to be that way inclined. Instead, the endless procession of pumped-up fakes of actors, pretending to the masses they were special. He had not found them convincing then, and he scoffed at the idea of them now.


    These action flicks he had clamored to watch as a youth, he was always the bad guy in his mind, rooting for the villain to win. It was an era of foolish ideals he reflected. The social climate of that time was strange to him, people not knowing if they were even men or women. Ridiculous all of it, and he was glad it was long done with.


    Bennett as an individual had only really begun to exist after the war. The time he had truly come into his own, born of blood and fire. He tugged on the mop of pretty platinum hair in his careless grasp, pulling the boy''s face up to look into his own. Nathan¡¯s eyes shone with repressed longing. Bennett felt powerful, invincible, the emotion swelled inside him. Followed by burgeoning lust. Later, he mused, later. There were other matters, that must as always come first.


    The vicious leader hoped that his three men would soon return from their foray north and with them some inspiration as to how they could move forward. Despite that Bennett was seeing shadows. What would happen if they never returned? The idea that they may not appear worried at the big man, dampening his heady feelings of the moment prior. He was emotionless on the exterior, but quietly that was his biggest fear.


    So few men he ruminated, capable, but so few. It seemed his options grew less with each passing season. Only seven fighting men left, and of those he was not sure he could completely count on Sven. The big man seemed to have lost his lust for blood completely, unlike the others. Perhaps he should just leave him behind with his small family when they departed, Bennett conceded. There was Gareth and Dwayne, presuming they returned, and Will, Pig, and Todd. They were the only survivors of a very difficult year. It would do no good to be leader soon if there was no one left to lead.


    How could his fighting force be replenished? He chafed at this hurdle that he must overcome. In recent years there had been no one worthy to join them, and attrition had taken its toll. The only tried fighting force he was aware of was housed in the Wolf Lord¡¯s fortress. The chances of them joining him were none. Not in his present capacity. He must find leverage, some power of impossible persuasion. He knew he grasped at straws. But a good leader never gave up, he knew this. Perhaps there would be some good men to be had from the farmlands of Renard¡¯s Father as a possible ransom for his son. Yet he was unsure how this deal would even bear fruit.


    What did he have that could persuade anyone to join him? Gone were the heady days of discord and strife. People were now trying to rebuild. Were his days numbered like the dinosaurs of his past? A War Lord was nothing without followers, without the rudiments of war. He could feel his grip slipping and it left a bitter taste. He would hold on to the idea that Gareth would indeed return and bring him something of worth, something to rally his clan.


    *****


    The three men didn¡¯t know exactly how they would plan to escape, but since their relocation, the task would be easier. They would be less observed here, and they could even confer and plan some, without the ever prying eyes of their captors. Renard still had secreted in his possession the cutthroat razor that Raissa had in her fright overlooked to return. It was not much of a weapon, but beggars could not be choosers.


    Carlos likewise had hidden the valuable stainless steel pin, pushed into the hem fabric of his torn shirt. The sundry item was so pivotal to their escape, and in the darkness later that evening while everyone was engaged in eating the evening meal. He attempted to pick the padlock that closed the gate of the trailer. The other two men held their breath as they watched on. Again in his skilled hands, he had it open in seconds. Renard and Darius nodded in approval, carefully they closed it once more to wait for the opportune moment.


    Lissa knew she must assist Renard, yet she was unsure how she could be of any real help. Growing up in the farmlands of her people though, she had learned a thing or two about plants and their uses. She was no apothecary, but she had learned many facts about the plants that grew locally and their properties, thanks to her mother. Probably not as much as Raissa did healing-wise, but she knew enough to be dangerous.


    There was a small ragged tree growing near the well she recalled. The goats did not eat it for a reason, and she knew why. The leaves were when the weather had been warm a feathery, lush green, and the pretty sprays of pea flowers white, that smelled heavily of honey in the late spring. Black Locust, Lissa knew all parts of the plant were poisonous. A dose would not be life-threatening but could be debilitating if ingested. She felt she had her answer. Now to employ her plan.


    With this thought, Lissa had been down to visit the gnarled little tree earlier in the day, on the endless errand to fetch yet more water. A well-worn path had been etched into the hard-packed earth by the women¡¯s feet as they went on this errand many times a day.


    The unassuming plant sat at the edge of the fallow corn field and looked for the most part like all the others. Twisted and gnarled, devoid of its leaves. Its bark was woody and dark, and the smaller branches terminated into prickly canes that could cause one''s fingers to swell in pain if accidentally pricked by them. She could spy no seeds strewn about at the base of the tree. She was not surprised, truly this had been a terrible year for the plant life and this was a little tree. Fortunately, that did not matter, leaves seeds, or bark, they would all serve her purpose equally. She had to work hard to acquire enough of the tough bark, she would grind it up later in secrecy.


    She preferred to enact this bold plan of hers before the return of Gareth, Dwayne, and Warren, the less men in camp the better. The trio had been absent a considerable length of time. The talk amongst the slaves was the three men may not return. Lissa did not want to chance waiting much longer, if they did arrive home, the extra men may complicate matters. Her mission was going to be difficult enough as it was.


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    Supplies had dwindled these last few months. There was little to eat for the slaves, they were by now mostly existing on cornbread and thin soup. In the evenings the warriors took all the choicest cuts of meat, a separate meal was prepared for them first. There were often as of late no leftovers even for camp favorites. This would play into Lissa¡¯s plan, well almost.


    There was one problem with this poisoning scenario, and it ravaged Lissa¡¯s conscience, what about the child? What would happen if little Eirik was fed some of the laced meal? Black Locust shouldn¡¯t kill, she knew that. However, she did not know what it may do to an infant. Sven often fed his child lovingly holding him by the fire in the evenings, and she didn¡¯t want the death of an innocent baby on her conscience. She fretted over this but decided to persist with her plans and work out how to mitigate that problem, if, and when it arose.


    So much could go wrong, she didn¡¯t have the experience to know what dose would be appropriate, and the quantity would have to be an educated guess. She was hardly a poisoner, and in her previous, comfortable life never had any reason to be. Not enough of the bark and her plan would go awry. The men had to be debilitated enough to want to sleep and be less watchful than they were now. No easy task with men who had lived like wild animals for a large chunk of their lives.


    She had not told Renard, the less that knew of her idea the better. No one would suspect her, in all her captivity here the men had never had any cause to complain at her behavior. They thought her domesticated, and meek, and she was not about to dispel that myth. To begin with, she had been afraid, but with time she realized that she had to act. The fate of her friends had been cast firmly into her hands. Perhaps she should have taken Renard¡¯s previous offer of escape, she rued that hasty decision now, however there was no looking back.


    *****


    An apricot and lemon hue brightened the dawning sky. There was a slight chilly breeze that promised a fine day once the sun shone. The shadows still long in the valley, all purples and dark grays. Lissa had tied her rampant auburn curls back with a strip of cloth, however even this measure could not tame her unruly locks. They fell, tumbling into her chocolate eyes and down her back, like a burst of wildfire. The young woman¡¯s heart was racing, pounding in her chest, it would be today she had decided.


    She approached the cattle trailer holding a chipped enamel bowl in both hands. The men''s morning water ration. This was a routine she had kept religiously every dawn, and would not arouse undue suspicion. The farmer¡¯s daughter was not a brave woman, however, she knew she was the only one there who might perchance grant those men rescue and freedom.


    Darius accepted the water eagerly and smiled at the pretty redhead. Carlos ignored her arrival as he watched the sun slowly lighten the easterly sky. Reclining with ease despite the chains, one leg stretched straight before him, the other angled inward. His straight, black hair had regrown swiftly, already falling into his intense, dark eyes.


    Renard stepped forward, perhaps Lissa did not know it, but she was easily the best part of his day. He smiled a genuinely warm smile as Darius handed the bowl off to Renard. He sipped lightly at the water and handed it back to Darius who hovered next to him.


    ¡°Now listen.¡± Lissa whispered, her pale freckled face pressing close to the two men, voice no more than the timbre of the slightest breeze. She could ill afford to be caught, and the sound in the valley carried easily to unwelcome ears. ¡°Tonight I am going to lace the men¡¯s food with something that should make them ill. It won¡¯t kill them, but I am hoping they will be so sick that you guys will have a chance to escape.¡±


    ¡°Lissa No¡­. I can¡¯t let you take this ris...¡±


    ¡°Shush¡± Lissa admonished. Cutting Renard off. She was unused to being this assertive, her cheeks were flushed with her conflict. ¡°I am doing this tonight, so be ready. There are supplies hidden behind the old big rig by the cabins. I hope they are enough. I must go.¡±


    She had half turned to leave, Renard now reaching through the bars to tenderly touch her on the shoulder. She pirouetted to face him once more.


    ¡°I have to go.¡± Was all she mouthed in an almost voiceless whisper, but not before Renard tenderly stroked the side of her face with his rough and filthy hands. His gesture meant so much more, and he was unsure if she felt his meaning. Yet he desired her to.


    ¡°We will be back to rescue you I promise.¡± His voice trailed off.


    ¡°I hope so, Sarah and Kate''s lives depend on it.¡± She whispered as she darted away.


    Never did Lissa appear more beautiful to him as she had in that moment, even with her torn and dusty clothing, and her unwashed state, she was all he desired and more. He would do right by her and her friends, he swore on his fast-growing love.


    *****


    The evening meal was served, Lissa saw to that task herself, a stew of very few ingredients. Some beef, some corn, and a few sad onions mostly. She hoped that the finely ground bark she had added did not have an unpleasant taint and that her ruse would remain undetected. After all, there were no exotic spices here she could add to mask flavors.


    Nervously she served the meal waiting for the slightest sign that something was amiss from the warriors. Yet there was none. She began to fret then that perhaps she had not added enough of the locust bark, as she watched the men eat hungrily while she hovered filling their cups.


    She was gratified as she saw Bennett hand his leavings to Nathan, the youth picking up the bowl and drinking its entire contents. She was sure he had been spying on all of them for months, even if she could not prove it. Things were progressing well.


    Every man there but Sven had consumed the stewpot¡¯s contents. For a fearful moment, Lissa believed that the big man would not partake, as he cradled his son in his immense arm by the fireside. The child had become his life and joy, she could see that plainly. Her heart jolted in her chest as Sven signaled to her wordlessly he wished to eat the stew. Lissa''s worst fears were realized. She knew it was his habit to share his repast with the small boy. Lissa trembled and hoped the men had not detected any more than the usual submission that Lissa gave off when she was about them.


    Now was not the time for the faint of heart, she must push forward, and not let fear rule her. She had to serve him or he alone would thwart the escape, her conscience tore at her. What to do, what to do, her mind in fright railed. So trying to steady herself she dished out a large portion making sure there was no more in the pot to be had, and handed it to the grizzled warrior.


    He sat and ate one handed, still cradling his son. Lissa hovered close by, torn at the situation she had put into motion. The big man consumed most of the hot broth, letting the remainder cool for his son. The moments seemed frozen, stretching on forever in a tension filled silence. Her blood reverberating in her temples, as she watched in horror as Sven lifted the bowl towards the fat little hands of his cherubic boy.


    No! Lissa¡¯s mind screamed this cannot happen! As she moved swiftly to prevent disaster. All she could think of was to feign clumsiness, and she fell, knocking the bowl from Sven¡¯s hands, and pouring its remaining contents onto the sand.


    ¡°You stupid whore!¡± Sven shouted in retaliation, and Eirik began to cry.


    Raissa came running to grab the now unhappy baby as Sven stood. His gray eyes leered at the cowering Lissa beneath bushy blonde eyebrows and his wild mane. She felt the sting of his slap and the rush of wind in her hair as an accompaniment.


    ¡°Stupid bitch,¡± he muttered under his breath as he turned away. ¡°Raissa!¡± He shouted, ¡°get the boy some meat!¡±


    The other men looked at Lissa scornfully, however, she had done as she had intended. The little boy was safe, even if her right cheek would be bruised tomorrow. She picked up the fallen bowl and remaining plates and left the fireside to wait.


    She did not have long to worry about her sense of quantities. The men began to feel unwell shortly after the conclusion of the meal. Complaining that perhaps the beef had been less than fresh with the griping in their bellies. Some vomited, and most just lay down to rest like lions that had eaten a rancid meal. Her risky gambit had worked and she savored her victory in silence.


    *****


    The most difficult to execute part of her plan actually arrived the next morning. Lissa had to feign realistic surprise that the prisoners were all gone when she returned from giving them water. She didn¡¯t consider her self much of an actress and hoped that the men who were still very under the weather would believe her, fortunately, they did.


    Bennett was furious, the last horse had died some weeks back, and the captives had an easy twelve hour start on them. There were he hoped other horses still in a condition to follow, but they were all pastured at the oasis. The gods had frowned on him and his ragged band, as during the night the wind rose erasing any trace of their departure from the sands.


    Moot really, as Bennett knew where the escapees would head, Renard would lead them to his home. Perhaps if they gave chase they could run them down. They were on foot and weak and hungry after all.


    Exasperated Bennett knew to follow would be of little use. All the men in the camp were in no condition to pursue, and Lissa¡¯s part in the escape was never suspected. Bennett had lost his bargaining chip, and he had to concede this time he had lost.

 Triumph, Loss, and Hatred

    The verdant green shoots were the most wonderful thing to appear before Stephan¡¯s eyes. He bent downward, leaning heavily on his staff, and brushed his hand across the velveteen field. The emerging new grains were soft as they bent under his gentle caress, only to rise again like a regiment of green soldiers, and the elderly man smiled with deep satisfaction.


    ¡°Thank you Lord, thank you for healing the land, and bringing us your grace.¡±


    He rose and cast about him, truly there was much to be grateful for. He meandered down the side of the field, smiling and waving to his neighbors. The sickness will pass, the earth will mend, and God will provide. For the first time in many months, Stephan felt optimism and true hope.


    The apple orchard lie dormant. The skeletal trees branches almost interlocking, down the well-ordered rows. The elderly man examined the branches carefully. Swollen buds, a hint of life. Order would return anew. Humans had not killed the world. Life was good and Stephan was grateful, he leaned on his cane and took a long look at the beautiful land he had the fortune to call home.


    ¡°Sir, Sir!¡± came a voice far to his periphery.


    He turned to see John his assistant, waving his straw hat to draw his attention at the end of the orchard row. It appeared as though he had been running and was somewhat winded.


    ¡°You are wanted Sir, back at the house, there are visitors from the wastes.¡±


    The white-haired leader was somewhat taken aback by the announcement, perhaps he had misheard. His hearing was not as good as it had once been. Cane in hand he turned to make his way down the orchard rows back towards his home.


    As he entered the arbor that nestled close to his front door, he could see the fine green traces of the first swelling grape buds and he smiled. Yes, life was good, now to see what all this fuss was about?


    There was an excited crowd already assembled in the parlor, guardsmen, farmhands, craftsmen, and servants. All pressing about the three ragged men who had arrived from the outside. The elderly leader pushed forward, his stick tapping a staccato on the terracotta tiles. The three visitors sat, they almost looked bewildered, the dust of days on them and their faces a mask of hungry and thirsty desperation. They were clad in rags and undernourished. As Stephan entered, their haunted eyes looked to him, one of the men stood, and through the grime and the dust recognition dawned.


    ¡°Son!¡± was all the elderly man said, the two men embraced as silent tears flowed.


    Anna who had just entered joined the embrace, the little family held one another for long moments.


    ¡°Oh my son, we had but given you up for dead.¡±


    Stephan took a step back from his son to gaze upon his gaunt form. Anna was weeping with joy, clutching at her husband''s sleeve for support. Stephan was almost overcome by emotion, he had hoped fervently for this moment, yet he felt it may never come. With effort, he then spoke to his people.


    ¡°Everyone please, these men need rest. There will be time for their story after they have rested and eaten.¡±


    The elderly man waved the onlookers away, urging the household staff to make provision for the new arrivals and to send for the physician.


    *****


    Renard had slept only a few hours, but at the next rising of the sun, he was already awake, driven by the anxious desire to impart his terrible news to his parents. It felt good to wear clean garments again, the rigors of his captivity and the desperate march across the desert to reach home had taken a stark toll on his body. He looked into the tall standing floor mirror as he buttoned up his shirt. He hardly knew the man he saw there, gaunt, with dark shadows under his eyes. His old clothes were ill-fitting and hung on his frame shapeless. However, he was home, though in many ways this would not be a happy homecoming.


    The kitchen was warm, almost overly so, with the ever-burning cast iron stove that dominated the space, and delicious scents of breakfast food permeated his nostrils. Bacon, eggs, and freshly baked bread. This was a pleasantness he had always remembered even in his darkest moments, and to be here today felt comforting.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± he said greeting the kitchen staff as he passed them by, they smiled at him and replied with friendly greetings of their own.


    Through the kitchen and into the large vaulted dining hall Renard went, and as he had guessed his Father and Mother were both seated at the highly polished table. On his entrance, they both stood. His mother embraced him for long moments. Renard noted his father¡¯s difficulty rising from his place at the table, and his increasing reliance on his cane for support. It hurt and frightened him to see his parents aging, and even worse to return with such terrible news.


    "Sit, please Sit¡±, he said to his father, the three of them taking their places at the end of the very long table.


    A breakfast spread was brought and laid before the trio. Oatmeal with honey, ham, bacon, and eggs, and perfectly browned toast with butter.


    ¡°You must tell us all that has happened.¡±


    Renard nodded at his Father¡¯s words. He hardly knew where to begin. So he started slowly, revealing the easy stuff, working his way toward what he really meant to impart.


    ¡°The two men who arrived with me are my companions Carlos and Darius. I take it they are still resting and the physician said they were well?¡± He took a sip of the rich full cream milk in the brown, glazed, pottery mug before him, it tasted divine after life without.


    Stephan nodded in affirmation, his dark eyes never leaving his son''s haggard countenance.


    ¡°We were all held captive, the conditons were bad. Carlos has been captive for a very long time, some years, Darius was recently taken in a raid.¡± Renard continued.


    ¡°At the fort?¡± Stephan questioned.


    ¡°No Father, in the mercenaries settlement to the north. Unfortunately the double cross we enacted didn¡¯t quite go to plan, Bennett and a core of his followers survived, but they were much depleted.¡±


    Stephan issued forth a troubled sigh. ¡°Do you think they will now move to attack us also?¡±


    Renard shook his head, ¡°I cannot say for certain, but Bennett had enough troubles of his own, there was after the defeat lots of infighting, and they number now very few.¡±


    ¡°Well that is something at least we should be thankful for. So then my boy how did you escape?¡±


    ¡°If it was not for the brave actions of Lissa¡­¡±


    ¡°Lissa Bateman? Arnold''s daughter?¡± His mother interjected.


    ¡°Yes Mother, she still lives. She laced the men''s food allowing us to escape, I don¡¯t know how she did it, but we all owe our lives to her.¡±


    ¡°So she is still there, with the savages?


    Renard nodded, his face a mask of calm that he did not feel.¡±


    ¡°What about the other girls?¡± Stephan asked.


    Renard shifted uneasily in his tall backed chair, wanting to skirt the worst of the news he knew he must soon share. Bravely he continued, taking another gulp of milk to fuel his resolve.


    ¡°Kate and Sarah are gravely ill, I fear they have little time if they do not get medical care very soon.¡±


    Anna put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of horror but did not speak. The repast that sat before them was untouched, going cold.


    Stephan sighed in frustration, lifting his head to lock eyes with his son. ¡°And your sister?¡±


    There it had been said, and he must reply. Yet he had not the words. Renard shifted in his chair and looked away from his father¡¯s probing stare, averting his gaze to the tabletop. The action gave him the resolve to vocalize the terrible news he must impart. How to tell them, he again fumbled beginning to speak woodenly.


    ¡°Frances...she...¡± He choked on the sentence. ¡°I failed.¡± His voice quavered. ¡°I... I¡­¡±


    Uncharacteristically he was crying, he tried to regain his composure, wiping the wet tears away with his shirtsleeve. There was a rustle of a long dress from somewhere behind them, and a servant who had walked in on the intensely personal moment, embarrassed at the intrusion, had turned to exit the room hurriedly.


    Renard put his hands over his face, his mother had risen and was comforting her son.


    ¡°It¡¯s all right Son,¡± she said quietly, holding him as he vented his anguish. ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell us more, we understand.¡±


    Stephan did not wish to cause his son any more undue grief, they could speak again later when he felt more composed. Renard¡¯s response had told him all he needed to know.


    *****


    Carlos woke and stretched his lean frame on the bed lazily like a big cat. He looked about the rustic surroundings for a long while. The knotted wood on the ceilings, the hanging lights burdened with rings of homemade, white candles. This cozy room was built into the side of the home, it was long and completely lined in wood, and to one side many rectangular windows ran with a wide view of the fields and orchards beyond. It was peaceful here.


    There was a wood heater on the opposite wall, and the fire danced behind the mica glass, giving off a pleasant warmth. He was shocked a little that he had not even registered the servant''s intrusion to fuel it as he had slept. Years of wakefulness and watchful care had been his lot, he was surprised he had let go so quickly.


    He was undecided if the bed was comfortable or not, he was very unused to sleeping in this fashion. Perhaps it was too soft he thought, his body sinking down further into the mattress made of straw and feathers. He again put off the inevitable rising. Pulling the blankets up over his head, and closed his eyes to think.


    To his keen ears honed by the need for constant preparedness, the sounds of the house carried. Pots being placed on the stove, the murmur of voices speaking of everyday things. A dog barked, not the sound of warning of an intruder, but of playfulness. Could he exist in this ordered world? Even his distant upbringing had been more chaotic than this, the crime, the drugs, the streets.


    After years in captivity, he was unsure just what he would do now he had found his freedom, but as he again pulled back the covers and looked outside he knew this would not be it. He could no more see himself as a farmer, or belonging to this pathetic little militia than he could being shackled to a cruel master.


    Though he would be fed and physically very comfortable in this community; this was just slavery to him of a different nature. Chained by the seasons and the expectations of others. Those who had never suffered what he had lived through.


    Carlos had seen much and knew he could never settle here. He would rest a while, restore his strength, and then he would inform the others he planned to leave, he intended to go south. There had to be something of worth there after all the passing years. Perhaps he could join a private army in one of the reforming cities, or join a larger more powerful band of men who would accept him for his prowess?


    *****


    Gareth, Dwayne, and Jormugar had traveled the best part of three weeks and sighted not a soul. The northern regions had become a place of desertion, first the extreme heat, then the cold, contorting and withering all but the hardiest of life. The return pace had been slower than Gareth had wished, but it was apparent that the horses were becoming exhausted. All the warheads must reach the valley. So they had rested more, and walked slower, skirting about the worst terrain to spare the flagging animals.


    Dwayne had not been his carefree self since he had witnessed the terrible, invisible death claim Warren. It was not that he felt any pity for the man, he was after all only a slave, and weak besides. The clan had always carried him. Weak reeds like Warren perished all the time. No, it was not that, Dwayne had to confess he feared what they transported in a way he had not feared anything since he was a child.


    He constantly walked ahead of the canisters, scouting the terrain up front. Those last few tortured moments of Warren¡¯s life were indelibly etched into his mind, they replayed like a bad film reel. Dwayne could not clear the vision from his mind. Those events had even begun to morph into terrible dreams. Ones he woke from with a start. Dwayne wanted to be nowhere near these weapons of insidious death. Ruing the day they had been found.


    The lithe young man had gone quite far ahead. He paused to stand quietly at the crest of the dune, leaning on the arch of his bow. The day was patchy sunlight. The desert vista before him was startling in its savage beauty. The varied textures of sand and rock, the colors, bright where the sunlight strafed, brooding where the shadows hung. He could see for miles, across the tops of the dunes, even to his simple mind this was breathtaking. He looked down in avoidance of the thorny box bush, the plants reminded him of portrayals of Jesus¡¯s crown of thorns. The vaguest hint of vibrant green. Dwayne peered closer to see small waxy leaves emerging, he smiled away his troubled thoughts, this indeed was a good sign.


    *****


    That evening they had finally reached the oasis. The plant life there had made a great recovery in a short span of time. There were still healthy cattle and horses milling about the pond taking an evening drink. Dwayne shot one of the smaller bovines for dinner and spent the remainder of the daylight dressing the beast. It was a deliberate move on his behalf, as he wanted nothing to do with handling those warheads.


    The tired horses were unloaded very carefully by Jormugar and Gareth and released to hopefully recuperate. They would take fresh pack animals tomorrow, perhaps a cow or two if things were looking fortuitous.


    The beef was very welcome, a young animal, and a choice cut. Jormugar tore at the rare, succulent flesh hungrily. Things were going well despite his recent slip-up. He still sometimes felt twinges of lingering illness, he was most unsure why, but just as soon as the mysterious biliousness would arrive it departed, or Jormugar got busy and he ignored it. The bounty hunter and slave spotter reasoned this was all just a short fall sideways, and possibly hardly a fall at all. Though he regretted the loss of his dog greatly. It seemed he was fitting in nicely, though he hadn¡¯t built enough trust yet to be returned his weapons, he had been treated well and as an equal in all other matters.


    ¡°We probably won¡¯t get there tomorrow, but definitely the day after.¡± Gareth announced, chewing a mouth full of food as he looked at Jormugar levelly through the haze of the hot burning fire.


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    Jormugar nodded and took some more meat. He was already thinking of money. Once he could grasp the position of this war band, and view its strengths or weaknesses he would slip away. He was sure Master Jacques would be very pleased with his latest reconnaissance to the north. Though initially a loss, perhaps his misfortune could be greatly redeemed?


    Dwayne was quiet. He filled his belly and lay down. It would be good to be home again, and good to rally the clan with their victory, but at what price?


    The hardened Gareth was jubilant. Just two easy days from home. He had done what his leader had asked and returned with the fabled spoils. Life would continue to get better for him, he was headed upward, and he could feel it. His slave girl would taste sweet, as would his newly cemented rank in the clan.


    *****


    Though the weather had turned and it was less bitter than it had been. Bennett''s dwindling clan had not placed a man up top on steady watch for some weeks. No human life had been detected in the vicinity of the valley for a very long time. Mostly the threat that had dogged the men had dissipated. The archer had only been one woman, and surely she had been captured and met a well-deserved demise?


    The hour was still fairly early, and most of the men free of duties chose to sleep the cool mornings out. Preferring to stay up late into the night to tell stories and drink by the fire until almost dawn. Will, however, had been up and about early feeling restless at the lack of a woman in his furs. All the good females were taken. He had gone for a brief walk about the valley basin and noted movement at the head of the valley path. A single man making an agile descent. He put his hand up to his eyes and strained better to see. The familiar black mop of hair, white of bone adornments. It was Dwayne. Will was torn, he longed to approach the returning man and learn the news first. Yet he felt a duty to report the return to his superior. Duty prevailing he turned to seek Bennett, who he found still in his furs, his captive sleeping beside him.


    ¡°Dwayne is returned.¡± Will relayed quietly to Bennett''s keen interest.


    The big man at once dragged himself from his warm repose and pulled on his heavy hide jacket, the metal on it made an almost musical sound. The others had overheard Will¡¯s announcement. The warriors along with Nathan, and the other slaves who had the freedom to wander behind at a respectful distance assembled to await Dwayne''s news.


    Bennett stood tall out front of his people, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his faded and scratched leathers, a black and metal-clad pillar of strength. Scintillant ice chip eyes never left Dwayne¡¯s advancing form. Though jubilant Dwayne cowered before his leader, head lowered. He had always been afraid of this man and with good reason. He wished Gareth would have chosen to present the initial report, however better this than to wait topside with the frightening payloads.


    ¡°We have had success Sir.¡± Dwayne spoke to the scuffed toes of his leader¡¯s boots, his posture one of careful humility. ¡°We located the silo, and we have secured some of its weapons. There are many more should we wish to return, hundreds!¡± Dwayne trembled as he witnessed the look of cruel triumph cross his leader¡¯s square-jawed visage. The other warriors muttered excitedly in the background.


    ¡°This is very good news,¡± Bennett said more to himself than anyone about him in the expectant throng.


    ¡°We managed to transport eight of the heavy armaments Sir. We thought it best if I report, and then you can decide how we store and secure them Sir?¡±


    ¡°Good. I wish to hear all of this discovery. I will have the strongest men go topside and we will bring them down. Bennett looked behind him to his warriors and pointed his black-gloved fingers to Sven first predictably, and then at Will. The rest of his tribe were not deemed fit, nor trustworthy enough to transport the valuable prizes.


    Lucy stood quietly to one side of the excited gathering, fly away, mousy brown hair carried aloft by the breeze that often blew from the head of the valley. The woman¡¯s exterior was one of calmness, however inside she was in churning turmoil. So much so that she felt sick. The middle-aged woman was hearing and seeing the returned man before her, and yet it was as though she were distant, trapped in some kind of a bubble. Unable to act out nor ask the one question that was burning to be uttered.


    Today her fears would be answered, she knew that. She kept gazing up toward the head of the narrow pathway longing to see her love again. Fingers calloused from hard work, torn nails rubbing her bottom lip as she nervously peered into the distance. She shook her mousy mane, now interspersed with the occasional shot of gray, and semi-smiled to no one but herself. Lucy had been so very sure Warren had just told stories, but today here was the proof that what her beloved had claimed was very real. Lucy¡¯s heart swelled with pride. Warren, the savior to the clan, she could hardly believe it.


    Sven started up the path, unsure what to make of it all. Was this a boon to the clan? Perhaps this discovery would assuage at least for the time the bitter divisions and the discontentment that had plagued them all. If his leader was more content would his own family feel safer, and his own position in the tribe be less precarious? He sincerely hoped so.


    Having a family weighed on Sven heavily, balancing the responsibility to his son, and the men he fought alongside hadn''t been easy these last few months. He often felt endangered. He had longed to walk away from these constraints, but his family obligations had held him in check. The wastes were no place for a woman and a child.


    As the heavyset warrior crested the rise just ahead of Bennett and Will with Dwayne trailing in the rear. He was met with the familiar acne-scarred face of Gareth who leered at him triumphantly. Four fidgeting horses, a red bullock tied by the horns to one of the pack animals, presumably brought for slaughter, and a vital, dark-eyed young man he had never sighted before. Who appeared to be unarmed.


    Gareth ignored Sven, he was after all deposed and of little consequence to proceedings. Immediately presenting himself before Bennett. Sven halfheartedly listened to the men exchange accounts of the mission. He wandered over to look at the cylindrical canisters more closely. His usually firm constitution did flip flops as he ran his fingers over the numbers printed on the grayish-green metal housings. ¡®D696¡¯ He had not forgotten. He had expected the trip north to be entirely fruitless, at best the recovery of projectiles, explosive materials, but not this, no.


    ¡°This is Jormugar, we found him at the site. He claims he is a bounty hunter?¡±


    Bennett eyed the young man through a suspicious, slitted gaze. Jormugar having the good sense to avert all direct eye contact and incline his shaggy head. He knew how powerful and ego-filled men like Master Jacques liked to be treated, and employed it today to his advantage.


    ¡°I see,¡± Bennett responded.


    He took his leather-gloved hand and forced the young man¡¯s clear chocolate gaze to look at his ice one. Mixed feelings arose in that initial eye contact as the hardened leader felt the man though young seemed to hold little fear. If he messes up he will learn it, Bennett thought as he searched the man''s face for any traces of dissidence. He found he could read very little of any emotion there.


    ¡°Well here unless I say otherwise you will attain the rank of one just above slave. If you prove yourself, you will achieve warrior status, if not slavery will be your lot. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°I do Sir,¡± Jormugar replied humbly.


    ¡°Good.¡±Bennett then turned his attention to the warheads.


    ¡°So what are they? Bennett''s gloved palms were already exploring the smooth gray armaments with meticulous care.


    ¡°It was difficult to ascertain what was in them Sir.¡± Gareth scratched at his chin with his thumb while imparting what he knew.


    Bennett nodded. ¡°I see the weakling didn''t return?¡±


    ¡°He died Sir.¡±


    Bennett noted the uneasy look on Dwayne¡¯s face at the curt announcement of Warren¡¯s passing. Good leaders missed no uneasiness in their men.


    ¡°We wished to be doubly sure of what the missiles contained before transferring them here understandably. So we tested them by shooting at one in an open quarry.¡±


    Sven looked across at the men ashen faced. None paid him any mind. He was little more these days but a beast of burden himself.


    ¡°So what did you discover?¡± Bennett prodded.


    ¡°It was not pretty Sir. It didn¡¯t explode like we imagined. The thing just sat there. We thought that it may have been a dud, because I knew I had hit it when I fired. So we sent Warren to investigate, and in seconds he was coughing and vomiting and squirming on the ground. He was dead Sir in a few moments beyond that, his skin and eyes looked all burned, and ulcerated. Whatever it was it was totally invisible, we couldn''t smell it, see it, nothing.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Sarin gas.¡± Sven spoke up. He was standing defensively arms crossed, back to the slate gray missiles, that lay nestled in a web of rope-work tied to the back of the nearest beast. The creature hung its head tired beneath the deadly burden.


    A smile bordering on lunacy lit Bennett''s face. Sven had to work hard to control his disgust. This was for Sven the veritable straw to break the camel¡¯s back. Madness spiraling out of control. Nerve agents, colorless, odorless, and deadly, right here on his doorstep. If he was meek over this he would be endangering his family, and if he was vocal? He may be as well. However, he could not let this pass. No one else there seemed to understand, so he steeled himself and spoke up.


    ¡°This is madness, Sir. These warheads are old, quite possibly unstable. If one of these leaks the gas will go to the lowest point and stay there. It¡¯s odorless and colorless and kills in moments. You two saw what it was capable of.¡± Sven turned to entreat Gareth and Dwayne.


    Gareth merely shrugged his tattooed shoulders, he seemed too stupid to care, and perhaps he was, but Dwayne looked to the sand with unease.


    ¡°We can¡¯t keep this stuff here, if it got loose in the valley it would most likely kill us all!¡± Sven was far from calm now, and all the men turned to look at him. Some with thinly veiled disdain, others in worry.


    ¡°These will be our salvation,¡± Bennett patted the canister so roughly that it made a hollow sound. It was obvious their bold leader had little fear of their contents or the stability of them. Sven was not so naive, he was no stranger to the sweeping and nonselective death wrought by such weapons, and the specter of it playing out right here sickened him to his stomach.


    ¡°You cannot store them down there Sir. For the love of G¡­¡±


    ¡°You dumb clod.¡± Bennett admonished, striking the heavyset man on the jaw with his fist. Sven took the blow and did not move. ¡°They are too valuable to leave here. With these don''t you understand, this is our way out! The Wolf Lord will bow to us, we can take his city. We can hold the farmlands to the southeast hostage. They will pay us homage in food and fuel and we will never want again.¡±


    The majority of the men were nodding in agreement, not comprehending their peril. Though Sven could see that Dwayne clearly, was not with the general jubilant consensus.


    ¡°Either we die here slowly of attrition as we have, or we take the risk. I damn well know which alternative I prefer.¡± Bennett snarled. ¡°Take those bombs carefully, and put them in the empty shipping container. I want them under lock and key.¡± Bennett commanded. ¡°I won¡¯t hear anymore from you.¡± He pressed a gloved finger hard into Sven¡¯s chest. The blond man''s solidarity gave way very little beneath the threatening pointer.


    ¡°A locked shipping container won¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°One more word...¡± Bennett hissed, his hand straying now to the butt of his holstered revolver. Sven wanted to scream. He fought with all his effort to control his feelings and his mouth. He could not be part of this, yet he could not rightly walk away. ¡°Pick that shit up and put them where you are told.¡±


    Sven paused and looked at the black-clad man defiantly. Gray eyes simmering with fury, lips drawn in a hard line. This was as close as he could afford to walk the path of defiance with Bennett he knew, any further hostilities would most likely see him perfunctorily shot. He had lost, at least for today. He hoped there would indeed be a tomorrow in this madness.


    The warheads were stowed in the empty shipping container without incident. Expectantly Lucy had watched from the sidelines, as the men and their array of deadly prizes were ferried past her. On Dwayne''s arrival, she had longed to rush to the crest of the high valley, along with the designated men. Often in the heat of the moment, she forgot her place but was mercifully ignored because she was a woman.


    Today though she held back, her tired eyes strained upward looking for a man she failed to see. She attempted to catch the gaze of Gareth, seeking her answers. He completely ignored her, as too did the young lithe stranger she had never sighted before. She pressed forward toward Dwayne, he did catch her gaze and nodded in silence a stoic ¡®no¡¯ to her mutely voiced question.


    Lucy stopped mid-stride, shoulders hunched. She turned to watch the men pass, arms dangling uselessly at her sides. Torn and threadbare skirt rustled by the cool wind. Gazing long on their backs as the men toiled to secure the hard-won prizes. A bounty her beloved had died to secure, to give them all a brighter future. Slowly she sunk to the dusty earth, hands covering her face. He was gone her beloved Warren, gone evermore.


    Maya had watched Lucy sink into the dust in a silent display of bereavement. However, she did not go forward to offer her sympathies as Raissa did. Fear struck the girl''s heart rendering her all but frozen, she dearly desired not to be noticed. Though she knew she would be later, it was unavoidable. The man she despised had returned, looking to the young woman more unappealing than ever. Why could it have not been Gareth sent to die? Maya thought in a flash of hateful spite, something that had recently manifested inside her like black vitriol. She could not bear another slap from his hands or him to touch her carnally again. The thought of what she could not evade drove her into a wretched desolation.


    *****


    A man has needs, and Gareth¡¯s needs were pressing. He did as was expected of him, though he was tired and somewhat distracted, seating himself by the fireside, speaking at great length to the others of the recent reconnaissance. There was much to relay. Clearly basking in his leader''s approval, which was a very rare blessing to be bestowed on any man.


    However, he had only one thing on his mind. His furs and the prized woman he wished to share them with. Maya had dreaded this moment but could not foresee a way to avoid it. Running away seemed the only alternative that provided avoidance, and that seemed rather drastic.


    Gareth''s calloused and dirty hands were greedily caressing the sides of Maya¡¯s face, devouring her youth and unspoiled prettiness. He had thought of her much during the time spent away.


    ¡°You¡¯re not nervous? He inquired in a cracked-toothed smile that did little to enhance his handsomeness. The girl shook her head. ¡°Then my sweet, you must be cold?¡± Moving to situate her in his furs. He would tolerate her games for only so long...


    No... Maya again shook her head in lieu of an answer.


    ¡°You¡¯re trembling.¡± The harsh man countered, sliding his index finger slowly down Maya¡¯s spine from the nape of her neck, barely touching flesh at all, lower and lower, all the way to the crease of her derriere. The girl¡¯s breath caught in her throat, and goosebumps rose up all over her exposed flesh.


    ¡°Why are you trembling, then, little one?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know.¡± Maya said in a timorous, almost whisper.


    ¡°Yes you do.¡± Gareth rasped, breath warm against Maya¡¯s ear and the side of her face. A rough pinch in passing to one of those upstanding nipples. Maya squealed and tried to evade him.


    Predictably Gareth was unmoved. ¡°Okay. So¡­let¡¯s talk about us then, shall we? Why do you fight my wishes, Maya? Why can you not be a good little girl and just...?¡±


    Maya bit her lip and leaned away from him, as he tried to kiss her.


    ¡°You do know.¡± He said quietly. ¡°Don¡¯t lie to me.¡± Maya involuntarily flinched as she felt his stubble brush her shoulder.¡°Now. Tell me why do you defy me, avoid me, shrug me off, sidestep my wishes?¡±


    Why? Maya could not confess. It was not a tangible dissidence. Her mind reeled. Why do I fight? Say it...But she didn¡¯t¡­She couldn¡¯t¡­and the seconds ticked by.


    The pretty woman knew Gareth would lose his cool and strike her shortly. She wanted to answer, turning her head blindly right and left, as if seeking but finding naught. She had to answer, quickly. Maya¡¯s mind shouted. Say SOMETHING! Anything! Maya¡¯s lips moved for a moment, but no sound came out. ¡°Because¡­I want¡­I want¡­¡±She didn''t rightly know what she wanted. Too late...


    A sharp pain in her cheek, redness, and heat spreading. The sensation was most unwelcome to the bewildered girl. Maya gasped and held her face, brutally aware the others by the fire were mostly watching amused. There was little privacy here from the many eyes of the clan.


    Blood was in her mouth. Gareth said something, but Maya didn¡¯t hear it all. What she heard was ¡°¡­ I don''t understand you.¡±


    Tears sprang to Maya¡¯s eyes, this man was not the golden Aran, the one she adored. The one they had sent away. She hated him.


    Gareth undaunted said her name calmly, quietly, again, Maya didn¡¯t hear him. He said it louder as if his pretty captive were an idiot who couldn¡¯t understand, which did result in her turning her face in the general direction his voice emanated.¡°Are you frightened?¡± He asked. Maya shook her head no. She lied.


    Gareth never a patient soul, grabbed his prize by a fistful of moon-touched hair, pushing her beneath him. He would have that which was his right. Lithe Maya tried to roll over and squirm away, attempting to push herself upright, but Gareth¡¯s solid hand lobbed squarely in the small of the woman¡¯s back, pushing his prey roughly to the ground again.


    The men by the fire smirked at the antics of the foolhardy lass as she played her losing hand. Raissa collected her son and made herself scarce. Lucy may appreciate her company tonight anyway, she was very uncomfortable watching these episodes of violence and sought to avoid them as much as possible. She had learned long ago it was far easier to let men take what they wanted. It hurt less if you were willing, Maya would learn it in time just as she had.


    This time Maya could tell Gareth was angry, his superior weight thwarted her flight. He pressed himself against her lower body and slid his heavy physique along her slight form. Thwarting her kicks by pinning her legs beneath him and holding both of them with his thigh. Then he grabbed one of Maya¡¯s wildly flailing arms and pressed it behind her back with a practiced expertise; pinning it beneath his chest, while he secured her remaining hand. Then using one hand to pin both of her wrists together tightly behind her back.


    Maya shook her shoulders right and left as she struggled. However, Gareth was so heavy she found her fight was all but exhausted in a few shrugs. He pulled her arms back sharply. The pain caused Maya to immediately cease all movement as her shoulder sockets were on fire. The struggle had left the girl exhausted and out of breath.


    ¡°Where exactly did you think you were going to run to anyway?¡± Gareth''s laughter was cruel.


    *****


    Jormugar gazed casually about him at the knot of humanity this valley housed, espresso gaze assessing beneath dark lashes. He was only thinking about profit. It was easy and somewhat satisfying to sit back and appraise his latest mark with leisure. None presumed him any threat. A captured, weaponless man who seemed very compliant.


    There were many able-bodied men here, strong backs, possible pit fighters too, his employer would be pleased. However, best of all there were women, three very good specimens most certainly, one with an infant, living children were a rarity these days, and any woman that could conceive would bring a very high price. There were also other women of lesser value, though they seemed worn and ill. Possibly redeemable though if given better food and conditions.


    The slaver made mental notes as he desired to impart all to Master Jacques. Jormugar had been close to this valley many times in his frequent travels north, yet this deep and sheltered cleft had completely hidden its secrets from him. That was until now. His dark eyes scanned all there was of value, on the surface it did not seem much. However, to a human trafficker, it was a goldmine.


    Later he would slip away, grab a horse, and leave. He didn''t wish to get involved intimately with anyone here. Forming attachments with one¡¯s quarry was a serious impediment to his profession and he must not let it happen. This seemingly small slip-up was looking to be a positive boon.

 The Benevolent Hand

    Stephan did not know what to feel at the latest news to confront him. This time it was not that of a bad crop, or the actions of George Hanson or one of his cronies. In recent days a citizen on a routine hunt had discovered to the south, traces of what appeared to be a recently vacated human habitation of many individuals.


    The elderly leader never had any reason to suspect that others lived so closely by, and he pondered the idea if they would be a threat, or perhaps a boon to this settlement? So many people living in close proximity in caves, and it appeared by the report they lived rough. He feared a raid, for desperation made great enemies. They hardly needed to be attacked by two separate forces. So it was decided that they would put more energy into exploring the southern wastes inhospitable that they were.


    Stephan detested the specter of war, he had done everything in his power to avoid it, and still, it came for him and those he loved. However, some things were one''s destiny, and there was little to do but shrug and continue on.


    After a short discussion the evening prior, it had been agreed that the elderly leader would go on a reconnaissance with some of his men, and see these caves for himself. He rarely traveled these days. Renard had tried to convince his frail father that he should go in his stead, but Stephan would not hear of it. He wanted his son to remain home in case of an attack. Spring was here, and soon Lothar would strike, of that he was sure. He would feel much better with his son at his side if this was to occur. He was thankful to God every day that he had come home.


    *****


    Stephan felt tired. A weariness and a gray lassitude that these days crowded his vision, and usually acute mind was upon him. Regardless of the many reasons his aging body may have had to dissuade him from this scouting trip, he refused to let them get in the way, as he sat on his old and trusted horse. He moved as swiftly as he could, not wishing to slow the pace of his men down. Though the rigors of a very physical day on horseback were already taking a toll on the elderly man. He found himself aching and clutching the animal''s mane by midday for support.


    Carefully he and his column of men located and inspected the cave that the hunter had wished to bring to Stephan¡¯s attention. Crude remnants of domesticity remained. Broken sticks, a shattered clay platter, some strips of soiled fabric, and many bones of butchered meals. The mandatory circle of stones garnered with ashes gone cold, and coals scattered from the long-dead fire.


    Stephan leaned on his cane gazing into the dark recess, that ran deep beneath the cliffs. ¡°It would appear they left some time ago? It would have been a job to keep warm here, there is little to burn.¡±


    ¡°Looks that way.¡± Dale nodded, casting about.


    ¡°These were indeed an impoverished people. Life must have been hard here.¡± Stephan ruminated out loud. ¡°So why did they leave, and more importantly where did they go?¡±


    ¡°My guess is they ran out of water, and game, maybe with the turn of the weather they decided they should seek someplace better to live.¡± The hunter named Peter offered. He was a young man with sandy brown hair and a quick manner about him.


    ¡°Hum, yes, you are possibly right, how many do you think lived here?¡± Stephan questioned, shifting his weight on tired feet.


    ¡°It would seem there were quite a few individuals Sir. Maybe as many as fifty.¡± Dale offered.


    There was much disturbance here presumably made by many feet over quite a prolonged period. Stephan had not meant to sigh but the sound escaped him nonetheless. Sometimes no matter his best efforts old age was hard to mask. The men did not miss the troubled gesture.


    ¡°I believe we should make every attempt to find these people. At least establish if they are friend or foe.¡± The old leader finally suggested.


    ¡°Indeed we should Sir.¡± Dale answered, and the group began to scour the immediate area intently. The last thing they wanted was to be ambushed.


    *****


    The shadows were beginning to lengthen and the closing in of the evening was somewhat cool. Stephan had given ground to his aging body and had let the main force scout ahead. They would be more efficient without the limitations of an old man such as himself. Dale had remained by him, and the two men had waited out much of the afternoon in pleasant conversation in the warm sun, leaning against the rock.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Stephan reminded himself that even if he felt very ancient and at times fragile, moments like these must be remembered and enjoyed. He lived for his people, and hoped he would have enough time to secure his vision of a good abundant world and a sustainable life that was safe.


    The elderly man had almost fallen asleep, or to be more precise a kind of a wakeful slumber. Stephan had found he often did this in recent months as he awaited messengers in his library, or sat up very late reading, and was startled as his men came into view escorting two strangers. One short, and very dark, the other tall and lean with a shock of white hair tied back from his pointed face by a short braid. The elderly man pulled himself up on his staff so that he could greet those that approached with some courtesy. Dale stood close by his right shoulder.


    It appeared at once to both the waiting men there was no tension in the returning party. This was a paramount relief, the old man hated conflict and strove to avoid it at every opportunity.


    Stephan''s eyes strayed to the very short but enigmatic man who strode toward him. All bristling black beard and gold adornment. The man did not pause but walked boldly up to Stephan, putting his heavy hand into Stephan''s own and delivering a crushing handshake, which made the elderly man''s rheumatic joints howl with pain. The stranger may have been short, but he was uncannily strong.


    ¡°Bryn Frazer, and my second in command Tobias.¡± He gestured toward his slender accomplice with a flourish. Tobias inclined his head and smiled. ¡°It¡¯s nice to finally meet someone out here that ain''t hostile.¡± The smile that lit his ruddy face seemed most genuine.


    Stephan returned the grin as he replied with his own warm greeting, finding he had to bow a little more than usual in the presence of this dwarven statured man. ¡°I am Stephan, please sit and tell me all about yourself...¡±


    The elderly leader¡¯s fears were soon allayed. There would be no attack, just the discovery of a band of wandering people in desperate need of help. They too had fallen prey to Stephan''s enemy the Wolf Lord to the southwest. Displaced by one of his senseless, sweeping military campaigns. Lack of food and the lifting of the most severe cold had caused the thirty-eight remaining refugees to leave the caves they had called home this past frozen winter. Stephan extended his welcome to Bryn''s ragged clan, and Bryn duly accepted with grace.


    *****


    After spending an uneventful couple of days with Bennett''s clan Jormugar had slipped away from the valley with ease. He had chosen the strongest horse from the four animals that foraged above and did not even make to cover his tracks by heading in a misleading direction. The wind that was on the rise, would soon see to the complete erasure of his passing.


    The moon was full and lent the dunes an eerie light as he headed south weaponless. He hoped that his skill as a tracker would keep him distanced from all conflicts until he could reach his employer. He would have to be extremely careful. The South was no place for an almost defenseless man.


    *****


    Victor Krosse stood today in the courtyard lit by thin sunlight, silver buttons, and black polished leather gleaming, appraising the one-hundred-strong force he had assembled beneath the fast scudding clouds. The high metal walls encircled the capable well-drilled military. The men had practiced willingly and with excellence, and morale after all these long months of uncertainty and despair was much raised.


    War was a good motivator, and Victor had tirelessly preached the rhetoric. One hundred well-trained and armed men at his disposal. This time Victor was sure that Stephan would be forced to surrender once confronted by The Wolf Lord¡¯s military might.


    This standing army was quite the achievement after all the recent difficulties to beset the fortress. Victor had worked exhaustively on many fronts to make this happen, and had in the last year even managed to replace some of the fallen knights from the light cavalry ranks. Lothars¡¯ force would never again be blessed with so many heavily armored horsemen, but at least this time there would be a sufficient number to wage a successful attack.


    He strode down the ranks of the sharp and attentive men, all dressed in black as he was. Shining leather Jackboots striking the hard ground. He smiled at Captain Greyson and Major Hawkins. This show of emotion was a rare gesture from Victor. He rarely let anyone know what he was feeling, and even less what he was thinking. However today he was proud of all his hard work.


    It was much trouble but this afternoon Lord Lothar had been brought from his subterranean living quarters to witness the product of his second-in-command''s zeal. He sat in his wheelchair in full military dress to inspect his men. An assistant pushed his chair before the ranks of his force, who stood at attention as he passed them by. He seemed pleased, at least as pleased as a dour man like Lothar could be.


    ¡°They look ready,¡± Lothar said almost enthusiastically, as his wheelchair reached the end of the line, to approach where Victor was standing.


    ¡°Yes they can march at any time on your order Sir,¡± Victor announced as he stood straight and proudly at attention like the rest of his troops, his black, double-breasted gold buttoned uniform perfect.


    The clouds broke for a moment above the assembly yard, and a golden light cascaded onto the scene below. Illuminating the tight formation of men, alighting on the polished brass, and the shining argent of the men''s armor, resplendent, a thing of deadly beauty. Then in an instant, the heavens withdrew its holy light, muting the fine display and plunging the assembly into darkness and a wave of cold rain.

 The Johansen Woodyard

    It had been some weeks since the warrior''s induction to the chain gang. Aran had wrongly figured that being outside would have given him a clearer chance at liberty. This hope had fast faded. Today Aran stood head down, shoulders uncharacteristically hunched, though still a good half-head taller than the rest of his unfortunate gang mates.


    Yesterday he had been taken from the line and flogged. Tied to the sides of the bullock carts they had been loading down with stumps, he had been hit by a cat until the skin on his back had become slick with his own blood. He had not cried out and was bewildered as to why he had received the punishment. He was the best and strongest worker after all.


    He had no support amongst the men on the gang line, and the few times he had tried to garner any thought of escape in their minds, not one had taken him up on it. Even when he tried to reason a work crew''s lifespan was decidedly short he was met with dull-eyed lethargy. This had both frustrated and confused him, what did they have to lose? Either die trying to escape, or die like abused beasts of burden where they stood in chains. Perhaps he had been overheard, or had Dahlia on a whim merely initiated the order?


    It mattered not, only that he was more miserable today than he had ever been previously. Aran drew into himself, only concentrating on loading one shapelessly asymmetrical mallee stump at a time into the waiting high-sided cart. The day passed in suffering, Aran could feel he was falling into the mindset of a dumb beast. He had slowly watched the men about him grow weak and broken, and one by one they had been removed from the line.


    One man had even gone quite mad and had begun to consume large quantities of earth in a suicide attempt. Others in hunger greedily consumed bugs and snails. He was not there quite yet, though hunger and lack of reason gnawed with all the gusto of a gourmand. It occurred to him rudely that today none of the original men had remained, even the most sturdy had fallen and been carted away. A lesser beast would have fallen to his knees and wept.


    ¡°Is this him?¡±


    The voice of one of the labor camp guards came to Aran on the wind.


    ¡°I believe so, he fits the description she gave me.¡± The man¡¯s accent was different, he was of all things American.


    She?... Dahlia? Aran¡¯s ears honed in on the conversation taking place at quite some distance behind. The large man desired to pause from his labors and look about, but he dared not. He did not want another thrashing on top of the seeping lines that already crossed his back and burned like wildfire every time he moved. He dumbly kept at his work, whilst trying his hardest to listen. The men drew closer, they were still discussing him.


    ¡°He¡¯s pretty obedient, but yeah you need to remind him sometimes who¡¯s boss, like any slave.¡±


    ¡°I see that.¡±


    His shoulder stung as he was tapped with the butt of the cat. Aran looked about slowly at the two men, careful to not appear overtly aggressive. The guard was wearing a black bandanna over his lower face, and had on a slate gray hooded jacket, as many of the men did here who tended the chain gangs. The wind on these flat plains was mightily cold.


    The accompanying man was like a shot of gold. He was dressed in a blue, homemade wool shirt that buttoned down his strong breast, and serviceable leather overalls. He carried no visible weapons. He was very much built like Aran, large and sturdy of frame. The vision of this man was not unlike that of his father. The warrior would have gauged him to be of Nordic extraction if it were not for the alien enemy accent.


    Were the Americans not considered the enemy? Dirt to be spit on and much reviled? They had caused all this grief and suffering initially after all, at least that was what his brother had said.


    The clean-shaven, blond man had a piece of paper clasped in his hands. Presumably a bill of sale, but that was not all he had. Draped over his arm was a set of steel manacles, and a wide latigo leather collar, the outside of the item skirted in metal cable that closed in the back with a large padlock. The front of it bore a heavy steel ring.


    The guard satisfied he was selling the correct prisoner called to the other overseers who stood about the field. One by one they stood in attendance. Aran had suddenly gone from a man with no hope, to a wild animal who desperately wanted out. Though he was careful to maintain his outward placid stance of a man hopelessly reduced to obedience.


    ¡°You got to watch out. These guys get pretty desperate. Even the calm ones, all they do is think of running or killing themselves.¡± The original guardian with the bandanna across his face stated.


    ¡°Down.¡± This was the command to kneel, you did it immediately or you were struck. Aran was pushed from behind, he complied as his knees and calves sunk into the mire. He was still trying to assess his escape chances. With five men now in attendance it was not looking too auspicious.


    The blond man walked about the chained captive. The other wretches stood at rest close by, this distraction meant a small pause in their labors. ¡°Well he looks to be fairly strong and pleasant looking. The last guy I had was as ugly as sin.¡±


    ¡°Be careful he bites.¡± The hooded guard warned.


    ¡°I¡¯ll soon cure him of that.¡± The blond man stated.


    ¡°Show him your teeth!¡± The guard hit him once and Aran winced. He suppressed an angry growl with all the will he had. He opened his mouth, anything to get out of here.


    ¡°Can you count?¡± The American asked. Aran nodded in the affirmative. ¡°Do simple mathematics and measure?¡± Aran nodded again. ¡°Good, you have no idea how hard it is to find a slave that can do that these days.¡±


    The guard laughed. ¡°We have little need for that here.¡±


    The man seemed satisfied, and a hammer and rod were brought to strike the pin from Aran¡¯s steel collar. The heavy metal binding had rubbed his breastbone and prominent trapezoids raw. His ankles had fared little better, he had begun to fret he would get an infection too, and die as he had seen so many men do before him. It began with a small open scrape that suppurated into a vile open sore, then the man grew weak and died from the ensuing infection. He had yearned for sturdy work boots to protect his ankles, though they would have been a misery of their own once filled with stinking river mud and water.


    Aran thought about escaping, right there and then, but then he feared if he failed to do so and the man backed out of the sale, his torture would only continue here. He was afraid he would die in these chains. So he knelt obediently while he was removed from the line. The leather collar was placed about his bull neck. It was so wide and stiff he struggled to look down, perhaps that was the intent of the device? He was then manacled, wrists close together, fastened before him to a waist chain. His feet were also fettered. The shiny steel clasping his ankles hurt. The untended sores were becoming worse by the day.


    The man led him away. Aran shuffled in the practiced stride he had learned after his new owner. In the distance he heard the guards yelling at the wretches to resume the work. A whip cracked and Aran involuntarily shivered. Whatever lay ahead it could not be as hellish as this, as he was commanded to get into the waiting cart.


    The man was silent on the return journey to his abode, only occasionally speaking a word of encouragement to his dark cart horse as he flicked the reins on the animal''s rump to urge more speed. It was a good forty-five-minute drive to Johansen¡¯s woodyard. Aran had become very tired during the journey. The fact he had ceased his heavy labor, and the motion of the cart called him to near sleep. He struggled to stay alert.


    The rattle of the dray subsided as the horse came to a halt in the chain link compound, and Aran was almost startled as he was instructed to get down. Newfound pain stabbed at his feet as he sought to stand, he wanted to be rid of the manacles something fierce. The man caught Aran¡¯s discomfort.


    ¡°You''re hurtin arn¡¯t you?


    Aran only returned his new owner''s concern with a flat stare of suspicion.


    ¡°Too proud to admit it as well I see. Wait here.¡±


    Aran turned about to look at his surroundings, he was now on the southeastern side of the settlement. It was quiet here and a thick fog was rolling in, part low cloud and part wood smoke, muting the sounds of humanity about him. He shivered in the dampness as he waited. The Bridge appeared to be a sprawling metropolis. As far as his eyes could see to the east crouched the low shanty huts illuminated by cooking fires, and dancing candlelight, built of wood scraps and corrugated iron. This must be the industrial area and poorer side of the town.


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    The man returned. He held a pail and a cloth, but Aran had not been facing him. Instead contemplating society as it stood some feet away. Listening to the sounds of children, and people going about their lives quietly in their homes. He briefly wondered what it might be like to just be married to have a hut and some children.


    ¡°You stink slave, wash yourself off, and lose the rag.¡±


    Aran had thought perhaps he should try and escape here. It was just he and this man after all, but in the next thought decided it would wait, he was by this time feeling most unwell. He went toward the water trough but was arrested in his action by the hard voice behind him.


    ¡°You are not an animal, and I won¡¯t have you behaving like one. Come over here.¡±


    Aran turned slowly, confused at what the man wanted. He staggered and collected himself. Then stood still. The man came toward him and pulled the filthy cloth from his waist, his only covering.


    ¡°I hope you have not become a wet brain like the others.¡± He muttered as he proceeded to wash his charge with of all things warm water.


    Aran did not answer, he could barely hear the man, and the warm water felt so luxurious he dared not move. He did not want this small comfort to pass. Until that moment it had not registered what his recent experience had done to him. It frightened him some that he would prefer to stand quietly and let himself be bathed than try and escape, this was surely not him. Inside he felt great shame.


    ¡°Now there are rules here slave.¡± The man was now drying him off, pressing carefully at the weeping stripes that crossed his back. ¡°You will not touch my daughter or grandson, and you will act civil about them at all times, you hear?¡±


    Aran found the will to nod dumbly.


    ¡°You will assist me to run the wood yard, load firewood, and help me measure and cut lumber. If you behave well and serve me and my family diligently you will be rewarded with a better life. If you misbehave I will treat you strictly. Oh... and if you are thinking of running, be my guest. However there¡¯s a pretty good chance you will be rounded up and flogged and then returned to me. Trust me they all try it at least once.¡± The man chuckled as he finished drying his new property. ¡°Come inside let us tend your wounds.¡±


    His new owner''s home was simple, but inviting and warm. Aran was commanded to sit on the floor and given a ragged towel to cover himself. The environment made him feel even more weary than he had outside, his shaggy head longed to loll forward but the collar he wore restricted him. A fire blazed in the large stone hearth, there was no shortage of wood here living in a wood yard. Sturdy wooden furniture with plain lines gave serviceable utility to the space. The roof in the building was low, a boon to heating but probably a menace in summer.


    ¡°My! He¡¯s not what I expected Papa?¡± A youngish woman announced. Aran turned wearily to gaze at her. ¡°Oh, his eyes are very pretty, so green.¡±


    Aran should have felt aroused, for this woman was to his eyes visually appealing. Thick straight blond hair pulled back in a well-ordered plait, all feminine curves, and lovely blue eyes.


    ¡°At least he¡¯s more pleasing than the last man.¡± Her father commented.


    The collar was coming off, and Aran was glad to be able to move his chin forward and let his head slump on his breast. He so wanted to sleep. The man then clipped off all of Aran''s shaggy beard leaving only a short raised stubble, he was glad of it. The constant itch drove him almost to insanity. He had never understood how many men could wear such full beards even in this day and age. The pretty woman sat behind brushing out his hair. The man again set to cleaning his wounds, with more care than he had shown outside. Then applying salve with strong fingers, that looked as though he was no stranger to hard work.


    ¡°This is my daughter Imogen, and remember what I said.¡± The man pressed his fingers into Aran''s shoulder meaningfully, that the pain may serve to jog the brutes memory. In response Aran screwed up his lip in pain, baring his teeth. The young woman saw this gesture and backed a distance away, bone comb in hand. The man continued the treatment.


    Things went calmly until Aran''s new owner sought to return the collar. Aran had already decided he could not bear the confines of it again and bit the man squarely on the hand. He drew blood. He heard the man gasp in pain but surprisingly the man got up and made no move to retaliate. Though Imogen had backed away and was looking at her father somewhat afraid.


    ¡°It¡¯s all right dear, just a scratch. Let¡¯s finish treating him and get him bedded down.¡±


    Aran liked the thought of that, truly all he wanted was sleep and to be left alone. The man did not remove the irons to treat Aran''s torn ankles, but deftly worked around them. He also was more mindful of the distance between him and his fierce acquisition this time.


    After Aran had been treated, the blond man and his lovely daughter left him for some time. Aran could hear glass bottles clinking in the room beyond and it was not long before the man returned with an old jam jar filled with clear liquid. It was not water.


    ¡°This might help the pain a bit. Drink up.¡±


    Aran eyed the jar and stared back at the man suspiciously.


    ¡°It¡¯s rice wine, well more rice shine.¡± The man took a sip from the container to show goodwill. Aran slowly took the jar, he smelled the contents wrinkling his nose. Indeed it smelled like alcohol, and not the poor and suspect substances he had mostly grown used to drinking. This was real shine, he hesitated no longer and had soon drunk the jar dry.


    There were ramifications to this. On an empty stomach, coupled with severe exhaustion, the strong liquor worked very well. Even on a very large man. Aran found he had no will to stand, and he slumped forward his cheek coming to rest on the stone floor in front of the blazing hearth. He felt the man touch him and lift his head, something in his mouth sliding cold over his tongue. But he was too tired, and he didn''t much care...


    *****


    It was a rude awakening. The side of Aran¡¯s face was wet, saliva mixed with straw, he had been drooling uncontrollably. He was no longer situated inside before the hearth, that had been his last vision preceding the numbness of sleep. The wide metal bar ground against his back teeth and pulled hard at the corners of his mouth, fastened tightly with a chain that locked closed behind his neck. He could not budge the cruel device or lessen its pull no matter how he tried, and he was quite unable to close his lips or swallow with efficiency.


    He tried to touch his face but his wrists were chained tightly to his waist, the best he could do was attempt to rub the side of his lip on his shoulder. That too off limits as his neck was again bound in the stout and very stiff latigo collar. He looked about him, he was lying beneath an open shelter on a bed of clean straw. He had not even been chained to any immovable object. His mouth was dry, and he craved water. He rose and plunged his face into the horse trough, it was difficult to drink.


    The cold water restored his senses some. Aran looked about him, perhaps now he could escape. Though being hobbled as he was it would not be easy. It was only then he noted that he had been dressed sometime during his sleep. He now wore a very serviceable pair of hide pants, they fit him well, though the clothing felt alien and almost restrictive to his body after being so long without. His ankles had been bandaged and he had been given a pair of scuffed but still very useful boots. The clothing must have belonged to his new owner, the two men were after all very similar in size.


    He rose from the trough, wheaten hair dripping with water. He had not successfully quenched his thirst, but at least his tongue felt moist.


    His awakening had been noted. His new owner came toward him, he carried no whip or visible weapon. If you did not count the sharp curved tomahawk, tools of the trade tucked into his wide belt. He had been loading a customer''s cart with firewood. The black mules strained in their harnesses as the load was hauled away and out of sight down the muddy street.


    ¡°You should not have bit me.¡± The large man reprimanded, as he casually wandered over. ¡°You will learn not to in time. I don''t like the idea of slavery, but it¡¯s become a necessary evil in this world. I don¡¯t enjoy flaunting this kind of violence around my family though. So you will stay out of sight and endure your punishment. If you continue not to learn you will be muzzled at all times, you hear me?


    ¡°Aran just stared at the man in brute defiance.


    ¡°It¡¯s up to you how well or badly you live, now get to work, we have carts to load.¡±


    The man unchained Aran¡¯s hands, but not his ankles, leaving him free to work tossing him a pair of sturdy leather gloves. Going back to the gate just time to greet his next customer. Head down Aran began his task, though his stomach screamed today with hunger. If anyone noticed him none gave comment, for no one really cared about the suffering of a slave.


    The morning passed in silence, it was not as though Aran could speak anyway, and his new owner showed no inclination to converse with him, though he did talk at length with many of his clientele. Aran was very aware though the man watched him closely, and he sensed he seemed pleased at how hard he worked.


    It was an agonizing morning, Aran kept his head low and found he did not wish to make eye contact with anyone around him. Being a warrior he was new to the feeling of humility, and he liked the emotion not at all. Glad of the golden mane that covered his face from the frequent procession of onlookers who drove their teams into the woodyard. It was a very long morning.


    By midday the pain in his jaw was deep, Aran longed for no more than to just close his mouth and rest his tongue. He was ordered to stand down from his labors at noon. Aran simply stood unmoving, shaggy mane hiding his face, head lowered in the language of defeat.


    ¡°It hurts, don¡¯t it?¡± Ben chuckled. He bore a tray of food.


    Aran suppressed a growl. He realized any misbehavior would only serve to further extend his misery. Besides he was hungry and dearly wanted to eat. He was drooling uncontrollably all over his hair and chest, his body¡¯s blind reaction deeply shamed him.


    ¡°You going to be good this time?¡± Aran¡¯s owner asked, voice devoid of all challenge, and sarcasm.


    The ration looked so good and Aran wanted it so badly. He had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Real crusty bread stew with good meat, the aroma of the food was driving his poor body to a frenzy. He nodded beaten this time. All he wanted in this world was the food, and the bar across his mouth removed, those two desires had become the sum of his world.


    Aran¡¯s jaw ached and he found it difficult to chew the rations he had been provided. He tried not to think about what the life of captivity was doing to him. He should have brained the guy, chained or not he should have escaped. What was wrong with him, why had he not done it? Was he just tired, sick, and sore? Was that all it was? He had to admit he would be more reserved with his impulse to bite next time, yet he should not be, but fears were creeping into his head. Things he¡¯d never seen before, things like hopelessness, defeat, dare he say it domesticity.

 How the Mighty Fall

    Bennett strode the well-worn pathways of his encampment, the day was fine but still unusually cool considering the season was fast heading into spring. He idly wondered if the heat would be as oppressive this year, the weather had sure been strange. Dust coated the toes and soles of his once bright, black biker boots and he looked up to the sky with his equally cold blue eyes and sighted a half-eaten moon visible by daylight.


    My how he had fallen in the recent year. Unlike many who were just happy to be still among the living, Wezley Bennett always wanted more. Where had he erred, he thought somewhat miserably, as he paced with purpose toward the ammunition storage that was situated close by his own domicile.


    Perhaps it was the need for safe water, the desire to cling to its safety and proximity that had been his biggest failing? Not even beginning to question that he was just lucky to still be counted among the living after the turmoil of the war, and the chaos that ensued. Perhaps he should have made more use of the remaining, cars, and motorcycles before the fuel had finally faded. He could see in hindsight that decisions that may have seemed trivial in those early days, would now return to affect him greatly.


    The cruel leader realized that he would have to inspire his remaining men who now numbered very few. He had only six men left, and he knew could count on five of them; however, he was not so sure of Sven anymore. The big man had lost his desire for blood, that much was evident. Bennett wondered if it was a product of his disfigurement, or perhaps he had a family and more to lose than the others did. Either way, he felt he could no longer depend on the big man, as his loyalties lie elsewhere.


    He didn¡¯t like that thought much, he had killed men for far less. Yet even one as cold-blooded as Wezley felt he at least owed something to this man, that friend who had stood by him so steadfastly for the past eight years. Perhaps when he departed, and he knew he must, he would free Sven from his duty. Leave him behind with the few slave women and his child. They were little use to him after all. They could take their chances here in the wastes, but his future lie further south.


    He had originally intended to stay here a bit longer, however, with the escape of Jormugar he reasoned it may well be time to depart this place. He was stalling the inevitable after all. The weather had improved, and there was little excuse not to leave.


    He inwardly admonished himself for letting the man abscond, it had been uncharacteristically careless of him. He didn¡¯t rightly know what he sensed, but he felt that staying in this place may bring more misfortune to him. Jormugar had freely confessed to being a bounty hunter, that fact did not necessarily worry Bennett. As far as he was aware there would be no reason for the ¡®civilized¡¯ world to level any bounties against any who dwelt here, with the exception perhaps of Gareth. Any and all acts of savagery his men had committed had occurred after the commencement of complete societal breakdown. But the feeling was there regardless.


    His meandering stroll had brought him to the doors of a shipping container patched in peeling blue paint and spotted in rust. They were padlocked shut with a sturdy length of chain. He fumbled with black-gloved hands for the keys tucked into the breast of his beaten leather jacket. The lock resisted at first, and Bennett had to tap it roughly to remove the sand in the mechanism. The noise is strident in the silent camp. Begrudgingly the key grated into the lock and the chain slid to the sand.


    The door hinges moaned in protest in their un-oiled state, as he pushed wide one of the doors to enter. There the eight gray warheads sat to the fore of the storage, behind them were ammunition crates and an assortment of plastic boxes housing all manner of projectiles. The gold brass of their metal casings shone in the half-light, like that of a pirate trove. Weapons leaned on the sides of the shipping container, rifles standing on their stocks, sharp-bladed axes and knives interspersed with the occasional sword.


    His stock in trade, the tools of war. Without which he was nothing. He knelt, pulling off his kid skin gloves, and touched the casings with his rough, battle-scarred hands. It was as though he were communing with death, and his thin cruel lips twisted into an almost deranged smile.


    These beauties were the answer to that which he sought, he ruminated, as he caressed the steel bodies of the projectiles like a lover. How though to deploy them? They were made to be dropped from aircraft, there had to be another solution, but no one here in his camp had the technical ability to give him that answer. He had been wracking his brain over this problem ever since he laid eyes on them, yet he had come up empty.


    He knew one thing though, they must go back for more. Perhaps he may find an answer to his conundrum if they returned to Wentworth.


    *****


    Later that very day Bennett had sent Gareth and Dwayne back to the oasis in the hope that some of the horses had survived the winter to be in good enough condition to travel. They would use one of the two drays that were parked on the rise overlooking the camp if they had two strong animals to pull it that was.


    He hoped the men would return bearing good news. At times the leather-clad marauder felt as though he was fast running out of options, and he wondered if truly he could take that fortress of his dreams with but a handful of men and a few well-placed weapons? The odds were stacked against him, he had failed miserably last time after all, and after the escape of Renard he had no bargaining chip left with the folk of the farmlands.


    In the dark, as he lay next to his slave boy that evening the idea even to him seemed ludicrous. Yet he had to try, for a Warlord with no one to lead would be no Warlord at all. He was afraid of being relegated to a thing of the past. A dinosaur.


    *****


    Nathan knew that in a few days, it would be time to say goodbye to this cursed valley forever. This place¡¯s meaning had been little more than a backdrop to terror. He had lost so much of himself here, and yet he had somehow prevailed. He was actually pleased they would leave, though he still had many reservations about where they would travel to, and how he would fare. He was compared to the other men lacking in robust physicality. What the frail youth failed to understand was his inner strength was mighty. He knew one thing though as he settled into his Master¡¯s bedroll and warm embrace. He would be the best slave there ever was. His jade eyes closed, and he snuggled against the warmth at his back. He felt the caress of the large possessive hands on him, reveling in it, he smiled, the emotion completely hidden by his now quite lengthy wall of platinum hair. Sleep soon claimed him.


    The young man who had suffered much was no stranger to terrible dreams, even his nicer ones seemed to always evolve into nightmares. He had always put it down to the trauma he had experienced both at the onset of the war and during his time as Bennett¡¯s slave. His life always felt precarious, and there were moments he felt he may never live to see tomorrow morning. He never knew if he would eat or not, or suffer yet another cruel and painful beating for the slightest mistake. Naturally in this environment, the young man¡¯s thoughts always turned to the worst-case scenario.


    He often had the strangest and darkest dreams that would pursue him into gasping wakefulness. This night was no exception, and yet it was¡­


    *****


    All about him was death, nothing but reeking, decaying death. The vile stench of it overwhelmed his nostrils, it was so overpowering he felt the need to vomit. He clutched at his heaving stomach, and wondered how in a dream one¡¯s sense of smell could even exist?


    Nathan looked about him, it appeared he was quite alone on a battlefield. The sky above was an unforgiving shade of somber gray, and a light mist fell. Everything was wet, beaded with droplets of dark water mixed with congealing, sticky blood, creating a soup of pestilence. Silver armor and sharp-bladed weapons shone through the grime. All the combatants were dead, absent were the sobs, cries, or screams of the dying. Just a wretched silence, pervaded by a faint indistinct humming barely audible to his ears.


    Nathan trod carefully, the earth beneath his feet treacherous, infused with blood, gore, and black water. The soles of his worn shoes slipped beneath him and he threatened to stumble to his knees in the wretched hellscape.


    Nathan gazed all about him, corpses of the dead as far as he could see, hundreds, no thousands of slain men littered the ground, reaching all the way about him to the far horizon. So where should he go, how to escape this?


    Something slowly crawling caught his eye, a solitary life in all this death. An iridescent beetle not unlike a depiction of an Egyptian scarab. He bent down still holding his torn shirt over his mouth to stifle the stench, though now he had become more inured to its wretchedness, and picked the creature up. It was of a greater weight than he was expecting it to be as he examined it closely in his hand. Its hard carapace almost felt metallic and gleamed with a sickening shade of green, not unlike that of decay.


    He held it up and the humming that appeared to just be low background noise was louder than before. Through the noise, he thought he caught distinct words. ¡°You will not understand us at first, but in time our language will come to you...He comes, the true King comes!¡±


    Nathan looked up, shaking the beetle from his hand, it fell with a metallic clank as it hit a fallen man¡¯s rent cuirass, to embed itself in the man''s riven and protruding heart. To his terror, he could see an unnaturally tall, black figure in the far distance striding with propose towards him across the sea of putrid flesh. An unprecedented terror gripped him at that moment, he stared at the figure captivated, but he was too afraid to stay...


    Nathan came awake with a violent jolt. His actions awoke his sleeping master who did little more than clutch him firmly and fall promptly back to sleep. The young man lay awake, jade eyes staring up into the blackness of the cave''s rocky overhang, he was too disturbed to return to sleep.


    *****


    Bennett was not much of an equestrian, and he did far more killing than admiring the creatures that inhabited his world. However, today as he stood on the sharp rise over his encampment he was appreciative to see the two strong horses that Gareth and Dwayne had returned with. Without them, he would have no workable plan. It was time, time to pack up what he needed and tell his old friend goodbye.


    *****


    Later that evening after the scant meal had been served and eaten, Bennett sat in his hide-covered throne and gazed about him. If the mean meal had not been an indicator as to how far he had fallen, other factors were. This place had been kind until recently. He had ruled here with an iron fist and forged a life of his own personal design, from the threads of chaos. He was proud of that. He no longer had to feign being someone he was not, if someone was adverse to him they were perfunctorily eliminated. Most things were simple to be solved with violence and threat. He liked that very much, and he wondered if these conditions that he lived by would continue into his new adventure. He hoped so. This was a difficult life to let go of.


    His cold-hearted gaze alighted on Sven, he thought about rising from his place but instead took up his cup, he would tell him later of his decision. This was not the place.


    *****


    When the shadows had grown inky dark, and the moon had finally left the sky, leaving all in blackness, Bennett finally stirred. Most of the men were in their bedrolls, ready for the beginnings of a long march on the morrow. The fire had burned down to coals and the women had also retreated to their sleep. Sven sat alone quietly contemplating the night sky. He turned slightly as his leather and fur-clad leader approached him. However he made no move to rise or look directly at him.


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    ¡°Your heart is not in this anymore old friend.¡± Bennett said softly. He pat Sven hard on the shoulder, a tap that would have jarred a man of lesser stature.


    Sven looked up slowly, he had sensed this was coming, however, he did not know what tangent this conversation would take. He had been dreading this moment for some time. He had been unsure if Bennett would command him to accompany him on this fool''s errand, and even more unsure of what his own reaction would be if he was forced to go. Sven had family, and they had become his primary focus. As far as he was concerned it was his duty above all else, to protect them, he couldn¡¯t protect his brother, but he would not fail his son. So he nodded at his leader¡¯s words, letting him do the talking, being carefully noncommittal.


    ¡°No need to answer.¡± Bennett went on, ¡°I can see it in your eyes. You don¡¯t have it in you anymore, the thrill of the hunt, the sport of the kill.¡±


    Bennett¡¯s voice was hard-edged, his lips drawn into a severe line, ice-chip eyes cold. Sven did not have it in him to match Bennett''s gaze. What the man said was true. Since the birth of his child, and other nameless horrors he had endured, he had not felt the same. He doubted he ever would.


    ¡°We will be leaving tomorrow.¡±


    He felt the big black-gloved hand leave his shoulder, he nervously fingered his cup and gazed at its contents.


    ¡°This my old friend is where our journey ends.¡±


    Sven stiffened, he was unsure if the words were laced with danger or reprieve.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a fine journey Sven, you have earned your retirement. You fought well.¡±


    With that Bennett pat his friend one more time on the shoulder and turned away. Sven finally turned to look after him with bleak gray eyes. It was over, he had been freed of his duty, for better or worse his life was now his own.


    *****


    The next sunrise Sven stood watching the men ready to depart for good. He had mixed emotions on their leaving, part of him felt abandoned, and yet part of him felt a great sense of relief. He had struggled mentally in the past few raids. He must resign himself to his new life here as protector and provider to those few who remained.


    The departure had not been without its troubles though. The men were most unhappy to be leaving all the women behind, especially Gareth. Considering, Bennett had made it quite clear that Nathan would be accompanying the party, citing he was male and therefore eligible. However, even though the men were angry at this proclamation they all knew the wastes were no place for a woman. Moods ran hot though that morning as they prepared to depart.


    Dwayne though had his own problems, he was never high enough in rank to be allotted a woman anyway. So he cared little about those that were to be left behind. The young warrior had dreaded this day, he had hoped personally to never revisit Wentworth again. The young warrior climbed the steep path to the top of the cliff face, there in the traces the horses stood patiently, the wagons piled with all the essential possessions they would need along the way. The warheads were included in the payload. Dwayne involuntarily shuddered, he had never erased the final ghastly moments of Warren¡¯s death from his mind. He was unsure if his departure from this place would be a boon or a curse. However, he had little choice but to follow the others to death or glory. It had always been this way, and so far he had survived.


    He took one look back at the secluded valley that had been his home for almost half of his life. He shouldered his bow and sighed. Sven was lucky he thought, perhaps he would fare better than us all? The horses moved forward and the men were on their way.


    *****


    The journey so far had proceeded as planned, and Bennett and his men had sighted neither friend nor foe. All the men appeared in reasonable spirits, and the horses that Gareth had chosen were sound.


    Bennett had the machinations of the beginnings of a plan, even if he didn¡¯t have it finalized. He already knew where they could secret the eight warheads. He would bury them in the sands, somewhere near the overhang they had located on their escape from the fortress. The one that housed the little but very reliable spring. It was a pointless and dangerous exercise to cart them back to Wentworth. They would firstly set up a forward camp, before making the arduous journey northeast, and hoped what they secreted here would remain safe. This would be as fine a place as any to launch the assault on their return.


    That being accomplished the seven men made their way to Wentworth. It would be a long march. Bennett hoping to retrieve more arsenal and possibly discover a way to detonate the sarin gas remotely.


    Dwayne led the party, he was uncannily expert at finding his way through the often formless desert flats. The high spinifex grasses that speared and poked at passing flesh without mercy, and the lifeless-looking gray lignum scrubland all bore a look of sameness. It was easy to get lost out here.


    The going was tough initially. The horses had little food to be found along the way, and it was difficult for them pulling the heavily loaded cart through areas without clearly defined tracks or roads. The men had to often help the animals navigate the obstacles and soft sand, and initially, the miles were made slowly with much struggle. The men fearing the beasts may give out long before they ever reached their destination.


    As Dwayne had promised the journey became much easier once they had reached the wide and muddy river that meandered sluggishly through the desert. Though a major artery that had kept an entire desert state alive, and a city of over one million inhabitants, its name had already faded from most memories. There was abundant plant life beginning to grow on its wide banks and plenty of water. There the horses recovered their strength and the going became much easier.


    Nathan had struggled at first to keep pace with the men, he had longed to ride in the cart. However he knew that permission would not be granted. Bennett¡¯s men resented his presence and he would get no quarter from any of them. They had all been forced to leave their women behind after all.


    After a few days on the journey the frail youth felt stronger, if his Master could walk so could he. He dutifully followed along behind and did all that was asked of him without complaint. He would not be discarded, he would become if ever a slave could be, indispensable.


    *****


    In the subsequent days after the raider''s departure Raissa felt lost, for so many years her life had revolved around this bunch of rag-tag men and their strange whims. Now there was only one man, her man.


    To begin with, after their leaving, the camp environs were almost serene, sure there was still hardship, but she felt as relaxed as a slave could feel. No continuous requests for things both reasonable or unreasonable to fulfill. However, as the days passed she began to realize that they would all no longer live in such relative safety as they once had. Admittedly Sven was a mighty man, a towering wall of battle-hardened muscle, however, he was but one, what if many came? She did not doubt that he would fight, to the death if need be. He was strong and brave and would take many attackers down before he fell. Though in the end, he was but a single warrior and the thought frightened her greatly.


    Raissa was unsure if the other women felt this, she was getting some strange signals from Lissa, though she was sure that Lucy felt these fears even in her grief. Raissa knew Lucy missed Warren greatly, and the older woman had not been the same since the sad announcement. Both women had been here in this clan and witnessed much over the passing of the years. Attackers had chanced on the encampment on rare occasion, but the better equipped men here had fought them off with relative ease and very minimal losses.


    ¡°Struth!¡± The petite blonde muttered under her breath, nicking her finger with the knife she had been using to pare the red, sticky kangaroo meat off the bone. This was not her most favorite of meals, the meat so low in fat and visually unappealing when raw. It looked bloody and had a terrible slippery feel, not to mention the blood smell. But this and two small rabbits were all Sven had been able to bring home today after his trip to the top of the valley. A few animals had returned at least, and that was a blessing.


    To pull her mind away from her darkening thoughts Raissa cast her eyes about the camp as she sucked on her wounded finger. It was peaceful here in the absence of the usual crudity, drink, and all the talk of killing and war. These men had known little else and spoke about even fewer subjects. If they hadn¡¯t represented better protection, she would not have missed any of them in the least.


    The young woman could hear the joyful sounds of some small brown house sparrows that were sitting not too far distant, perched in the still dormant twigs of the box thorn bushes that lined the cliff sides. She wondered for a moment as she looked up to the black of the cave openings above where had that girl Selene gone? Raissa had not sighted her for a very long time. She hoped wherever she was, she was in a better place.


    There her husband sat in Bennett''s old place dwarfing all. He was a giant, a modern-day barbarian. If she hadn''t known his terrible secret he would have made her shiver. Part with fear, part with desire. His brother Aran had been handsome in a dashing and youthful way, but Sven in his grizzled maturity was equally appealing, and as time had gone on the slave girl had warmed to the idea of their marriage even. Raissa had grown to love Sven by slow degrees she realized. It was more than just simple dependence or protection. She tried not to dwell too heavily on how the years here may pass if the water would last, or if they could find and produce enough food for their little community to survive?


    For Lissa the fighting men''s leaving had changed everything. The pretty redhead dared to hope for the first time that she and her friends could truly be rescued. That her daring would at last bear fruit. There was only one man left here to serve as an impediment to her leaving. She wondered if he even would attempt to prevent it when the time came. He wished to preserve his family after all. Lissa suspected Sven had somehow been cast aside by the other men, and that their leaving was final. She was not completely sure of this and Raissa had offered her no clues, but her keen intuition told her that Sven had been discarded to his fate here just as they had. She hoped that Renard and his men would return soon. She told herself at every moment of self-doubt that the three men had made it across the desert and were safe. She would not allow herself to believe otherwise.


    Lissa had helped her two best friends to sit by the fire a while, both girls looked thin and pale, and had dark circles under their eyes, but they did look somewhat better this evening. She saw to it that they were comfortable, had water, and got a good serving of hot stew. They had to hold on, she had to bring those girls home.


    Maya was at last happy, horrible Gareth was gone for good. Though now she had no man. The lustful vixen that Aran had awoken in her would not be content to just languish here, a servant to a man who never looked at her. She still pined for her golden man Aran, and even now wore his pendant around her slim neck. She rubbed the small golden letter A with its embellishing single diamond that was supposedly the first letter of his name. Wishing magically it would bring him back to her side. However he had been absent a long time, and sadly Maya felt if she wanted to be honest that she would never see him again.


    *****


    To begin with the deep passage carved beneath the earth at Bai? Italie felt no different to the previous descent. The earth about the demon King was just simple earth, it did not seem to possess any secrets, magical properties, or hidden hazards he could detect. The mocking whispers though taunted him, and deep inside he worried that he had this time chosen the harder trial, but perhaps it was just trickery sent to mock him and bring him unraveled. He hoped so, for the world and its future now rested on the fact that he make a success of this journey.


    The fey light orbs began to dim as Xonereth progressed further, and the heat and latent humidity intensified, all creating a feeling of impending dread. The walls became slick with an unknown dampness, almost as though he was entering a womb. Xonereth though a demon who had been exposed to all manner of horrors, could feel these things also, and he steeled his resolve, he was no weak human to be frightened by foibles, or shadows.


    The last of the fey light ran into blinding darkness, an umbral opacity that even demon eyes could not pierce. Blindly he forged forward. Then before him, he saw a lesser darkness, an opening. He took a deep breath, arranged his churning thoughts, and went toward the portal.


    On entering it he beheld a strange sensation, the heat of a great intensity so white-hot he wished to cry out in unbridled agony, to be mixed with stabs of ice. As the sensation faded he realized he was in a very familiar location. His very palace, Narkeem¡¯ezet. He was standing in the large corridor that lead directly to the throne room. He looked behind him but he could not detect where he had just entered. Looking up he was to begin with, comforted by the appearance of the bats and gargoyles that nestled high above, however this time as he passed beneath they did not respond to him at all. They merely slept in silence, and that lack of recognition chilled him.


    He encountered none of the nobles, or courtiers in the cavernous approach to the throne room, and although he had entered the tunnels in an incorporeal form, it appeared he was now whole. He was dressed in the finest black robes even though he had entered this trial naked as the day he was born. The garments made the softest hissing noise as he walked the long black basalt corridor, the only other sound audible to him was the soft step of his bare feet.


    Entering the throne room he came on the strangest sight. A demoness of great beauty, bedecked in the finest silver adornments, entwined in the act of coitus with a superb and very large ebony centaur. He did not have to guess at the demoness¡¯ identity, it could be no one else but Ardat Lilli, his mother and consort to the King.


    She sighted him almost immediately even amidst her boisterous lovemaking. The hugely endowed Centaur known to him as Geryon halted his rambunctious thrusts, but the two were still very much intertwined in the throes of their lust. Demon kind was not burdened with the types of ideals that the humans bestowed on pleasures of the flesh and procreation, however, Xonereth cast his eyes downwards, though she was his mother, she was also his Queen, the second most powerful being in this kingdom. Though with the long absences of his father Semiazas, with his doting infatuation for pretty angels, she may as well have been the apex being here.


    ¡°Ah my son,¡± she said languidly, clearly relishing Geryon¡¯s attentions. ¡°I have been meaning to see you.¡±


    Xonereth had not seen his ancient mother for eons, after his father''s committal to the great tree he had very much shunned her. She in his eyes was just as complicit in the War of the Brothers as Valefor had been.


    ¡°Yes I can tell that you disapprove my son, however I have done my duty to the kingdom I have provided the heir and the spare. Now I shall couple with whomever I please.¡±


    He felt an uncharacteristic dread fall over him, he would be forced to revisit and navigate his past. The time before the War, before all the catastrophic mistakes had been made. The test was cunning, he must unravel his past to possibly change the future, and he hoped he had what it would take.

 Wrath

    The dry stacked, stone walls tinged with moss bordered the pastures below. Carlos sat on one of these walls watching the cattle and sheep graze. The new calves and lambs were suckling at their mother''s tit with gusto, tails waggling. The verdant grass was coming through lushly, promising a bountiful spring. The setting was idyllic and after enduring a long captivity, the young man should have felt less troubled than he was today.


    Yes, his nerves were less on edge, and the rest had done him good. His hosts were fine and generous people. It had been good to gain respite from that awful grind of the continuous, ready wakefulness he had practiced for the past eight years.


    So why was he so restless and discontented? There should be no reason for his mood. It was beautiful here he observed as the apple blossoms fell on him like pseudo snowfall, light in the darkness of his hair. He pulled his shining black mane back from his eyes and tied its length into a short ponytail with a strip of leather. There must be something better beyond he thought, somewhere where he could just belong.


    His early memories of his city upbringing were still vivid, that was the environment where he had thrived. In the fast-paced, fast-thinking landscape of his childhood, he rued the demise of its conveniences. Strong memories came to him of the Rundle Street East end, the rows of brightly glittering shop windows, the hotels on every corner, and the gelato bar with its hundreds of flavors to sate his childhood appetite. He could almost smell the delicious aromas of food wafting from the myriad of restaurants and food carts, the reflections of the car lights creating bright runnels of the pavement. Captured forever in his mind¡¯s eye, Hindley Street in the rain. It was gone, all obliterated in an instant by the allies of all things.


    He could not remain here, in the middle of nowhere, with his hunger for city life. He was no farmer destined for this simplicity. To be ruled by what Mother Nature wished to throw at him. He was feeling so much better, he had eaten well these last few days and restored his strength. However, the newly freed slave was still very unsure of what he should do. So he had languished, absorbing the comforts and idly waiting; waiting for a cue that may not come.


    Even before the war, the state was over eighty percent desert. The only capital city had been leveled and irradiated so no one could return. Should he head south, back toward the coast, and see if society had attempted to rebuild? It had been the best part of eight years after all. The idea had merit, he was unsure what he may find there, and even more unsure of the journey. It would no doubt be long and perilous.


    Alternatively, should he seek revenge on the one he hated more than anything? The one who robbed him of his dignity and life. He had toyed with that scenario in recent days now that he felt stronger. His reviled enemy Wezley Bennett commanded very few men. He would be a far easier target than he had been before. Though Carlos wondered what he would feel if indeed he did run face to face with his nemesis again, a man of his recurring nightmares, a man who had rent his soul.


    As his fingers traced the faint line of a scar on his cheek given to him by that tyrant, he realized could in effect never be the same after all he had endured. It had forged him, bent him, perhaps broken him in ways also. He no longer knew what he really wanted, this feeling ate at him, and it would not relent.


    Footsteps behind him. Whoever it was, they were making no effort to approach quietly. He half turned to see Renard standing just beyond the wall, dressed in dark brown suede and leather. He was cleanly shaven except for a neat trademark goatee, and his shoulder-length hair neatly trimmed and tied back in a pony tail.


    ¡°Beautiful afternoon.¡± Renard commented casually. Observing the beautiful rural visa before him.


    Carlos just nodded in assent of the cheery remark, he rarely felt the need to engage in anything but the most minimal of conversations. Perhaps a legacy of his past time as a captive, the less you spoke the better.


    ¡°I was wondering?¡­¡±


    Here it comes, thought Carlos with a twinge of regret.


    ¡°If you would accompany us to rescue the girls?¡±


    Renard did not see the young man grimace at the mention of the mission.


    ¡°You are one hell of a fighter, we would be happy to have you along.¡±


    Carlos did not reply, his mind was in a terrible conundrum over the request. He must answer carefully, yet he could not frame the words.


    ¡°Anyway, if you decide to accompany us we leave tomorrow at first light.¡±


    With that Renard walked away, leaving the young man alone with his thoughts.


    *****


    After the conversation the troubled man had tossed and turned all night, sleep would not come as he wrestled with his demons to make a decision. As the first tendrils of light evoked shadows on the floorboards, and the inhabitants stirred in the house Carlos made his choice. He rose from his bed, dressed, collected his few belongings, and made for the stables.


    A tight knot of approximately twenty men assembled all readying their mounts for the journey. On well rested horseback the journey would not be so far. Two, three, days tops. Carlos did not know the majority of the volunteers. Though he had sighted most of the participants during his short respite here. The stables smelled deeply of horses and sweet fresh cut hay, agreeable and comforting to the young man as he made his way through the press of warm horseflesh.


    Darius was smiling broadly as he cinched his saddle, the big smith always seemed cheerful. Renard was there in the center of the crush of men and beasts, making sure every man was adequately equipped for the excursion ahead. He turned and smiled as he saw Carlos approach.


    ¡°Glad you decided to ride with us.¡± Renard said as he handed Carlos the reigns of a bay gelding who had a white blaze that ran down and under his nose like dripped paint.


    Carlos just nodded, noting the fine rife that was stowed in a holster attached to his mounts saddle. He had never used a rifle in his life, he was only familiar with handguns, or a blade. That fact did not matter, twenty well-organized men against the few who remained in that squalid little encampment, it would most certainly be a rout. He was imagining hacking off Bennett''s ugly head like the snake he was. He stowed his few possessions in the saddlebag and mounted his horse, waiting for the others to leave.


    *****


    The day had begun like many preceding it. Sven had no reason to expect any more than the ordinary as he hunted topside for another meal. They were still in possession of a few goats, but the remaining does and the one buck that lived were too valuable to slaughter. The little herd provided a steady supply of milk, and hopefully soon some new kids would be born that may provide an easier meal in lean times.


    Currently, easy meat was hard to come by, and Sven had to spend a lot more time than he liked hunting in the dunes above the encampment. Sometimes he bagged a stray bird or a rabbit, if he got lucky a kangaroo or an emu, and some days there was nothing about to catch at all. They had begun to rely heavily on the remaining corn stores, if they were not careful there would not be enough seed to sow the new crop.


    Sven had no idea why he chose to look up at that exact moment, but far away on the horizon, he detected movement. He thought he had sighted a bird initially, keen senses ever alert for prey. His constant gnawing hunger had seen to that. Sven held his hand up to shield his eyes to better see distance, however, he realized with a start what he was seeing were many riders approaching the valley at a fast canter. They were still very distant, mere specks on the horizon, but he knew at the pace they were moving he had little time. Those riders would be here well before dusk.


    He bolted for the valley, the hunt completely forgotten. Raissa looked up as the big man came barreling into the midst of the women who were quietly working on various domestic tasks.


    ¡°Get anything important quickly, we must hide!¡±


    The women looked up, unmoving at first. Confused silence reigned. All eyes were on the sweating Sven, his chest heaving with the exertion of his pace.


    ¡°NOW! MOVE!¡± He shouted pulling the women from their inaction.


    Raissa¡¯s heart heaved in her breast as she hastily took up young Eirik, who had been sleeping soundly, close by. The boy began to fuss and cry at the sudden change in his circumstances.


    ¡°Quiet him!¡± The warrior countered sharply.


    Sven would not be this panicked on a whim, Raissa realized, there was a threat, a real threat. The young woman''s mind felt muddled as she tried to decide if there was anything of value she must rescue. Too late, as Sven¡¯s large hand alighted on the strap of her dress and he was herding her before him. The other women were moving too now. Maya ran like a deer in the lead, her pale hair flowing behind her. The panicked demeanor of the great man had spooked them all.


    Lissa was unsure what to think, but she dutifully helped her friends toward the designated hiding place that Sven had indicated. A dark cave obscured by the dump and tightly woven thorn bushes.


    She watched the big man break from the small group of fleeing women and head into the shipping container, and reappear carrying an abundance of weaponry and ammunition.


    He would make a last stand then, she registered. Her mind was afire with all the possibilities as she helped the ailing Sarah and Kate into the protective darkness that loomed before her. If they were discovered they would most certainly be trapped in here she thought, and she tried hard to push down her rising panic. There would be no easy exit from this place. Lissa felt sick with the fear. It was like a terrible dream, the kind you have to wake from and order it to stop. But this was no dream, just an awful reality.


    The women crouched down toward the rear of the cave, with no other sound but ragged breathing and a fussing child in the lightless space. The air was slightly humid and smelled of damp earth. The ceiling was low and they could not stand. Darkness as black as pitch to their backs, and the cool air fanned up from the subterranean depths and the dark unknown beyond.


    Eirik had calmed some, Raissa shushing and rocking her son so that he may feel reassured. The infant though could sense the fear and uncertainty about him and refused to be placated.


    Sven made the entrance of the overhang forcing his bulk between the thorny sentinels, they scraped and scratched leaving in their wake stripes of sanguine on his flesh. He set his cache of weapons down with a loud metallic thunk on the stone, and began loading them with ammunition.


    Lissa decided that if these invaders were going to try and kill them, she would not die herself without a fight. Alternatively, if they were the rescue party she had hoped for, then it would behoove her to be up the front. So she could at the very worst arrange some kind of surrender on Sven''s behalf. She was sure that he would be shot otherwise. She was not going to be responsible for Eirik becoming an orphan. It was critical she got this right.


    Lissa made her way forward to kneel beside Sven, to see if she could be of some assistance. Afraid he may yet command her to return to the rest of the frightened women. Sven looked at her quizzically as she approached him at the front of the cave. She was a farmer''s daughter, and she knew enough about firearms to be useful.


    All of their lives now hung in the balance. Sven deciding wordlessly that the woman''s help was valid handed her a double-barreled shotgun. Calculating in his mind that the woman would probably lose her cool and her aim would be terrible. He tossed her some twelve gauge cartridges and hoped she could reload swiftly. He loaded the bolt action 303¡¯s and set them before him, with more cartridges at the ready. Bennett had taken the choicest weapons with him, Sven wishing he possessed some grenades. These old and battered rifles would have to suffice unfortunately.


    Lissa did not hesitate, she scooped up the cartridges pressing them in her hand to be sure they were not perished, and loaded the shotgun. Sven side-eyed her, expecting her to fumble. He was reassured to see she did not do so. That accomplished Sven turned to his charges.


    ¡°I know we have no light but can you Maya see if the cave behind is is safe, be careful.¡±


    Maya squirmed at the order, she did not much like the suggestion she should crawl back into the blackness with the spiders and other nameless bugs, but she realized this was important, and to survive she must do her part. Unfortunately, the entrance behind them tapered off swiftly to become impassable. Maya was happy she did not have to crawl too far before she realized this; but doubly afraid with the knowledge that they would be well and truly cornered if they were discovered.


    Maya reported this to Sven in a whisper, and he nodded, his expression grim. His gray eyes fixated before him on the compound they called home. He knew that whoever came here would easily realize that the occupants could not be too far away. The cooking fire was still burning, the stray plume of wood smoke drifted lazily on an almost non existent breeze.


    It was not in the warrior''s nature to hide like a coward, and it sat badly with him. Yet he realized the men approaching numbered many, and he had been given no time to possibly even the odds by placing traps for the unsuspecting invaders. He hoped that they merely passed on by, and come nightfall they would be safe in the knowledge the intruders did not have this site as their destination. It was a well-hidden encampment after all.


    The experienced soldier was not going to throw his life away needlessly, in doing so he would doom his family to possible slavery or worse. Today was not the time to be a hero he ruminated, yet he desired to be.


    They crouched on cramping knees for what seemed like an unendurable time. Nothing to be heard but the slight breeze rustling the bushes, the busy chatter of house sparrows, and the far-off caw of a sorrowful crow. Then suddenly the sound of a stray pebble falling from great height above.


    Lissa took a sharp intake of breath and felt the pace of her heart lurch, the blood pounding in her temples. The knuckles on her hands had turned white as she gripped the stock of the shotgun too tightly. The redhead took a deep breath to try and tame her rising panic. She suddenly felt nausea grip her insides. She shot a quick glance across at Sven, he was unmoving as a statue. Rifle poised in his huge hands, storm colored eyes trained down the barrel. Lissa wished she had the same composure and fleetingly wondered if he was afraid just like she was?


    It was not long before they witnessed a tight group of men cautiously inspecting the encampment. The sun was beginning its descent to the west, and the shadows in the valley were long and dark. Visibility was failing fast, the evening always came early to this well hidden gouge in the earth.


    Sven scanned the large group, they were all well-armed. He felt now it had been the correct decision to hide. He could not discern any familiar faces, as they split up into groups to more thoroughly search the site.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Sven muttered under his breath as the first recognition dawned. He spied Carlos between the shipping containers that housed the ammunition and the stores. He sighted his rifle, and his finger twitched almost imperceptibly on the trigger. He was however never going to take the shot. He still had the hope that they would remain undetected, and eventually the men would leave empty handed.


    He certainly was not ready for Lissa as she dropped the shotgun and ran, mindless of the thorny entrance from the cave, and the sharp stones on her bare feet.


    ¡°Renard!¡± she cried, her voice shrill, echoing off the sides of the red sandstone cliffs.


    Barefoot she sprinted toward the tall man in the brown suede as fast as her legs and exhaustion would allow. The two embraced wordlessly, Lissa¡¯s warm brown eyes looking into Renard¡¯s own. For a moment Lissa forgot herself taking in the heady scent of him and feeling the strength and warmth of his touch, she had longed for this more than she could have imagined. She wanted that moment of their togetherness to last forever.


    Then with a start, she realized she must speak swiftly. Sven¡¯s rifle was trained on them with precision, and she was very unsure what the soldier would do now she had revealed his position.


    ¡°Sven is in there, he¡¯s with the rest of the women, he¡¯s armed. There are no other men here, they all left some days ago, and I don¡¯t think they are coming back.¡± The words tumbled out.


    Renard did not hesitate, positioning Lissa and himself behind the shipping container, and ordering the men to take cover.


    Lissa found strength in Renard¡¯s presence beside her. ¡°Sara and Kate are okay, and there is only Lucy, Raissa, Maya, and the baby. But I don¡¯t know if Sven will willingly surrender.¡±


    Raissa felt the hot wet of tears beginning to stream down her face. Lissa had betrayed them all. She had felt some odd emotions from this woman in the last few days, however, Raissa could not pinpoint what they were. This must have been what she had sensed, Lissa knew she would be rescued. Raissa held her son and watched the solid silhouette of her man crouched with the weapon in his hands, ready, stoic. Would he fight or surrender? Would they be spared, taken prisoner, or worse? She was very afraid this would not end well.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Lissa felt Renard move away from her side.¡±No don¡¯t, I¡¯m scared he will shoot.¡±


    ¡°It will be alright.¡± Renard reassured though he was unsure of the truth of his own words, he expected Sven would fight like the cornered lion he was. He wanted desperately to diffuse the standoff, but he was unsure what it would take.


    ¡°Put your weapons down Sven you have my word you will not be harmed.¡± Renard¡¯s voice carried clearly to all within the confines of the cave. The valley was growing dark now, fleetingly Sven contemplated using the onset of darkness to his advantage. Then in the same thought dismissed the idea. He was unsure what to do, but he knew they were trapped, and had few options.


    If he chose to fight it would be to the death, he was not scared for himself. Violent men usually met their end by violence, it was an irrefutable fact. He did not want his son to perish, his love was great for the little scrap of a being he had sired. The scarred soldier sighed, it was a heavy sound. He didn¡¯t fully trust Renard, after all the feelings generated were mutual. Renard had been a captive here at his hands. Though he had to confess in all fairness that Renard had always seemed a man of honor, no matter the circumstance. However, he had lied about his origins, and that fueled Sven''s distrust.


    Renard again repeated his request for surrender. His voice was loud in the evening quietude.


    Sven then turned to his charges, none could see his expression with his face in shadow, they only had the reassurance of his whispered words. ¡°They are here for you two.¡±


    Raissa realized then that Frances¡¯ handmaidens had been of such little importance to her husband that he did not even know their given names.


    ¡°Maya.¡± Sven whispered.


    The slight girl jumped at the mention. She looked up, her face a mask of fear in the gloom.


    ¡°Take the two girls to them, Lucy if you wish to leave do so.¡± He was hoping if they had what they had come for they would depart and leave him be. He had no desire to go with them.


    There was a rustle of garments from the rear of the cave, Sven could see Maya¡¯s silver hair even in this darkness. The slight girl crawled forward with Sarah and Kate in tow.


    ¡°Go!¡± Was all he said.


    Maya didn¡¯t wish to, yet she was afraid to disobey. Sven knew war, he understood negotiation far better than she could. Cautiously the three women exited the overhang. Sven could hear the patter of their feet on the sand as they crossed the clearing. His eyes never left the encampment, nor the gun sight.


    Lucy had declined to leave, her world was here. Sven had not ordered her to, he had merely indicated she could do so if she wished. She had forgotten the niceties of polite society, she had lost her love. Here was where she belonged.


    Raissa was clutching Eirik to her breast and wiping away her tears. The trio could hear the commotion and frenzied chatter of the women as they entered the circle of shipping containers and began speaking with their rescuers.


    Sven could see the slender form of Maya off to one side. She was glancing back at the cave like a wild animal caught in the spotlight''s glare, unsure if she should flee or stand her ground.


    Lissa hugged the gaunt forms of her two friends, and the tears flowed. She had hoped for this moment but never dared to believe it would come true. Renard had come for them, just as he had promised. They would go home to their families, and they would in time heal and live a life of meaning. The tragic specter of Frances came to Lissa at that moment, not all of us got to return she thought sadly. The man she found herself falling for had lost a sister too. Her mistress had paid the ultimate price, and they did not even know where her remains lay. Such a lack of closure.


    Voices were raised behind her pulling Lissa from her dismal thoughts.


    ¡°I say he dies.¡± Carlos snarled at Renard bitterly. His intense black eyes, grim expression, and onyx hair made him look like the devil in the half light. ¡°We came here to kill them, and if you don¡¯t I will.¡±


    Renard shook his head. ¡°There will be no killing.¡± His voice low and certain. The other men crowded around, Dale close by his best friend''s shoulder, ready for trouble.


    ¡°You were not held captive here for years, Renard.¡± Carlos sneered, threat dripping from every word. ¡°You did not suffer like I have.¡±


    ¡°I understand that Carlos, I do. But no one dies here today, we have what we came for...¡±


    ¡°You do!¡± Carlos accused vehemently. ¡°I want his fuckin hide, and I will have it.¡± The angry young man made a move toward the cave. Renard attempted to stay him with his hand but Carlos shook him off angrily.


    Lissa caught her breath, would Renard simply allow this to happen? There was a child in there and two innocent women. She understood Carlos¡¯ desire for revenge, but there had to be a more civilized and just way to settle this.


    Surprisingly Renard stepped back. Requital of this kind was not for Renard to deny, he had firsthand with abhorrence witnessed the cruelty Carlos had suffered.


    ¡°We have what we have come for, let¡¯s get the women home.¡± Giving the vengeful man leeway to disappear into the darkness to enact his retribution.


    Renard whispered a command in Dale¡¯s ear. Lissa did not catch his hushed orders. She looked at the man she admired, but when his eyes met hers he gave nothing away. Carefully they retreated and readied to depart. All ears straining for signs of violence.


    Sven had heard enough of the altercation to know someone was coming for him, and he was sure who.


    ¡°You should go Lucy.¡± Raissa encouraged trying her best to sound positive.¡° Go with Maya. There is nothing left for you here, they can give you a better life. Their quarrel is not with you.¡±


    Lucy shook her head stony-faced. Raissa wished whimsically she could be free to go too. She knew though Sven would never sanction it. She was shackled to this dry little valley as long as she remained married and her man saw fit to remain here. She found herself wishing this would not be so. This was an opportunity to give her son a better life, a place in the sun, instead of all the old memories of death and hate that lingered here.


    Sven could hear the group of invaders preparing to depart, faint incomplete conversations drifted to his already straining ears as they began to leave the valley. He was confident he could deal with just one assailant, after all, he had years of combat experience, unlike Carlos, he was not blinded by vengeance. He would kill the man and be done with the whole sordid business, he had never liked the callow youth anyway.


    Carlos knew this lesser revenge would be a difficult objective. If the men had stayed the task could have been accomplished painlessly within minutes. He was undaunted though, but he lamented he had nothing of an incendiary nature he could throw into the cave to flush him out. The fuel and oil were all spent long ago. To that end Carlos skirted wide of the cave entrance, the darkness was thick about him as the sun had fully set. He was but a shadow, moving within the shadows. He clutched his rifle at the ready, though he doubted that he could chance to sight his enemy in this darkness. He afforded a quick glance up, the milky way now a silvered smear through the center of the indigo sky. He could hear the others on the clifftops getting ready to ride away. He hoped they had seen fit to at least leave him his horse, even if they had not wished to back him up.


    Sven lay flat on the hard stone with the idea of making himself the smallest possible target, he ordered the remaining two women to hide as far back in the cave as they could possibly crawl. He could hear nothing of his enemy. Carlos may be young and reckless, but his abilities were nothing to be toyed with, as he recalled this man¡¯s stealth and speed. All he could do now was wait and hope the impetuous young man would make a mistake.


    Carlos sat for long moments to the side of the dark opening. He could discern no movement within and there was only silence. What to do? He didn¡¯t have that many available choices if he wanted to be honest. He could merely wait and hope to shoot Sven, or do something reckless and have it be done with.


    The vengeful man was nervous, his longed for retribution was not supposed to play out like this. He had the realistic option to leave if he frankly wished, he was not duty-bound to shoot Sven. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to depart. He had hated Sven, the big man had contributed greatly to his misery over the years. Even more than that something hard and cruel in him craved the closure; perhaps Sven would be second prize compared to the man he really sought, but today he would do. With that thought, Carlos eased himself behind a large bolder and trained the muzzle of his rifle on the cave. It was time to draw Sven out.


    The retort of rifle fire shattered the night, sending the few roosting birds panicked from cover. Lissa looked back toward the valley, delighting in the warm embrace of the man who had rescued her and the rhythmic rocking of the horse''s gait. At the sound, the party halted and turned their mounts about, back toward the direction of the gunfire.


    ¡°Let¡¯s wait.¡± Renard instructed. The men nodded or voiced their assent, and the horses stood restless eager to be gone hooves pawing the sand. The creak of leather livery was loud in the ensuing silence. More gunshots, and with each one Lissa jumped. She could feel Renard clutch her firmly and she melted into his warm embrace seeking the comfort to be had there.


    *****


    The first spray of bullets hit the walls of the cave and ricocheted on the hard stone striking sparks in the darkness. Raissa screamed, and Sven grunted as he felt one of the errant missiles graze his thigh. He had feared just this eventuality, this was a bad place to be caught. He felt the wet of blood but there was little pain. Adrenaline had seen to that.


    Madly he scanned towards the right side of the cave opening, however, he knew that the cliff angled in just beyond, and his adversary would be tucked into this protective position. Well out of eyesight. Eyes straining he waited until Carlos would have to show himself to take a second volley. He looked at the old rifle in his hands and cursed his country''s stringent gun laws. The bolt action single shot was no match for the semi-automatic, and he wondered how Carlos had even come by one.


    Sven got off a couple of rounds to little effect but had to roll to the far side of the cave as another spay of bullets peppered the stone around him. He felt another projectile strike him hard in the left shoulder, he grunted at the hurt. Registering with alarm difficulty in moving his arm. He pushed his doubt and fear aside as he was always trained to do and continued.


    Carlos was not sure if any of his shots had struck home, it was quite possible, that he could use all his available ammunition and never strike the man, and that thought worried him. He had no idea how armed his adversary was, but he knew he didn¡¯t want to get into any sort of physicality with the highly trained soldier.


    Sven realized he was bleeding heavily from the shoulder wound, in the darkness it was difficult to ascertain the damage, but experience told him it was an extensive injury. He almost panicked for a moment as his vision went dark and then returned to him, he was losing a lot of blood. He had to finish this swiftly or he would not be capable of the task.


    Sven did not want to risk Carlos blindly shooting into the cave again. So far no one else had been harmed. He would not further endanger the lives of his woman or his son. He intended to draw fire elsewhere. He gathered up his rifle and made his move, running straight from the cave and taking a hard right turn in the hope he could surprise rush his attacker, and nullify the threat before he succumbed to loss of blood.


    Carlos did not anticipate Sven''s bold and desperate attack. He recoiled in fright, fumbling with the rifle as the big beast of a man landed almost on top of him. The smaller man strove to evade the crushing weight of his much larger but slower adversary, rolling lithely sideways and out of his grasp. All Sven got for his exertion was handfuls of red sand.


    Carlos rose and attempted to put some distance between him and his assailant. Backing quickly away. He raised his rifle and tried to take aim in the darkness, using sound rather then vision to determine his mark. He pulled the trigger hoping for the bullets to hit, something, anything to halt his nemesis. Yet on the big man came. Then the unexpected, he pulled the trigger again but instead of the retort of gunfire, there was nothing, just a vague click as the bullet jammed in the breach.


    There was no more time, Carlos tried to evade but large calloused hands were on him going for his throat. He attempted to use the rifle in the manner of a staff, anything to push the big man off him. It was too little, too late, as Sven had him pinioned beneath his superior weight.


    The pressure at his throat increased, and he ceased trying to use the rifle in any capacity. A ridiculous thought came to him at that moment as he was choking for breath, but he could see why soldiers had fixed bayonets installed onto their rifles. If he had he would not be enduring this...


    Instead he he was on his back squirming and fighting for every bit of oxygen his starving body craved, and he was tiring swiftly. The fog of lassitude was rising about him, his senses which had moments before been on high alert were dimming by the second. This is it, Carlos thought, I have failed. He tried for one last attempt at freedom but his arms were surely pinioned.


    Raissa was terrified but she knew she had to do something. If it was in anyone''s power to prevent this senseless bloodshed it would be hers. She turned to Lucy and pressed baby Eirik hastily into her arms. Raissa had never been by anyone''s definition brave, though in her short life, she had by accident or choice diffused many arguments among these wild men. She had to hope she could stop this one.


    Without thinking she took a deep breath and ran to the front of the cave. She could see no one, even after being in the blackness, yet outside the cave, all was starkly visible.


    For one unsteady moment she almost slipped in Svens¡¯ blood pooled on the stone at the cave entrance. She felt the tendrils of morbid fear as she saw the bloody trail illuminated dimly against the lighter hue of the red sand before her. Sven had been hit she registered and it looked serious.


    She could hear her man cursing from somewhere in the dark just beyond as she rolled into the sand unbalanced by her slip. She scrambled to her feet, it was hard to discern what was happening. Just ahead of her, she could hear the sounds of a desperate struggle in the grasses and sand. Men cussing and grunting locked in mortal battle.


    Sven was giving his attack every last ounce of his strength and willpower. He was on the brink of unconsciousness, as was his foe. The struggle became a desperate mission against time. A brutal array of seeking fingers, and strained grunts as the two men contested in the sand and prickly brush.


    Quite suddenly Carlos registered the grip about his throat loosening, and in his jumbled confusion, it was all the prompting he needed to wrestle his way free of the stranglehold. Sven had fainted, and with effort and a huge gasp for air, the lithe man gathered his wits and pushed the big man off him. He grabbed up the rifle fumbling with the stuck cartridge. He reloaded, and with nerveless fingers put his finger to the trigger, the gun barrel close to Sven''s head. The big man''s blood was spreading into the sand beneath him and looked black in the thin light. He was about to pull the trigger¡­.


    ¡°Carlos stop! I beg you!¡± Raissa cried, her panicked breaths ragged. She slid to the earth in her headlong flight and put herself between the gun and her husband''s prone form. ¡°Don¡¯t kill him, no¡­¡± She quailed. ¡°If you have any feelings left at all Carlos, please don¡¯t¡­.I''m begging you my love. Don''t be like them, the rest of them, please. I know you are not that man, please.¡± She was sobbing, raw tears of fear and terror.


    Carlos looked down at the diminutive woman with the thick mop of unruly tawny hair, watching the way her milky breasts rose and fell with her terror of the moment. The rifle barrel now hovered menacingly before her pretty face. He thought he had loved her once, but really she had only been a vessel for his desire. He understood that now.


    Raissa was either brave or foolish, he decided as he stood over her, raggedly panting, his raven hair wild, shirt front open divested of all its buttons in the skirmish. Yet the rifle he held in steady hands.


    She looked up at him as he gazed back, his eyes orbs of blackness and she registered no emotions there. Had he truly become this cold, devoid of all she had thought he held dear. Maybe he was no different to the others, she had only wanted to believe that he could have been better. She studied every nuance of his face that she had held tenderly in her hands in times long past. That face she longed for and admitted she still loved.


    ¡°Please... let us be, go¡­. leave this place, there is nothing else here for you.¡± She entreated softly again as she looked up into his impassive features. ¡°Sven might be too proud to surrender...¡±, she looked toward her vanquished husband, face down in the sand, his breathing ragged and shallow. ¡°But I am not, and I beg you for your mercy and his life, if it¡¯s the last thing you ever do for me, if you ever cared at all, even the tiniest bit.¡±


    The fiery young man who had been so long enslaved wanted this vengeance. Finality: it was part of what he needed to put this episode of his life behind him to heal and move forward. Yet the young mother''s appeal did not fall on deaf ears. He lowered the rifle but said nothing. Taking one more long look at Raissa and walked away into the dark.


    Lucy had emerged from the mouth of the cave holding the child, she was hesitant to approach. A faint breeze stirred the grasses and dried brush, and somewhere in the distance a lone plover called to the darkness adding to the sound of Raissa¡¯s tears.


    *****


    Renard sent a party of his most trusted and compassionate men back to the valley, led by Dale. He wanted to be sure that if there were any survivors they would be cared for. If they wished to leave that accursed place his men had been ordered to offer assistance and transport to those that remained.


    He wheeled his own horse about and headed for home, the women needed urgent medical care and it was not good for them to be out in the chill night air, he wished to make for shelter as fast as he was able.


    *****


    Carlos rode away heading south, he had no idea of what he would find there. However, this chapter of his life he was determined would be closed. He would be a slave to no man ever again, the only chains he would consent to wear would belong to Lady Death herself.


    It felt good to be free, riding, and alone without the direction of others in the desert night air. The sky was cloudless and the stars shone with a fierce luminescence. His body had cooled after the struggle, and he began to shiver partly with the cold and partly with the come down of his adrenaline surge. He reached about fumbling in his saddlebags for a heavier shirt with the buttons still intact.


    As he rode he fought to remember his exodus from the city on the fateful day, the day the world as he knew it ended. He had been very young, maybe just thirteen at that time. He had thought then rather foolishly that he was all grown up. Smart, and streetwise, he had been out with his two best mates Suresh and Evan. The boys had grown up together and attended the same school, if and when the tight-knit trio even bothered to attend. Truant they were, some of Marion High school''s worst.


    This day though they had decided against going into the city proper as they usually did to frequent the arcades and bright storefronts. They had in fact planned an adventure into the surrounding hills. Deciding to take their bicycles up to Mt Lofty. Carlos didn¡¯t really wish to go, but his mates had talked him into it. Little did he know then that that reluctant decision would save his life.


    When the blast happened shortly after one pm, the boys were in the hills watching on in sheer horror the apocalypse movie unfolding before them in real life. Carlos had screamed at his buddies to take cover, fortunately, they were over twenty miles distant from ground zero. The sight and sound he would never forget as he watched his entire world and those he loved evaporate before his eyes.


    After witnessing the atomic flash Carlos and his friends suffered temporary blindness, and for some days thereafter, they wandered alone and afraid stomachs growling. They hid for a time in some bushland near the M 1 roadway, but eventually, thirst drove them to move. The three boys were shocked to see the M 1 crowded with all manner of vehicles and people fleeing the city valley below. That though was not the worst of it, the injuries, horrific burns, some of the people looked like zombies their hair and clothes burnt off, yet somehow they still found the will to flee. It was a vision of macabre horror.


    The three boys didn¡¯t know what they should do, their supplies only meant for a day trip were almost gone. The rush to escape the city was leading to some very violent behavior among the fleeing, the strongest already beginning to take from the weak. Death began to become a reality and many bodies were strewn along the M 1 along with the skeletons of burnt-out vehicles.


    There were no police and no semblance of order. Carlos had never liked the ¡®Pigs¡¯ as he and his buddies termed them, but he was wishing for them now. They were but three boys thrust into this new and terrible world.


    When they could they would leave the road, it seemed way too dangerous to travel on it directly. They made their way through the back roads until they left the hills. After that, they were forced to take the M 1 directly out into the desert. Thirst and hunger were the enemy. This was easily the worst part of the entire journey.


    Occasionally though they would encounter benevolent folk who would share items with them. They were but young boys after all, and even in this strife some good people still felt pity. A bottle of water here, some candy bars, or a bag of crisps, and somehow the boys made their way on bicycles to the Bridge and relative safety.


    He wondered what he would find there now in that chaotic river town, where he had fled as a teen? He recalled vividly the vast swell of people, there were no places for them all to live. Sprawling refugee cities sprung up on the surrounding plains, built of whatever flimsy materials that could pass as a shelter. Tents, tarps, corrugated iron, wood, and even cardboard all were fair game.


    In this spreading squalor of human misery and death Carlos and his two best friends made their lives in that town. Thievery, con jobs, whatever it took to survive. Maybe the place would be no different, but it was a melting pot of humanity, and he longed to revisit it.

 With Youth Lies Hope

    Renard¡¯s men returned to the valley about half an hour later. Raissa had fought down her personal shock and terror and was working feverishly to save her husband''s life. With the aid of Lucy, she had turned Sven over. The giant of a man was extremely difficult to move, even with the two of them. She had torn the edge from her dress and was trying to stem the steady flow of blood still coming from the terrible wound in his left shoulder. The man was barely breathing, and Raissa feared he would die. She had no idea how she and Lucy were going to move him to the minimal comfort of the cave.


    Her mind was not helping her focus at this moment. It kept leading her to frightening scenarios, ones she did not wish to face. What if Sven died, how would they survive without a strong man here in this place? What would they do?


    Fortunately with the men''s return there was aid for the two struggling women, and they could at last move the gravely injured warrior into the cave to rest somewhere more appropriate. After some discussion, it was agreed that Dale and his men would ride back to the farmlands as swiftly as they were able and that supplies and a physician would be sent as soon as possible. It was really all they could offer. It was obvious to all from the outset that Sven''s chances of survival were slim, and to attempt to transport him some three days distant, would not be a possibility.


    *****


    Raissa and Lucy settled in to care for the ailing man. True, the women were afraid to remain here so unprotected, but circumstance now dictated they must. The most pressing problem to face the two lone women, besides that of their ailing charge, was that neither woman could hunt. Raissa thought that perhaps she could use the rifle and possibly bag some small prey, but she was afraid that unwelcome ears may hear the noise and creep curious to their camp.


    According to the men, every encampment and small civilization for miles around had been ransacked and decimated, however, the young woman still could not bring herself to break that silence. So they subsisted on mostly corn and goat''s milk and waited for help to arrive. They still had some dry rations, but soon sustenance would become a real issue. Both women hoped that Renard¡¯s men would return as they had promised.


    In the ensuing day''s wait Raissa was a tormented soul. She thought about Carlos often, and most heavily on that last interaction between them. He was a man who had been a slave just like her, a man to whom she had unreservedly given her heart and trust. She thought she had understood him. So many risks she had undertaken for his sake. Raissa was sure now she had meant nothing to him. The realization stung.


    Then there was this man, Sven. The one who had fought so tirelessly to protect her and their child, selfless in his quest, and yet she never saw him. In just the same way Carlos had never seen her. This man who was now her husband languishing in his world of fever dreams.


    It had been some forty-eight hours. Sven had not awakened since he fell. Raissa sat tirelessly by him tending the fire, cleansing his wounds, and trying to get him to drink some thin warm milk, and she prayed. She had never really paid that much attention to Father Andrew''s benevolent God, but she called on him now with a fierceness.


    Infection would take him she feared, as the big man muttered in his sleep and thrashed about. She held his giant scarred hands in her own and willed him to win this battle within. She had never realized Sven had meant this much to her. He was more than just a provider and protector. True, he was exemplary at what he did, but Raissa realized that she had loved this big rough man more than she had ever realized. She tenderly kissed his fevered brow and prayed for a miracle.


    *****


    The television was on in the low-ceilinged, almost over-warm lounge room in the small suburban home. Sven had to stoop to avoid the light fixture as he crossed barefoot on the plush brown carpet, beers in hand to his chair. He sat back in the recliner and turned to the man next to him watching the game, handing him a beer.


    ¡°The Crows scored another goal!¡± The older man said excitedly. ¡°They can beat Collingwood!¡±


    Sven nodded and took a swig directly from the beer can. The foam from the beverage sat on his upper lip and he licked at it with his tongue, gray eyes trained on the televised game. He wanted dearly to get his mind off his job, and the happenings he had been privy to in the last few weeks. He had to fight mentally to enjoy his leave, dark scenarios crowded his mind, and he would not give them up.


    ¡°Another goal for the Crows!¡±


    Sven was as always glad to see his dad happy. ¡®Enjoy it while you can old man.¡¯


    He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, something didn¡¯t feel right, there seemed to be a low-level pain shooting through his upper body. He took another drink of his beer. ¡®I¡¯m upset,¡¯ he reassured himself, ''and edgy, with all this talk of war with the guys and my commanders. They won¡¯t do it surely? I¡¯m going to go back next week and they will have stood down. It will be like all the other times the Americans have postured and pretended.¡¯


    ¡°Damn son! They are going to win! Would you believe it we will have a spot in the grand final!¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    His father then turned to him, his big hand alighting on Sven¡¯s forearm that lay on the elbow rest. The excitement of prior gone from his face to be replaced with seriousness. ¡°Look after them my boy, Mum,and your brother, you promise?¡±


    Sven turned to his father. The big armchair creaked, and the television droned on in the background, as the credits and commercials rolled.


    ¡°Yes dad, of course.¡±


    ¡°I know it¡¯s probably easier just to perish.¡± His father continued. ¡°It¡¯s the survivors that have the toughest road ahead¡­¡±


    ¡°Dad stop, it will be okay, really. That¡¯s just doom talk...¡±


    *****


    He woke, with a sudden start, barely cognizant of the woman who hovered over him speaking; Raissa. He fought to get his bearings, not understanding if he was home with his family, or somewhere else. It was early, not yet dawn, unknown to Sven two days had elapsed since he had lost consciousness and retreated into his world of guilty dreams.


    He winced as he forced his reluctant body to move. He felt heavy and slow, his head hurt and he felt a strong tinge of nausea grip him. Sven fought it down. Slowly his present reality seeped in and his dream faded. He never caught what his woman was saying, and he really did not care. All he could think about was the pain running through his shoulder, and arm, and radiating into his upper torso.


    ¡°Where is he... is the bullet out?¡± Were his muttered first words as he looked about attempting but failing to rise. Raissa was fussing trying to steady him, and could hardly believe he had been on death''s door, and that when he awoke the first thing he was worried about was where Carlos had gone. The man was in no condition to fight anyone.


    ¡°He¡¯s far away, now rest, we will not be seeing him again.¡±


    On the utterance of these words, Raissa felt this heavy feeling descend, like a thick fog that rose from out of nowhere. She sighed, she wished her stubborn love could just let go, it was after all a one-sided bargain she had made.


    ¡°Yes it¡¯s out, you are just feeling the infection, after all we had nothing decent to treat it with.¡± Raissa attempted to reassure, pulling the covers back over him and encouraging him to again, lay down.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Sven growled in disappointment, it was a primal sound from deep within his throat.


    ¡°Are you hungry?¡± Raissa dared inquire of the angry man.


    ¡°Was he hit?¡± The soldier in him would not let it go.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. It was dark I really could not tell.¡± She lied.


    She knew Carlos had escaped unscathed, the vision of him looming over her, rifle grasped with deadly purpose in his hands soared vividly into her mind''s eye. But she wanted to preserve a little of her husband''s dignity and allow him to think, that maybe he had at least half succeeded. Sven would never know how close he came in that moment to nonexistence, and Raissa would never tell him. She didn¡¯t really wish to be reminded of that last interaction. It had left her feeling very betrayed. So she changed the subject back to food and her husband''s recovery.


    ¡°I need to change the dressing. Renard is going to send some supplies and a Doctor¡­..¡±


    ¡°Fuck Renard!¡± Sven cut her off vehemently. He had no desire to see that gloating traitor, and didn¡¯t need his charity.


    Sven was in a vile mood and Raissa knew she must tread carefully, ever since his mishap at the fortress, he had never been quite the same. So she remained silent and tended him as best she was able.


    *****


    Renards¡¯ men returned as they had promised on the third evening. It was obvious they had pushed their horses hard, the beast''s brown hides were flecked with white foam from their exertion. They had brought with them a capable physician as they had promised. Sven was again most difficult, but with Raissa¡¯s coaxing, he cooperated somewhat.


    ¡°My, my, you have done well young lady.¡± The middle-aged, bespectacled man remarked. ¡°He is healing nicely. Not so sure Florence Nightingale, that you really needed me at all.¡± He smiled warmly at her and resumed rummaging through his medicine bag.


    Florence who. I¡¯m Raissa? Raissa smiled demurely at the praise, she rarely heard such sentiments directed her way in the company of these wild and rough men but had no clue what the Doctor was speaking of. She said nothing of course and sat listening dutifully as to what else she could do to help her husband make a full recovery.


    Sven was irritated and angry with himself for being defeated when he should have won. He was not the most cooperative or pleasant to those who had only come to assist. He was now well enough to be obstinate, and no one could make him do anything he did not wish to partake of. He sat by the fire with his arm in a sling staring into the flames, and for the most part ignored everyone, except his son. Eirik seemed to be the only one who could coax from him a smile and a kind word.


    His expression was grim as he sat looking into the fire pit, feeling the heat in his body and the heat on his face. The painkillers had dulled the ache, and he could now focus better, he gingerly tried to flex his hand and was heartened he could at least do so. He suddenly became aware that the future was being discussed a short distance away. He was the leader here, why were they speaking about him like he did not exist?


    ¡°We brought extra horses, and it seems he is well enough to attempt the ride.¡± Dale said to Raissa.


    Raissa felt warm inside at the thought of leaving this grimy little camp at last for someplace that could offer a better life, but that happy thought was dashed in a heartbeat.


    ¡°We are not going anywhere.¡± Sven growled flatly without even looking up.


    Raissa felt depleted at his words. They were so final. She looked at Dale awkwardly and shrugged her small shoulders, offering him no more than a wry smile. She had dearly wished to depart, she wanted to embrace a better life for her family, and she knew that Renard¡¯s lands could offer that.


    ¡°You should go with them Lucy.¡± Raissa said somewhat weakly.


    Lucy too shook her head and resumed stirring the stew that bubbled and boiled over the fire.


    ¡°No one is leaving.¡± Sven reiterated again louder, making sure that Dale could plainly hear him. He wished for no misunderstandings and just wanted the ¡®enemy¡¯ to be on their way. He shared no desire to live with a man who had betrayed him and led to his unfortunate mutilation. His feelings ran hot on this matter and he would not be swayed with talk of a more comfortable life. Besides, he had not the stomach to live among other men in his altered state, not that he would admit this to anyone.


    *****


    Early next dawn after the men had rested briefly, Dale and his companions departed. Raissa thanked them for the supplies they had brought, and the medical advice and help they had given her to aid her wounded husband. As they rode away tears streamed slowly down her face as she thought of the more comfortable life that she had been denied. She had not realized until then just how tired she was of simply scraping by.


    She wiped her face on her dress sleeve and turned back to the camp. The fire needed tending, there was food to be prepared, water must carried up from the well, and there was a baby to care for. Life didn¡¯t stop just because she was weary or sad.


    She missed Maya and wondered if she was finding a better life? Envious of her exodus. She took a deep breath and began to put logs in the fire pit to feed the hungry coals, perhaps she would feel better if she just concentrated on the daily tasks?


    The weather was no longer uncomfortably cold, so the fire was less of a necessity, but beneath the shady cave overhang, the coolness still lingered. Sven was dozing in Bennett¡¯s old place, Raissa was never sure if the man was awake and watching her or not. She was still fighting back tears, as she tended the fire and checked the cooking pot. Today at least she felt cheated of her due. Why could he not have gone with them!


    ¡°I know what you are thinking woman.¡±


    ¡°Raissa eyed her man somewhat startled. The traces of tears were still very evident in her large honeyed eyes. She was sure he had been sleeping, yet, he was quietly observing her.


    She shrugged and hoped he would desist. She was upset enough already at the missed opportunity. Renard was not a bad man, she could understand what he had done, and he did it for his family. Sven would have done the same.


    ¡°You think I am wrong for staying.¡± Sven said his voice flat giving nothing away, Raissa often found his macho stubbornness infuriating. Today was no exception.


    Raissa did not respond, it was not like he valued her opinion anyway, and she didn¡¯t want a fight. Sven may be her husband, but she was smart enough to understand she was viewed as property and always would be. A lesser being. Her opinions did not matter, and today that stung her. She hastily stirred the pot a couple more times to be sure the stew did not burn on the bottom and turned to get the water bucket.


    ¡°I¡¯m talking to you woman.¡± Sven¡¯s tone held that dangerous edge. Something she had thought he perhaps no longer possessed. Recalling the night in the cabin when he had forced her to reveal Carlos¡¯ escape plans, and her own duplicity in them.


    She turned and reluctantly sat, being mindful to sit on his injured side. She figured that would be safest. She wondered what it would be like to truly have a gentleman, but she didn¡¯t have long to dwell on this. She watched Lucy take up the water vessel and head off to the well to give the couple privacy. She again felt a twinge of fear as she looked at the giant of a man who controlled her every wish.


    ¡°My decisions here are final Raissa.¡±


    She looked down at the earth and toyed with the sand through her fingers. The last thing she wanted was to further incite him, but she too was angry in a way she had never been before. She felt her husband''s stubbornness had no real value, and he had squandered a very real opportunity to at least give their son a better life. She was going to say nothing, but the mother in her rose with unexpected ferocity.


    ¡°What about him?¡± She pointed to their little boy playing with a toy she had crafted from some animal bones and hides to resemble a crude doll.


    Sven did not flinch or reply, his eyes also taking in his son.


    ¡°It¡¯s not about you or me any more, or what ¡®WE¡¯ want. Look at him. Don''t you want a better future for him than this!¡± She gestured toward the crude encampment and its rudimentary shelters and furnishings. ¡°We are living in the stone age!¡±


    Sven growled a noise of caution, one she had heard before and knew she must respect. Raissa made to move away from his threat, but with a grunt of pain and more swiftly than she had anticipated he caught her arm with his good one and held her wrist firmly, pulling her to where he sat. She spun about, narrowly missing the fire, and sunk to her knees in the soft sand before him.


    ¡°The man is a traitor Raissa.¡± Sven hissed. ¡°He is the enemy, you would do well to remember that.¡±


    His stare was so cold and hate-driven that Raissa hardly recognized him, and she trembled, aware he could feel her fear.


    ¡°He led us into a trap, and left us to die on the battlefield, after he shared our fire, our food, and our lives!¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°No buts! Sven cut her off, and the pressure increased on her wrist.


    How could any man have a grip that strong? Raissa winced and tried in vain to retract her arm, there was no escaping his grip of steel or the cold of his eyes.


    ¡°You have been sheltered here, but you don¡¯t understand woman.¡± Sven said clearly frustrated. ¡°Renard and Lord Lothar are somehow allies, his people will not just blindly accept me, they have seen what we are capable of, that¡¯s why he panicked and made a deal with Lothar. I am sure as soon as we were to set foot with in his territories, I would be arrested and returned to that man!¡±


    Raissa didn¡¯t know if her husband''s fears were founded, she had never known Renard to be unkind. Yes, what her man had undergone was beyond horrific, but she wondered if he was overreacting. To her simplistic way of thinking if no one was to ever trust, then how could the future be better?


    She felt his grip ease on her wrist, it was just as well as he was hurting her with his angry pressure.


    ¡°We will stay here and be master¡¯s of our own destiny. There will be no happiness living under the rules of a traitor, and my word on this is final. I will hear no more understood!¡±


    With that he let her go, but she did not rise immediately. Her eyes were locked on his, what did she spy there, hatred, regret, maybe even fear? Regardless she was still very unhappy at his decision and wished it were not so.

 The Ngawait

    Carlos rode south, watching the peach-tinged glow flood the sky with color as sunrise broke the darkness. In the quietude of the journey and the comedown from his adrenaline rush, he had been extensively mulling over his past, and his future; if one could even have the luxury to think about such things in this dark age.


    The young man had no idea what lay ahead to the south. In the past, he had little time to take in landmarks or remember anything of the way to return to the coast; or even how far inland his current position. Was it hundreds of miles, or less than that? He had no idea. His initial traversal of this hard environment had all been mostly a fear-induced blur to him many years before, by vehicle. The captivity and the terror, never knowing if each moment would be his last. His adjustment to the mindset of a camp slave, and then to even darker places had been a terrible transition. He sought to free himself from his past even now, the wind in his hair and the comforting pace of his mount beneath him, telling himself his destiny was now his own. It still felt very surreal.


    It was quite a lovely day for the desert. Early spring and the sharpness of the cold had retreated somewhat. However, as Carlos rode other matters seeped into the newly independent warriors'' thoughts. This southward journey had been rather hastily contrived. He really had no idea where he was headed, where and if there was water to be had, and if there would be food available.


    He was pretty sure that for miles around there would be no settlements, his ¡®clan¡¯ had eradicated them all long ago. Not to mention Sven¡¯s stories of the subhumans and slavers that roamed the area. He shuddered thinking about the slavers especially, knowing he would rather die than face that future again.


    By midday, Carlos knew his horse was beginning to tire and slowed his pace. He gazed out at the endless vista of red sand occasionally interspersed by jutting rock, crowned with the round lobes of spinifex brush that waved uniformly in the breeze, and the blue of saltbush. Not a singular tree could he spy anywhere on the horizon.


    He was beginning to feel a little foolish riding alone into the desert. A song came to him and he began mouthing the words of something he could remember his mother playing on the stereo. ¡°¡­I''ve been through the desert on a horse with no name...It felt good to be out of the rain...In the desert you can''t remember your name...¡¯Cause there ain''t no one for to give you no pain.¡± His sung words sounded strange to him on the wind and he could not get the half-remembered tune out of his head. It seemed an apt tune at that moment.


    He wished he had had the sense to ask for a map, if indeed his hosts even possessed that kind of knowledge, as they seemed inextricably tied to their farm valley life. Perhaps there really was no map of the area. Sadly though he had no general knowledge of the environment he passed through. He would though, have to chance upon water soon, and the first small tendrils doubt plucked at him. He would find something he quietly assured himself, and went on humming the tune.


    Night found the young man and his horse sheltered in the lee of a dried river bed. The animal needed water, and Carlos remembered that sometimes there was a chance that if one dug deep enough in a place such as this he may stumble onto some drinkable moisture. So he dug with his hands in the soft river bed, the alluvial sand felt cool and slightly damp. On the hope of this promise in a couple of hours, he had a small pool of water for his mount. This was a great relief to the young man, and bolstered his confidence and resolve.


    There was bone-dry wood strewn about in the creek bed, transported miles downstream in times of flood, for there were no trees in this place either living or dead. So he crafted a small fire and ate some jerky he had stowed in his saddlebags. He still had a good-sized canteen of water for his own consumption, so for now, he was content. Day one had not been so bad, and he hoped tomorrow his fortunes would follow a similar path. So he lay back on his saddle and slept well considering he was out in the open, and remained undisturbed the entire night.


    The next day was overcast, not overly dreary and dark like it had been months before but dull nonetheless. Carlos pressed on. He managed to shoot an inattentive rabbit, in the late afternoon and settled down in a small copse of stunted trees for the evening. Regrettably, this place had no source of water, and he slept fitfully.


    He woke well before sunrise feeling fatigued. He had been dreaming odd and disturbing dreams, surreal visions of darkness and void. There were no colors in these strange vistas, no light, and yet he could somehow see. He tried in vain to recall them more clearly, as he packed away his rudimentary campsite, but the satisfaction of recollection would not come. Carlos oddly wondered if those dreams were in some way connected to the ones that he had in the valley, and yet they were very different. It was like he was looking at another world, one diametrically opposed to his own. The essence of the dream though did not leave him as most dreams on waking do, and he thought about the strange lightless landscapes all morning as he rode under the bright sun.


    Events were taking a turn for the worse, his horse needed a drink badly and the inexperienced man had no clue where he might find a water source. Carlos began again to rue his hasty decision to seek city life. However, Renard¡¯s farmland sanctuary was too far distant to provide for his error now. He had little choice but to press on and hope providence would provide.


    Towards sunset, the sand began to give way to areas of jutting rock and clumps of low Mallee scrub. Carlos knew his horse was tired and thirsty, but he elected not to make camp. In his inexperience, Carlos inadvertently rode by the reliable source of water known to Bennett and his men, and continued blindly on.


    Just as the sun set before him on the plain he saw it, a high metal structure seated down in a bowl of a natural valley. He figured this had to be the fabled fortress that Bennett and his men had tried to breach unsuccessfully. He was but a lone traveler, and against his better judgment he decided to ride down toward the closed gates in the hope that he could get his horse a much-needed drink.


    It was almost dark as he reached the base of the great fort, he called out hoping to alert someone of his presence. There was no movement on the parapets up above, all he could hear were vague mechanical rumblings deep within the compound, and sight a few sparse lights. He waited while his horse fidgeted beneath him and tossed his head, chomping loudly on the bit. He called out a greeting a couple more times to the fast encroaching darkness, his voice almost obscene in the ensuing silence.


    He was about to turn away as his horse quivered and reared, and the unmistakable swish of an arrow passing through the air to land with a dull thunk in the sand beside him. He spurred his mount away swiftly and skirted the fortress at a distance, he would find no help within.


    Carlos decided not to ride a lot further in the darkness. The desert darkness could be often difficult to navigate, and those who had never experienced time away from any form of civilization, and its resultant light pollution would never be able to grasp how dark this place could be on some nights. It was difficult at times to even see objects close to one''s face, and this evening was one such evening.


    He was tired, but worry kept him awake most of the night. His horse must have water and soon. He was beginning to feel miserable and stupid venturing this far south, with no preparation, and he had no clue where he should now head. With all these thoughts crowding into his reason, he broke camp well before sun up and hoped that today he could solve his problem. He was now running out of water in the canteen.


    The young warrior''s stomach had been rumbling all morning, and his mouth was dry. He took a rationed sip from his canteen, noting it was almost empty. Luckily it was not hot, and he walked his poor horse to help conserve the animal''s endurance. There were more trees here and they were thicker. The twisting branches were slowly recovering their evergreen leaves he noted as he passed on by. He wove his way through them hoping he was still traveling in the right direction, as by midday dense cloud cover had obscured the sun making navigation confusing.


    It came to his ears a sound, one of an alien nature in this wild place, a rooster''s crow. He stopped, jerking at his horse''s bridle to quiet its stumbling gait, and froze listening intently, hoping to discover if the sound was real or imagined. He did not have long to wait in his analysis, there it was again coming from someplace unseen up ahead. He pressed forward pulling his rifle from its holster.


    In a cluster of tightly knit Mallee trees there came into view a circular clearing of bright orange sand, where the black rooster stood proudly among his bevy of hens. Beyond the scratching fowl, there sat a small wooden hut complete with veranda.


    Carlos paused for long moments hoping his noisy horse would not give his position away to the rough little wood and bark hut''s occupants, if there indeed were any. The door to the domicile stood open. Brightly colored but very plain clothing hung drying on the line, that was strung between the veranda posts of the crude little dwelling. It was even in its crudity a scene of happy domestic bliss.


    Carried to his ears was the sound of a young woman singing, a bright carefree, but unknown melody, almost surreal in this dusty little place. Even better in the center of this little clearing with its one hut and a sundry lean-to, there stood a well.


    His mind made up he urged his animal forward cradling his rifle to show he was armed, but trying not to appear overtly threatening. His goal was not violence, just the acquisition of much-needed water.


    The singing stopped abruptly. Carlos again paused, he was but feet from the well and his objective. He thought he saw a face framed by the glassless window, but he was unsure. The inside of the building was hard to discern. He thought then that he should probably voice his peaceable intent. It seemed prudent, as he did not wish to be shot from the window after all. Memories of the arrow meant for him last night were still fresh in his mind.


    ¡°I¡¯m just traveling through.¡± The nervous warrior announced. ¡°My horse and I need water... I am just going to get some and then we shall leave.¡±


    Carlos thought he heard movement from within the dark recesses of the hut, he was just a foot or two from the well pump. He pulled his thirsty horse closer and reached for the iron bucket. The chickens continued to scratch and forage all about him, and still, no one appeared in the darkened doorway. He put the vessel down beneath the faucet, and cradling his rifle worked the well pump until the bucket was overflowing with cold, clear water.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    His gelding did not need any coaxing and drank thirstily, draining the bucket with loud slurping sounds almost as fast as the young man could refill it. He hurriedly topped off his own canteen to the brim, but not before taking a long drink himself; and as he turned to reach his second canteen he was startled to see a man behind him. A man that had moved so silently, Carlos, even with his extraordinary senses honed by years of deprivation, had failed to register. He fumbled with his rifle and realized then the man was unarmed.


    There stood a middle-aged indigenous gentleman. A man designed to live in this harsh environment and thrive even. He was neither tall nor short, he had the characteristic flat nose and wavy, wild, dark hair of his people. His expressive face is crisscrossed by deep lines, not those worn by care and worry, but rather by exposure to the savage environment. His long brown beard faded in many places to white denoting his age. His dark eyes bored into Carlos¡¯ own with an almost primal resonance. The young man could feel the tranquility about this man, one who was not swift to react, or prone to violence. Slowly he holstered his weapon and hoped he had not misread the given signs.


    ¡°I am Kuparr of the Ngawait.¡± The man announced. ¡°You are very noisy, easy to follow.¡± He added with a soft chuckle.


    Carlos had no idea what the man had actually said, but he nodded politely. He thought perhaps it courteous to tell them at least who he was.


    ¡°I am Carlos DeSade. I¡¯m just traveling through.¡±


    He noticed then a flash of bright blue in the doorway behind him.


    ¡°This is my kurturtu, Medika.¡±


    The man gestured to a pretty young woman who stood in the doorway. Her simple bright blue, calf-length shift was framed by the darkness of the hut. She was smiling unreservedly, her long wavy hair dark at the roots faded to a pretty honey shade at the ends. She was barefoot. Her honest smile was mesmerizing.


    ¡°Come.¡± Was all the man said as he beckoned toward his simple abode. It was then the young warrior noticed that the man had a string of many tawny rabbits slung over his back from a successful hunting trip.


    Carlos took one more glance at his horse, who was still periodically slurping on the bucket of water in semi-closed-eyed bliss, deciding at once that the animal would not stray too far from the well, and made his way behind the man towards his home.


    On entering the hut once his eyes had adjusted Carlos noted the living space was almost empty. No furniture of any kind occupied this small space, just two simple pallets made from brush and covered with predominantly kangaroo hides, one at each end on the hard-packed earthen floor. There were a few sundry useful objects lying about, but very little else.


    The man set his catch down by the doorway. Flies were already beginning to alight on the freshly killed animals. He then sat cross-legged on the floor of his home in the dirt, and the pretty women followed his lead. They both smiled at Carlos and gestured for him to sit also. He did so, but he felt awkward in this man''s sparse home. However his host was a richer man than he, he owned a well. Carlos was fast learning, that something as simple as water out here could make you a king.


    ¡°Where you headed? It¡¯s pretty hard out here. No water much. Horse not get very far.¡± The man''s darkest but gentle brown eyes appraised him.


    Carlos feeling somewhat chagrined nodded. At least this bearded man of nature could speak somewhat passable English. He looked away from his host''s warm stare to the dust on the toes of his boots. It seemed this man''s survival skills were far superior to his own, and he may have if not for chance, wandered this desert until thirst had claimed him. The thought made him anxious, and he wondered how he was going to make the rest of his journey south? Perhaps this man knew the area and could offer him pointers as to where he could travel? He would start with that.


    ¡°I am trying to get to the coast, do you know the way?¡±


    ¡°Big city gone¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know...but there is a smaller one to the east. I can¡¯t remember its name. I am trying to get there.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Long ways away. Many days.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever been there.¡±


    Kuparr shook his woolly head in the negative. ¡°We been here long time, stay with the water. Long ways to the river.¡±


    ¡°Good plan.¡± Carlos nodded somewhat nervously. He was feeling more doubt than ever, and was now kind of nervous to leave, at least until he knew where the next water stop could be located. Fortunately, his host realized the young man''s tension, and with his next words, Carlos felt absolved of his issue, at least for the time being.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you stay for a while. Help me skin rabbits. There is plenty for all.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Carlos responded eagerly.


    In no time between them, they had the seven rabbits skinned and dressed, and the pretty woman who Carlos learned was named Medika, and the daughter of Kuparr, had the rabbits roasting over the fire pit. The shadows were growing long, and the trio shared a good meal until all had full bellies. They spoke awhile as the fire died down to coals; mostly small talk, and when the stars shone brightly above, Kuparr instructed Carlos to place his bedroll in the center of his hut, and they all lay down to peaceful sleep.


    *****


    In the days that followed, Carlos enjoyed his gentle host''s company. Kuparr was a fine bushman, he always found game, often thinking to look in places Carlos would have missed entirely. Incredulously the man had survived here for years with little. He hunted with snares or a collection of thrown spears, the ends burned in the fire and honed to razor sharpness. He created the sharpest skinning knives from select rocks which he patiently shaped against another stone. There seemed no limit to this man¡¯s resourcefulness.


    Growing up in the inner city Carlos had not met many self-respecting aboriginal folk. His only experiences had been with the drunken individuals who inhabited Victoria Square in his youth. He could remember walking by them only to be spat on and called derogatory names. He and his friends always thought of those Indigenous people as scum and at best lost souls. They were nothing like Kuparr or Medika, and Carlos found he had to completely reassess his long-held stereotypes.


    Not only was Kuparr an extraordinary survivalist but Medika was also. She knew where to dig for edible roots, and she could locate and gather plants, and berries. She knew how to prepare delicious food from what the desert provided.


    However, the thing that drew Carlos to her more than anything was her beautiful, uncomplicated joy and simplicity. She always smiled, her laughter was genuine and infectious. In her company he often found himself smiling and laughing too. She didn¡¯t have ulterior motives in anything she did, she was simply Medika, and Carlos was inextricably drawn.


    As the days passed Carlos often found himself seeking Medikas¡¯ company. She was like a healing balm for his soul. He had never imagined he would fall for an Indigenous girl. He had always sought out the empty, vapid vessels of girls at his school. They were often startlingly beautiful, but if one dug beneath there was very little there to like.


    Medika though was like a diamond mine, everywhere you dug there was yet more richness to be unearthed. Carlos marveled at how someone could live here with so little, and yet be so deep.


    The young woman was also delighted to be noticed in such a way, she had been years alone without peers after all. She reciprocated his attentions and romance grew. She brought out a tenderness that Carlos never knew he possessed. Kuparr watched on and smiled.


    *****


    The two had been walking, holding hands in the Mallee grove, the red sand soft, whispered beneath their feet. They were supposed to be searching for Quandong fruits, as Medika said they grew here. There was hope some had indeed survived the cold and were still left on the bushes. Yet this afternoon they had located very few. Still, they searched, for it was this kind of patience one must have to dwell successfully in the arid wilderness.


    A lone brown hawk hovered high above, almost no more than a pinprick in the heavens. It flapped its wings and prepared to dive emitting a hoarse screaming ¡°Kee-eeeee-arr.¡± Carlos glanced up, making an attempt to see the bird more clearly, but it was too distant.


    ¡°Oh look!¡± Medika exclaimed with a squeal of joy. He turned to see her bent over tugging fervently on his hand, her keen eye set on something in the sand. She was always picking up unusual stones for him to look at and had quite the collection at home. Carlos had begun to affectionately dub her his ¡®little geologist.¡¯


    Medika rose from her inspection of the item in the sand that had caught her eye, flourishing her prize for Carlos to inspect. It was a completely spherical stone about the size of a large grape. At first glance Carlos thought it a thing of mass production, yet as he looked closer he felt a chill presence close in on him. He had seen its like before, if not in the waking world but harbored in his dreams.


    Medika pressed the spherical stone into his hand, it was many shades of gray and looked like frozen water droplets suspended in glass. Medika proud of her find was still gazing at it in wonder. Carlos pinched the stone between his thumb and forefinger, he pressed it with all his strength but it was as resilient as a glass bead, or rather a marble. Perhaps it was a glass marble he thought, he bit down on it between his teeth. Medika laughed musically, Carlos joined her, though quietly inside he felt the tendrils of a creeping dread.


    They continued the search for quandong fruits, finally coming to a little copse of the rare trees interspersed among the higher mallee canopy. Medika was about to run forward to gather the fruit, but Carlos would not free her hand from his. Instead pulling her about to face him.


    She was a wonder this dark girl with kind, dreamy, brown eyes. She inhaled a desirous breath as she looked up at him, and he needed no more goading. His lips met hers, devouring her completely. She reciprocated without hesitation or care.


    He bore her down onto the leaf-covered earth, her hair wound about her like coiled rope. Her body was strong, slender, and sensuous beneath him. He nibbled at her neck as she moaned in delight, as he descended lower into the valley between her coffee-colored breasts, to caress with his tongue. Fumbling she removed her shift, and she lay naked on the earth before him. Nature''s perfection and Carlos felt his passions swell.


    He was on all fours above her, his straight black hair the color of night hanging about his face like a shroud. Medika gave him one of her sensuous pouts, her deep brown eyes glistened with lust. He bore down on her fumbling with the constraints of his clothing. Knowing his intent she arched her back and gripped him, he could feel her nails through his shirt on his back, he could sense her animal desire and hot wantonness. She was so unlike anything he had ever known a woman to be. She had no shame, no baggage, no restrictive societal expectations. She was simply Medika daughter of the desert, and he loved her like no other.


    He sucked aggressively on her upstanding brown nipples, teasing her with his teeth. Medika moaned and encouraged him for more, but he was in no rush, she was his to explore. His questing tongue moved lower, over the dip in her rib cage and lingered long on the ever so slight swell of her belly. Then lower still to slide into the warm valley between her thighs. Her hands were in his hair, one moment petting, the next holding him to her as she arched beneath him pressing her womanhood to his tongue seeking more. He feasted on her as she arched and moaned, relishing this love.


    Abruptly he ceased his assault of her dripping sex, pulling his face away to slide up once more to look into her pretty face as he entered her. He desired to see her emotions, to look into her eyes in that moment of joining. She was very ready, and he felt himself deep within, cradled in all that she was. The warmth, the heat, the mystery.


    He was willing himself to control his rapidly mounting, explosive desire, and the pretty vixen beneath him was undermining that same control. Carlos grimaced trying to will the moment not to come, to hold off, to savor it a while. Her nails insistently raked his back, the scent of her hair, the beautiful closeness. It was too much, and he felt the release take him, gripping his body in orgasmic waves. He could feel her shudder beneath him as her tawny legs gripped his slim waist. They slumped spent on the leaves.


    The two lovers lay there for a long time, entwined, kissing softly, caressing. Watching a blue wren and its mate hop amongst the trees chattering happily.


    ¡°I love you.¡± Medika whispered happily close to Carlos¡¯ ear.


    ¡°I love you too.¡± He replied tenderly as he held her close, and unlike last time he meant it.

 Kindness, and Longings

    Stephan sat in the small keeping room just off of the kitchen, he could hear the bustle of the kitchen staff, and the busy sounds were comforting to the old man. The shadows were beginning to lengthen outside as the world turned to twilight. This particular room was very pleasant, lined with windows that in the morning let in an abundance of light. Very few were clear though, as intact panes of glass had become an almost impossible commodity to acquire since the war, just as mirror glass had. So a creative craftsman had manufactured lead-lights from many broken pieces, and they formed beautiful mosaics that gave the cozy room an almost monastic feel.


    The old man loved to come here, and often did, favoring this location over his study, especially in the morning hours. The large gnarled wolf¡¯s apple tree grew prominent, just outside the window, the blossoms had recently faded, giving way to abundant green leaves with the promise of a bountiful apple crop that made the finest pies.


    Beyond he could see the completed palisade wall that ringed the township, and the guard towers, which every member of his town had worked so hard to make a possibility, in such a short space of time. This wall to Stephan represented the one reminder of approaching war, even as he looked on such tranquil beauty.


    This was also his and Anna''s most favorite place to sit and reflect over a much-needed meal, and a glass of wine. This he did alone this evening as he looked out across these abundant acres that had been so kind to him and his people. His mind as it often did, drifted to the upcoming war. ¡®Why could his neighbors simply not live in peace! Were they truly ready for this war that they did not need?¡¯


    At least with the return of his beloved son, he possessed new intelligence about his old foe. That had heartened him some and caused his people to feel more confident as well. His adversary Lothar was crippled and confined to a wheelchair, and he had lost many of his best fighting men that bloody day. It well may be some time before the war even ensued, and every day they grew more prepared for whatever was to come.


    A light step at the open doorway roused Stephan from his recurring worries, he had presumed it was the presence of his lovely wife he had detected there. Adjusting his uncooperative eyes he realized he was wrong.


    ¡°Oh Lissa, it¡¯s you. Do come in.¡±


    ¡°Good evening Sir.¡± She answered cheerily stepping through the doorway.


    ¡°Do sit.¡± The elderly man gestured to the vacant chair where his wife usually sat.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Lissa settled herself down, crossing her legs and brushing down her pretty floral dress.


    ¡°Wine?¡±


    ¡°Oh lovely, thank you Sir.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Such a pleasing and polite girl, and a brave one too. I still haven''t thanked you for your actions that night.¡±


    ¡°You have no need to thank me Sir, anyone would have done the same.¡±


    ¡°Ah, ever modest my dear.¡±


    Lissa blushed a little at the elder man¡¯s compliment and took a sip of her wine. It was fruity and tasted like the essence of summer. She tossed her bountiful auburn curls back over her slim shoulders and set her kind brown-eyed gaze on the elderly man. He sat in his chair with his cane leaning against his leg, his left hand resting on its top, he looked dignified and handsome still in this navy blue robe tied at the waist with a tasseled rope belt.


    ¡°So how are the girls?¡±


    ¡°Oh, they are both, recovering quite well. Sarah still has a trace of a cough, and Kate is going to have a baby.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± Stephan sounded sad, ¡°How goes that new lass, what was her name, Mary, Myra¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, you mean Maya.¡±


    ¡°Yes that was it, Maya, how is she?¡±


    ¡°Well, she seems kind of lost here honestly. Many have tried to include her but she still seems very withdrawn.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully that will pass.¡±


    Lissa nodded, her curls bouncing as she did so.


    ¡°So to what do I owe the lovely visit my dear.¡± His words were warm and gentle with no hidden agendas.


    ¡°Well Sir, I came to see you because I had this idea... I wanted to tell Renard but¡­ I felt it better if I approached you or Anna first.¡±


    ¡°Then my dear let me hear it.¡±


    ¡°I have thought about it for some time Sir. I think it might be nice if we made a memorial for Frances. She was so very loved. I know we don¡¯t have her¡­¡±


    Lissa paused and took another sip of her wine, she was feeling torn with emotion trying to discuss her lost friend. This was proving more difficult than she had thought it would be. Bravely though she continued.¡°¡­ Her remains, but I do have a little something of her.¡±


    She looked down and pulled a beaded bracelet from her arm, it was turquoise blue, with silver beaded accents threaded on some tough twine.


    ¡°She made this for me on my twelfth birthday. I have worn it ever since. It¡¯s a part of her, we could inter it and have a funeral, some closure for family and friends, but especially Renard. I know he feels so responsible.¡±


    ¡°That my dear would be a lovely idea.¡± Stephan smiled. ¡°I shall talk to the stone mason at once and see what can be done.¡±


    Lissa rose and made to deposit the bracelet in her aging leader''s hand. Her brown eyed gaze was sad with the remembrance of her dear friend, and the tragedy of her passing. As she placed the item in Stephan''s outstretched palm his other hand covered hers with a warm reassuring embrace.


    ¡°Thank you for being so thoughtful Lissa, my son is lucky to have you by his side.¡±


    He knew then Lissa realized, and he had just given his blessing to their love.


    *****


    Maya stared down at the little amulet that hung suspended about her neck on the fine gold chain, she fondled it often, wondering where Aran was and if he would ever return to her. She sighed softly, she missed her strong, golden man. The family she had been housed with, in the farming settlement had been nothing but lovely to her, yet she felt she did not belong.


    She was a wild she-wolf who missed her lifelong mate. Maya could not see her way to a life without him. She regretted leaving the valley, she missed Raissa, little Eirik, and Lucy, and only wished to return. She was angry at Sven for ordering her to leave. Replaying the events of that evening over and over. She should have defied him, and she wondered if he had died. Worry and sadness descended like demons then to mess with her thoughts. If he had died what had become of her friends? The thought put her in an ever agitated state of mind.

 The Banned Angels

    Aran settled into life at Ben Johansen¡¯s wood yard. Often in the quiet of evening stopping to ponder why he had been sold? Had Dahlia sought to spare him, or was the transaction purely coincidence? He liked to think that Dahlia¡¯s anger was not infinite. He knew instinctively that if he had remained on the chain gang, he would have eventually perished no matter his great size, or the resolve to be free in his heart.


    The big man was still very much a slave. However, life was better here. He ate well, and the work though constant was not too hard. Aran had much admiration for Ben Johansen, the way he worked right alongside Aran loading carts and cutting lumber. There was no division in the duties of a slave or owner here. Simply put, there were tasks to be done and whoever was available at that moment saw to them.


    The weather that had ravaged the landscape slowly cleared. Giving way to warmer, sunnier days, gentle rains that promoted the new crops, and a sense that normalcy had at last returned to the land. The citizens of the Bridge seemed less panicked, and an easier way of life set in for those of the southeastern side of town.


    Aran had been correct in judging he now lived amongst the poorer folk. A collection of displaced refugees who had years ago, and some even recently, sought new lives here. Some would leave the ghettos to rise above the grinding poverty of the southeastern district, men like his owner. Some would never escape the winding dirt alleyways that became a mire of mud and septic refuse in the rains, the gnaw of an empty belly, and the grinding crush of poverty.


    In the woodyard, Aran watched the entire city pass by. For comfort was a great leveler, every citizen, needed wood for cooking fires and to heat, or lumber to build new structures. So the warrior who had become a slave, glimpsed both the wealthy and the poor, as they drove their carts to his doorstep.


    Aran spent most of his days outside. Though he did get to dine with his owners in the early mornings and evenings, and the atmosphere was pleasant. At night he was housed in a secure concrete block building, which at one time had been a public convenience. The toilets and bathroom fittings had been long ago removed. His sleeping space occupied one half of this structure, a tool shed the other. He had for his comfort a simple straw pallet, along with a fur blanket, though the warrior considered this luxury after so long sleeping in the field.


    The days he spent shackled to a thirty-pound iron ball, most men could not have bore such a constant weight, however, Aran was not like most men. This enabled the enslaved warrior to move about to perform tasks but seriously limited his escape options. Aran had originally decided he would kill Ben Johansen with this iron ball. A swift blow to the skull would easily end the man''s life. However, as the days wore on Aran found he could not do so. He watched the man toil as hard as he did, and care for his comely daughter Imogen, and her five-year-old son Ewan. Aran had also witnessed Ben Johansen¡¯s many acts of kindness. Ben coming from the shanty town felt a very obvious compassion for those around him, and for the less fortunate. Often adding twice the load to a struggling man''s cart, and insisting he not pay, or do so when he could find his way into a better circumstance.


    Aran being a wild man of the wastes, did have considerably fewer morals than many had. However he was not a mindless killer, and he instinctively understood that if he killed Ben Johansen it was very likely he would be torn to pieces by the local population. So Aran shelved that idea. Perhaps in time, he may negotiate for his freedom? Ben Johansen was after all a compassionate and reasonable man.


    So as the afternoons lengthened into pleasantly warm ones, Aran began to learn that even among all this industriousness and good, there lurked bad undercurrents. As with all success came the parasites and sharks to feast upon the hard work of others. This came in the shape of a group of rough-cut men called The Banned Angels.


    The day had been a very normal one. Just an endless stream of carts come to fetch firewood, interspersed with some lumber cutting. Both Aran and Ben had worked hard, and were taking a welcome drink from the terracotta cistern of water that collected the runoff from the roof of the house. A good freshwater well here was out of the question, as the groundwater was full of salinity and therefore undrinkable. So potable tanks were a must, though, with the long breaks in between sustaining rains, the river water was a lifeblood and was carried and carted in great quantities to the thirsty city. The sun had begun to feel warm in recent days. Hardly the blistering desert heat, but it seemed the fiery orb had returned, finally. Promising to be a force to reckon with in the coming months. The cool, clear, rainwater tasted good to Aran, and he drank it in greedy gulps, eyes closed, quite lost in the simple pleasure.


    Aran had heard them first, they did not drive into the compound in a cart as all the others had, they had arrived on foot. A knot of men, ten or so. Bearded, long hair in ponytails, and braids, all black leather, fur, and metal. Bristling with weapons. They scuffed their steel-shod boots in the gray dust, making no effort to be subtle.


    Aran turned, for a moment he thought of Dahlia, and well expected to see her silk-wrapped form emerge from among them. A flower amongst the rye. He heard Ben sigh, it was a truly troubled sound.


    ¡°You stay here.¡± His voice was toneless though Aran sensed fear. The warrior tensed his muscles and strained his ears, wishing he was not anchored to the thirty-pound ball and chain. If trouble started he would not be able to cross the gap swiftly.


    One of the men stepped forward, he sported an immense gray beard shot with white. He had been smoking a hash joint, the only real tobacco to be had here. He crushed the remainder carelessly under his iron-shod sole. Ben though a big man looked apologetic, almost humble before him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry...I could not get the money. I will... I promise... pay it very soon...¡±


    Aran did not catch the entirety of the conversation. However, he had picked up enough of it to understand the general tangent of the exchange. His ears pricked as he heard the word Finks uttered by the impressively bearded individual, and it was spoken with a strong accent of distaste. He watched Ben¡¯s shoulders slump forward to appear even more humble.


    ¡°I...I just buy my wood from them. It¡¯s no more than that. A simple exchange. I have to get my stock from somewhere... and well they are the ones clearing.¡±


    It bothered Aran to watch Ben backpedal and apologize to these rough-shod men.


    Imogen ever the most thoughtful daughter had come out of the house to see if her hardworking father had wished for any refreshment. The visiting men¡¯s eyes eagerly devoured her.


    ¡°Go inside.¡± Ben turned to warn her, he was clearly stuck in the middle of the terrible exchange. She turned and left immediately in a flurry of gathered skirts.


    Aran was tense in a way he had not been for a very long time. He desired to take up the metal ball, and possibly advance to lend his collective threat to Ben¡¯s cause, as he would have done in his own clan. However, the eyes of the men were on him and he didn''t want to further aggravate the situation. So he stood like a mute pack animal in the background. This too bothered him in a way he could not rightly explain.


    There was more talk. The man¡¯s voice was so low Aran strained to hear. The few words he did catch were not insightful. There was some pushing and shoving, a show of needless dominance. Ben did not retaliate. Oddly no customers had arrived in the woodyard, perhaps they had seen the trouble and elected to load up another time? It was probably a wise move.


    Ben finally turned from the men and went into the house, he was not there long. Aran knew the pack of leather-clad men were observing him closely, he did not know whether to feel pride or shame.


    Ben Johansen returned shortly. He bore a leather purse containing all his valuables. He placed the wallet into the bearded man¡¯s gloved hand. The man didn''t open the bag, he simply bounced it up and down on his palm a couple of times testing its weight.


    ¡°I want the rest and soon, or we¡¯ll take your daughter. You got seven days.¡±


    Just as swiftly and silently as they had first arrived, the men were gone into the dusty street.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    *****


    However, the ominous mood the men¡¯s visit had generated did not depart so easily from the Johansen household. That evening dinner was unusually silent, at least at first. After little Ewan had been put to bed and the dinner dishes were being cleared away, it was Imogen who found her voice.


    ¡°Curse the Banned Angels.¡± She spat. It was the first time Aran had witnessed anything of Imogen but innocent sweetness.


    ¡°Quiet daughter.¡± Ben growled into his cup.


    Aran had been allowed to sit by the fireside and listened with keen interest. He desired to know more about this threat.


    ¡°We can¡¯t just let them intimidate us Father, we could go before the Commissioner¡­¡±


    ¡°Imogen!¡± Ben shouted. His daughter jumped at his unruly outburst, yet she continued boldly in the face of his wrath.


    ¡°He¡¯s the law, he could do something, this is extortion, it¡¯s not legal¡­¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡±


    ¡°Father...¡±


    Ben rose, and for the first time, Aran felt anger emanating from the big man, who was usually so placid. He advanced on his daughter and grabbed her hard by both upper arms. Aran could see his grip was not gentle. However, to Aran''s mind, women were men¡¯s possessions, and it was a father¡¯s right to correct his daughter in any way he saw fit.


    Ben scowled down into his daughter¡¯s bright face. ¡°There¡¯s a lot girl you don¡¯t seem to understand. Law and order here is a farce, it¡¯s a feudal state. We work and we live, but if they want our lifeblood they will take it. The Commissioner protects those of his own, not simple men like me. The Angels, well they are just doing his dirty work and filling his coffers.¡±


    ¡°But the Commissioner in essence can¡¯t be bad, he was a policeman.¡±


    ¡°Any man can be bad Imogen. Let me deal with this, and I have heard enough.¡± Ben pulled his daughter into a loving embrace, and the palpable threat dissolved.


    *****


    Aran understood what he would have done, along with the other men of his clan. They would have stood and fought. There was no recourse to the law here, he understood that much. He lay that evening on his straw pallet and thought about Ben¡¯s situation long into the night, he had decided to try and talk to him in the morning. Aran was well aware the two men had never really held a conversation. One could not count the few words exchanged when speaking of how to trim a log, or which pile of wood needed to be further split. He was unsure of how to proceed.


    *****


    Aran did not get the chance to speak with Ben, that he had sought. Ben was very occupied the next morning, perhaps he had left the wood yard to collect outstanding debts? Aran had been chained to a steel beam that dawn preceding his Master¡¯s absence with instructions to commence splitting vast tonnage of wood. The pile was so large it would occupy him all day and then another. Being young, and very well-built, Aran was often given this task. The axe was heavy and sharp, and Aran hit the misshapen stumps with precision, breaking open their dull blackened exteriors to reveal the rich reds and ochres inside. He was already working up quite a sweat by the time Imogen presented herself to bring him breakfast.


    With her father absent Imogen seemed different. More grown. She had been married and had a child after all Aran reasoned, as he admired her curves even beneath her full skirt. ¡°You were brave last night,¡± he ventured. Testing the waters to see if the woman would indeed stay to talk.


    ¡°It had to be said.¡± Imogen¡¯s voice bore the sunniest disposition. ¡°I just want to help, as best I can.¡±


    Aran nodded his shaggy head in agreeance. He swung the axe again in a great arc, and the fiddle-backed wood fell in two before him. He didn''t need to look at Imogen to know she was admiring him physically. Aran began to wonder how much he could get into her favor?


    ¡°Men like those Banned Angels don¡¯t respect anything but force.¡± Aran offered.


    ¡°That¡¯s what scares me.¡± She said. ¡®Because it¡¯s just me and Dad, and I don¡¯t think we can even raise all the money they have asked for.¡±


    ¡°I could help.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    Aran paused and turned toward the girl, recalling Gareth''s battle moves, he took the axe and swung it about as he may on the battlefield.


    Imogen backed away gazing on in fear and awe. ¡°Oh wow, you could have mown them all down and just with father''s axe. I so wish you had.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± Aran smiled a lopsided smile.


    ¡°You scare me.¡± Imogen had her hand poised at her throat. Aran could imagine her heart beating in her chest like a frail bird. The thought excited him. He desired her to come closer, so he set down the axe and knelt. He looked into her lively blue eyes, entreating with his own.


    ¡°Do I?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±She responded in a tremulous quaver.


    ¡°Why?¡±He all but whispered.


    ¡°I¡¯m...I¡¯m not sure.¡±


    Her hand was on his shoulder beneath his golden mane. Soft fingers at the base of his bull neck. He dared not move, he wanted to be touched, he wanted so much more. She smelled of sweetness and femininity. Those same fingers caressed so lightly his jaw and then the side of his face. She stood before him golden and inviting, plump and ripe for the taking. Aran was dizzy with need. It had been so very long. His arms went about her waist, and he breathed her in.


    Imogen¡¯s resistance was unexpected, she pushed against him and gave a harried cry. Aran paused and Imogen deftly ducked under his grasp.


    ¡°Why oh why did you have to be a slave!¡± She turned from him and ran away.


    *****


    Aran harbored this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, though he kept assuring himself that Imogen had invited the events of the morning, and that she would remain silent. However, after a further hour of trying to lose himself in the wood splitting, Aran decided that perhaps he could not trust the girl. It was time to leave.


    So he took up the length of chain that bound him to the post, lay it on the chopping block, and began to see if he could break the links. He was strong and very accurate, but the chain was of the high tensile kind. He dented the thick links, but it would take some time to part one. The imprisoning metal serpent slid off the chopping block with each strike and had to be re-positioned with care. Just one good hit would do it...


    He was struck hard from behind with a stout length of wood. The blow sent Aran uncharacteristically floundering in the dirt winded, however it goaded his anger also. He twisted and attempted to rise axe in hand, battle-ready to sight the returned Ben Johansen. The man¡¯s hand already gripping the chain attached to Aran¡¯s ankle. Merciless, Ben wrenched it with all he had. Aran fell again this time onto his back, axe still gripped in both fists and laying in wait across his chest.


    Imogen screamed shrilly. Sand in his eyes, he was not sure who threw it but he suspected the girl. A predictable dirty trick. Aran fought to see. He was trying to reason if he should surrender or fight. Surrender was easy, maybe he could explain? This was most unlike him. Where had this will to surrender come from? He pushed blindly on, he must leave today. A blinding pain to the side of his head, then darkness.


    *****


    Aran was not out long, he woke trussed hand and foot still lying where he had fallen, spitting sand.


    ¡°What happened Imogen?¡± Ben demanded.


    Aran struggled to think, the blow had addled him.


    ¡°I¡¯m so ashamed, Father.¡±


    ¡°Jesus! What? Tell me?¡±


    ¡°I brought him breakfast and he...he.¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    There was silence for a time. Aran lay back on the earth, the comely girl was framing him for rape. He closed his sore eyes and swallowed, this would not end well. He could try and explain, but he already knew his words would fall on deaf ears. A father would believe his daughter after all, not the words of a wild barbarian from the desert who was now a slave.


    The warrior realized he had gone too far this morning with his exhibition of axe-manship, and had opened frightening possibilities in the young woman''s mind, and she had in the way of some women''s defenses countered with her own method to remove his threat. It did not matter if her accusations bore substance or not.


    ¡°Go inside Imogen, and stay there with Ewan, I will be along for dinner shortly.¡±


    Aran listened to the woman''s skirts drag in the sand as she retreated to the house. Ben didn''t speak to him at all, and Aran lay in silence conserving his energy for whatever was to come. Slaves didn''t get trials, freemen and women were always in the right, something Aran was beginning to learn.


    Aran lay face down in the dirt and took the beating. He didn''t have any other choice. Ben did not desist until he finally got sincere grunts of pain from his property. By that time the leather of his whip was soaked in Aran''s blood, and dripping from his own hands as he drew the sinuous plaited leather through his fingers for the next strike. Ben Johansen was not a cruel man by nature, however anger and betrayal were very good motivators.


    Aran lay quietly at the cessation of the flogging, stomach threatening to erupt from his throat and shaking in pure pain. He could hear the wood yard manager availing himself of the water in the horse trough, as he cleansed the blood from his hands to not alarm his family.


    The beaten warrior longed for the cool water on his face, anything to pull him from his stupor. Through the haze of pain, he heard Ben finally speak to him.


    ¡°You mess up one more time and you will be right back where I got you in those fields, you hear?¡± The hard prod of a boot to his side. Aran flinched and grunted at the heavy reinforcement, he tried to nod. The last thing he wished was to be returned to that previous hell.


    *****


    Somehow Ben Johansen managed to raise the money. The threat of the banned Angels receded into the background, but things were not the same after the incident. Aran was no longer admitted to the house, nor allowed the comfort of the evening fire. Fortunately, the days were growing warm, and he only had the frosty nights to contend with, this didn''t bother him so much. He had survived worse after all.


    If Ben went out Aran was locked away in the cement block building until the man returned. Ben now rarely ever addressed him, only to snap some order as though he were a mere beast, or prod at him with a whip urging him to comply. Aran struggled beneath his heavy chains, since the beating he was manacled ankles and wrists, and was mostly relegated to loading and unloading carts. He would not be furnished with an axe again.


    The wounds on his back and the backs of his arms healed, and in time he again became whole. The lust for escape burned, however, even that was beginning to die. Aran fought tooth and nail to hold onto his proud sanity, however as the weeks passed he could feel the descent into beast of burden animal status claim him.

 Taxes, Tithes, and that which was Taken

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    Jhary just nodded. He felt somewhat miserable as he tried to reconcile how far his honor needed to reach to be satisfied. However he could not call off the search just yet.


    There was a sudden loud knock at the door. The trio looked at one another.


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    Jhary Brannon looked up at the wall of a man, face pale, all his usual charm shelved. He should have gone from the Bridge already, and this sudden event had now galvanized him to do so. His search was done here, his honor intact.


    ¡±


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    ¡±


    Aurianne moved first. Stooping to pick up the currency that was littering the floor and had tumbled into the adjoining hallway.


    ¡± ¡±


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    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


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    Jhary ceased his verbal recollection and looked to Aurianne to see if she had understood the connection.


    I¡¯¡¯ ¡±


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    She tried to quiet him. Possibly more for her own sake than his. It disturbed her to see such a cheerful man cry. Perhaps that was why she was drawn to Jhary, his sunny disposition, he was a tonic for all the despair and hate in the world.


    I¡¯¡± ¡±


    He sighed heavily and wiped away tears on his sleeve.


    ¡¯¡±


    Aurianne just sat as a silent sentinel on the arm of Jhary''s chair offering what comfort she could, without appearing too cloying. Almost all bore such pain these days, yes, grief was common place. Most tried not to talk about it, and if someone broke, it was decorum to try and not make too much of the outburst. This was after all the new age.

 The Fairest Lies

    Aran began to do things without thought, mindless repetition ruled his days. He was dying inside. His chains weighed down on him. He would often stand in silence staring dumbly at the world beyond the wood yard, like a caged prey animal who had forgotten the thrill of the hunt and the taste of spurting blood. Indeed he had, the days of freedom were far gone from his senses.


    Imogen had lied to preserve her own purity. She was with child. Aran did not know who the father was, but he knew it was not he. However he suffered for Imogen''s secret on a daily basis. It was obvious that Ben Johansen needed his slave, and did not wish to part with a competent worker, however any cordiality or compassion Ben once had had for Aran had dissipated.


    ¡°If I didn''t know better I should have castrated you. Perhaps I still should.¡± Ben growled at Aran one day in passing when the wood yard manager was having difficulty with a load.


    ¡°You can wait to eat, you filthy dog.¡± He admonished on another evening.


    Aran would kill the man, if he could, why had he hesitated, and now it seemed almost too late to try.


    *****


    Though it had rained and some of the alleyways and roads were a seething quagmire Aurianne could not bear to remain in their shared room this afternoon. She would take Isabou out to gallop and stretch her mares legs. She did this frequently, for a horse can only be stabled for so long, andthere were no turnout paddocks here. Every available green space had been used for planting.


    Though she was definitely tired of feeling like a second class citizen here by virtue of her gender, Aurianne had swiftly embraced strategies to combat this disadvantage. On leaving she donned a dusty brown full length leather coat, sturdy men¡¯s boots, a wide brimmed hat and a headscarf which covered the majority of her face. That was not unusual here, many men did just the same. With her amazonian physique she was mostly ignored. Men were looking for little, soft targets, not one such as she.


    As she strode the street toward the livery, nestled under the anonymity of her wide brimmed hat Aurianne reflected on the very fine line between a free man or slave. It appeared society now ran on the unfortunates backs, and she shivered as she thought it would be all too easy to be kidnapped and sold into slavery here. Especially being female.


    Even with trying to remain unnoticed and law abiding, Aurianne had courted a few near disasters with over amorous men, and others who just found the idea of her being free and unmarried somehow threatening. The Bridge sure was not an easy place for a single woman to live, and she had no desire to return. The redhead had been going to tell Jhary that she needed to leave, and could not bring herself to stay any longer, in spite of the bard¡¯s generosity.


    However that had seemed a bit harsh after recent events and gaining a glimpse of the usually happy man¡¯s torment, so she had declined to do so for the moment. However as providence would have it Jhary had already arrived at his own conclusion. After weeks at the Bridge searching, he was drawing undesired attentions from the Banned Angels who set upon him for tithes and taxes, and he also wished to be gone. The trio had agreed to stay until the end of the week, and then set forth to help Aurianne rescue her henchman Darius if he still lived.


    The stables made Aurianne smile. The smells, the sights, all crafting the fondest memories. She didn¡¯t know what she would do after she had achieved her revenge. She had dwelt on it though at least a little. Would she just be alone wandering? She didn''t like that outcome much, there seemed no point to it all. So she thought of other scenarios. Could she even dream of teaming up with Jhary Brannon, she liked the man, no, it was well beyond liking. He was what so many women sought in a man, even if sometimes he appeared a bit cowardly. The music, the charm, the romance, the dimples. She laughed at herself, then at Isabou who whinnied on seeing her mistress with pleasure.


    She had decided to head the southeast this day. It was more open and the buildings quickly dispersed into mostly single story shanty huts. A vast suburb of corrugated iron and reclaimed salvage. The negative was the roads were more than muddy, but the positive was Aurianne was mostly left alone. Isabou¡¯s great hooves struck the sticky soil and sent mud flinging in all directions. Still it felt good to ride.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Aurianne lost herself in the rhythm of the great animals gait. Isabou had settled from an excited gallop into an easy canter. Beauty ran at a safe distance behind trying to dodge the flying mud. As she looked about her Aurianne was amazed at the vast and very youthful populace. There was rarely an elderly person to be sighted. Gray hair seemed endangered. This was true even in the inner city of the bridge were the more affluent lived.


    This continent used to carry such a different demographic. Governments worried incessantly at a burgeoning elderly population that rode on the shoulders of the young. War, lack of medical options, and zero birth control had seen a complete reversal in this trend. Not many lived to an old age any more. Youth was everywhere, both despoiled and not, and all vastly uneducated. Though Aurianne as a growing girl had hated to sit those long afternoons enduring her mother¡¯s tutelage, she was glad of it now. At the time adventuring and hunting had seemed far better uses of her time.


    Half way through her ride the young woman paused at a public watering trough. These conveniences were scattered all over the city and its outskirts. Isabou blew bubbles, played, and drank, and Aurianne laughed. These small moments were the things she lived for. As she sat watching her mares antics she spied something shining in the sand at the edge of the road. She dismounted to investigate, avoiding the worst of the sticky mud.


    She picked up the flat object and cleared it of sand with her fingers, it was an old cell phone. The touch screen black and lifeless, but miraculously not broken. A curio of the past, a time when people were ¡®connected¡¯. She remembered her mothers distaste for the devices, and how annoyed she would be when she was doing something and it chimed for her attention. Other people seemed to feel this too as she recalled.


    Aurianne turned the object in her hand and wondered honestly were they better off without. It may have been handy to relay an urgent message, but she could see it would be very intrusive as well. Contemplation over she flung the mute artifact into the bushes, it could continue its rest there.


    She took a circular route winding back through the more deserted industrial sector of the town. There were some viable businesses conducted here, but a lot of ruin also. Most of the industrial estates being too large to really be of use in an anarchist age, unless for salvage.


    The rain began to deluge and Aurianne parked Isabou in an abandoned, partially stripped metal spanned shed to wait out the worst of the downpour. The water roared on the iron above, and ran in an almost continuous curtain off the side of the span.


    She gazed ahead, across the broken bitumen toward a high barb crowned chain link fence. A man was standing in the rain immobile, the fact he was bare chested and so still seemed odd. His head hung down in the attitude of sadness or defeat, his long golden hair was plastered with the wet to his back.


    A skipped heartbeat. No, could it be? Surely not. Aurianne craned to see through the driving torrent, if it was who they sought there was no way she would risk him seeing her, even if he looked thoroughly beaten and domesticated. She decided to ride for home even though the rain had not cleared...


    *****


    Aurianne wrestled with her conscience. She had not said a word about her sighting, and the week was rapidly drawing to a close. She really didn''t wish to facilitate a longer stay here. She personally did not want to come face to face with Aran again. To let Jhary leave though and say nothing, that was not right, or was it? She fought with this.


    Perhaps that demoralized slave that stood in the rain was not Aran, she didn''t get a close look after all. There were many big blond men kept as slaves, lord knows she had done double takes many a time in recent weeks only to realize she had been wrong.


    It was rare Aurianne wrote. The pen felt alien to her hands, strange to think that a bow or the reins of her horse were more familiar to her touch than the pen had become. She paused and wrote neatly constructing her missive carefully, precious ink and paper were not a commodity to be wasted. She could have left a verbal message with the clerk, but somehow it seemed inappropriate to do so, and verbal messages were often misconstrued or not delivered and she didn''t wish that. Jhary had been good to her, but it was time she made the split. He didn''t need to go risking his life for the sake of her own personal vengeance. If Aurianne survived she hoped chance would be fortuitous and allow them to cross paths again perhaps in happier circumstances?


    Jhary would be back soon from his performance, she must hurry. She folded the note neatly and left it where he would sight it. There was not much to gather for her journey north. A few items of clothing, her bow, a well sharpened blade.


    She called Beauty to her side. The hound whimpered and hesitated as though it did not wish to leave.


    ¡°What is it Beauty?¡± Aurianne ruffled the dogs soft black ears. ¡°Getting too comfy here are we?¡± The rest of her belongings were at the livery, she had paid up till the end of the week. Leaving early would present no bother.