《Nessalir the Red》


 The Vile Kings Barrow 01

    The torches cast flickering orange glows over the hall. Shadows danced upon wooden walls, cast by long tables and seats that were, unusually, empty. Outside, the snow fell and the wind howled.


    King Kartesk sat at his place at the head of the hall, looking over the silent and empty expanse before him. His expression was grim, and his thoughts were dark. The iron circlet around his head itched, and occasionally he would reach up to tug at his beard. The presence of gray in it bothered him in a way it never had before.


    Usually the evening brought with it the people of Redair, this land he claimed as his kingdom. Kartesk''s father, Gundir the Mighty, had carved out this territory by his own hand, through blood and blade, and Kartesk had inherited it some three decades ago. In that time, he had worked tirelessly to both secure his lands and win the hearts of his people. Over a dozen villages paid tribute to Redair, and the other Northern Kings looked upon it with jealousy, and Kartesk was well aware that one day that jealousy may give way to something greater. They might prey upon the simmering resentment of an unhappy populace, and so Kartesk did what he could to ensure that would not happen.


    Every night, he welcomed his people into his hall, and all visitors were served with mead from Lobresk, fruits from Harst, and meats from the finest butchers in all the kingdom. Spices imported from Remuran Imperial merchants garnished the meals, and each night was alive with the sounds of men feasting and laughing and making merry.


    But on this night, none dared to disturb the king. The people whispered that he was in mourning, for his sons were gone. None imagined that Kartesk did not mourn¡ªhe held hope still that his sons might live, and that was perhaps a far crueler thing than grief.


    There was a noise to his left, the sound of boots upon the wooden planks of the hall''s floor. Kartesk thought perhaps his wife had come to find him. She was his second wife, and mother to neither of his sons, and their disappearance had not affected her the way it had him. Some dark part of his psyche suspected, perhaps unfairly, that Heldara was eager for the young men to be gone so that the child in her belly might inherit his kingdom, and try as he might, he could not help but resent her for that unfounded suspicion.


    He turned his head to regard her, and was mildly surprised to see that his visitor was not Heldara, but rather his seneschal Duulan. The man was short and broad shouldered, with a strangely youthful appearance despite his long black beard. It was rumored that he had Dwarven blood somewhere in his ancestry, and Kartesk had never seen any reason to doubt this.


    "My King," Duulan said with a bow. "It does you no good to sit alone in your hall like this."


    "What else is there?" Kartesk asked bitterly. "My sons are missing¡ªone taken by a long dead tyrant, and the other lost fighting his dark forces. There is no celebration to be had on this night. My family and my kingdom are doomed."


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    "Ralof may return with his brother yet."


    "Two weeks!" Kartesk snapped. "Ralof set off to rescue his brother two weeks ago, and there has been no word since! I send my warriors to defend Jarstead from the draugr, and the only news they bring back is that the dead are growing in number. King Stargis is eyeing our lands with hunger, eager to take advantage of our crisis, and still neither Ralof nor Balof have emerged from that accursed barrow!"


    He looked away, and stared out among the flickering shadows of his empty hall. He could almost hear the laughter that would normally fill the space. Somehow, the ghostly and imagined noise felt mocking. Silently he cursed his age and the old wound on his leg. Anything he would give to venture into the barrow himself, face the Vile King, and rescue his boys. "The situation is hopeless."


    For a moment, Duulan was silent. And then he said: "It may not be."


    Kartesk turned back to him, raised an eyebrow, and waited for his seneschal to explain himself.


    "There is word from Halvar''s Crossing," Duulan said. "A woman is currently staying there, by name of Nessalir the Red."


    The king scoffed. "A woman!"


    "A woman," Duulan agreed, "but a great warrior as well. It is said that Nessalir saved the life of the Elf Queen from assassins, repelled the army of Ortan on her own, and defeated the half-giant Tharndir in single combat."


    "So I have heard," said King Kartesk. "I have also heard that she is a monster, born from a cursed union between witch and dragon; that she has the eyes of a reptile, a clawed hand, and teeth like needles."


    "Scales and a tail as well," added Duulan. The ghost of a smile had appeared on his face. "Yes, the stories all agree that she is drakkowar as the Elder Ones would say. But her feats are unrivaled throughout all the Northern Lands."


    Kartesk scowled. The idea of hiring this woman, this abomination, to solve the problems of his kingdom rankled at his pride. "And what would she demand for my kingdom''s safety? What price would this dragonblooded one desire, in exchange for venturing into the Vile King''s barrow, ending this threat, and rescuing my sons?"


    "She is a mercenary, my King," said Duulan. "I would think gold would be enough."


    "A mercenary," Kartesk spat. "It is a dark day, my friend, when we are forced to rely upon the sword of one so honorless."


    Duulan bowed apologetically. "I take it we are hiring her services, then?"


    "See it done."


    "Of course, my King. I shall send a rider to Halvar''s Crossing immediately."


    With that, the short yet broad seneschal took his leave, and Kartesk sat once more alone and in silence. He looked out across his hall, then placed his face in his hands. Secure in the knowledge that none could see him, the king began to weep.

 The Vile Kings Barrow 02

    Sleep left Nessalir only with great reluctance. When she realized that her consciousness had returned, her first response was to keep her eyes closed, take a deep breath, and try her best to relax back into slumber. There was no reason for her to be awake yet, after all.


    Unfortunately, the waking day had come, and it refused to be ignored. Nessalir lay there for a few minutes more, vainly attempting to will herself back to sleep, before finally giving up and opening her eyes.


    Part of the problem was that the inn at Halvar''s Crossing was one of the nicer ones Nessalir had spent the night in. Most village inns throughout the Northern Lands were little more than barns that had been converted haphazardly to places of rest, but the Trout''s Last Meal had been built from the ground up for the purpose of housing weary travelers. The bridge for which the village was named brought in more than enough trade and traffic to justify such a building.


    So rather than some barely-insulated hovel with a bed of hay, Nessalir instead found herself coming to in a nice room on a firm yet soft mattress. The woolen sheets over her body were warm and cozy, and the still-slumbering body beside her was warmer still.


    As she sat up, that other body stirred. The woman groaned and opened her eyes, blinking a few times and then brushing her staw-colored hair away from her freckled face. A look of shock passed over her when she saw that Nessalir was her bedmate, but it passed quickly, replaced by a blush as memories from the night before returned to her mind.


    Nessalir couldn''t begrudge her the shock. A patch of blood red scales ran down her neck, and more such scales grew all across her back. Her eyes were gold, with black slitted pupils, and her left hand was entirely reptilian, with small black talons extending from the end of each finger. She stood, and her thin, scaly tail swished about behind her. Nessalir brushed her hair, a far brighter and more vibrant shade of red than her scales, behind her ears, and fished around the pile of clothing on the floor for her trousers and undershirt.


    "I thought I''d dreamed last night," said the woman in the bed.


    "No dream," Nessalir told her. She slipped one strong, muscular leg through her brown trousers, then the other. "But enjoyable, nonetheless."


    "Yes¡­" the woman agreed. "I mean, I''ve never¡­ not with¡­"


    "A woman?" asked Nessalir with a smirk. She was holding her undershirt, but had yet to pull it on. Her naked chest was bare and exposed to the other woman, who hardly even attempted to hide her stare.


    "A¡­ well, a you," the other woman said.


    Nessalir chuckled and pulled on her undershirt, before picking up her belt and tunic. "I hope the experience was a memorable one."


    "Oh, trust me, it was," said the woman, a smirk of her own on her face as she watched Nessalir dress herself.


    When she was fully clothed, with her sword and her ax hanging comfortably at her side and her coat bound tight over herself, Nessalir made her way downstairs to the common room. Her bedmate remained behind to tend to her own nakedness, and made a few token attempts to get the drakkowar back into bed with her, but Nessalir was too hungry to go for another round of passion with the village girl.


    The scents or porridge and honeyed ham filled the inn, making her mouth water. Nessalir tossed a coin to the innkeep before she sat down in the corner, and it wasn''t long before a plate was brought to her.


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    Villages like Halvar''s Crossing were the sorts of places that Nessalir could sometimes imagine herself settling down in. They were remote enough for some privacy, but along enough trade routes that they weren''t poor for it. It was exactly the sort of balance that seemed ideal to her. As she ate, she even allowed herself a small fantasy of building a house on the edge of town and tending to a garden in the Spring.


    Her reverie was interrupted, however, when a big man came stomping through the front door of the Trout''s Last Meal. No, she corrected herself¡ªa boy. His beard hadn''t grown more than inch from his face, and his eyes, as angry as they were, were a young man''s eyes.


    Those eyes were also focused on her. The big man was striding toward her, puffing out his chest and tensing his arm muscles. It was all Nessalir could do to keep from sighing.


    "Whatever quarrel you have with me, can it wait until after I''ve eaten?" she asked.


    The man leaned over her table and jabbed a finger at her sternum. "You were with my girl last night," he spat. "Tovir says he saw her with the dragonblood freak, which is you."


    "Unless you happen to have any other drakkowar running around this village, I''d say that''s true," said Nessalir. "Woman with the freckles and the yellow hair?"


    "That''s my Gerti," the man said. "Now, I''ve heard stories about you, and if you know what''s good for you, you''ll keep your filthy claws off her."


    Nessalir''s eyes roamed over his form. He had the muscles of a field-hand or a mason, the sort that were good for hitting things and holding people down. She smiled at him.


    "Understood."


    The man blinked. He''d probably assumed this would get ugly, but Nessalir wasn''t interested in fighting this early in the morning. He stood up, keeping his chest puffed out¡ªdoubtless pleased that he''d intimidated the famous swordswoman. Then he turned to go just as Nessalir''s bedmate¡ªGerti, apparently¡ªcame walking down the stairs.


    The girl saw him and stopped short, her face turning bright red. This time Nessalir did sigh as the man whirled around to face her.


    "You¡ª! You!?" he sputtered.


    Nessalir swallowed the bite of ham she''d just taken. "I was unaware anyone had claimed her."


    "No one has claimed me!" Gerti insisted, rushing over to the table. By now, they''d accumulated quite the audience. Everyone in the common area was watching, and Nessalir was pretty sure she could see the innkeeper taking wagers with the people at the bar.


    "I am not yours, Rost!" spat Gerti. "I must have turned down your proposals half a dozen times by now! When will you finally accept that you have no future with me?"


    "But you''ll sleep with some wandering whore!?" the man roared. He jabbed Nessalir with his finger again. "Stand up and face me, woman! I''ll kill you for this insult."


    Rolling her eyes, Nessalir stood. She was a tall woman, but even so Rost clearly had a full head on her in the height department. She had to look up to meet his gaze, which he clearly took as a sign of his own superiority.


    "You don''t look so tough," he said, and threw a punch.


    A gloved hand caught it. It was her left hand, the one that, uncovered, would be unmistakably draconic. Her tail swished behind her in annoyance, and Nessalir tightened her grip on the man''s fist.


    His eyes widened as he realized that she''d stopped his punch with one hand. They widened even more when he saw her other hand curling into a fist of her own. "Wait¡ª!" he began, but it was too late. Nessalir''s punch drove itself deep into his gut.


    She released his fist as he doubled over gasping for breath. With a shrug, she kicked him. Her boot collided with his chin, and he flipped over onto his back and sprawled out over the floor. His eyes rolled up and stared at nothing, and he groaned and muttered a string of nonsense.


    Nessalir stepped over him, past the stunned Gerti, and tossed another coin over to the innkeeper. "For your trouble," she said. He caught it and gave her a nod.


    Without another word, Nessalir the Red stepped out of the inn, out into the cold morning beyond.

 The Vile Kings Barrow 03

    The smell of stale manure and hay permeated the stables. Nessalir wrinkled her nose as she stepped through the doorway and shook a few stray flakes of snow off her coat. It seemed like there was always a light snowfall this far North.


    Outside, the sounds of wagons and horses and the low murmur of travelers could be heard. Inside, it was strangely quiet, save for the occasional whinny of a horse in its pen. Nessalir looked about the stables, then coughed loudly.


    "Yes?" a boy asked, appearing from around a bale of hay. He was young¡ªsixteen at the very oldest¡ªand his clothes were stained and smeared with grime. His bright blue eyes widened a bit when they took in the woman before him.


    "My horse," said Nessalir. "Huunang. I''d like him saddled and ready as soon as possible."


    The boy nodded. "The large black one?" he asked.


    "Indeed," Nessalir confirmed.


    As the stablehand scampered off deeper into the wooden structure, Nessalir leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. It really was a shame that the man from earlier had been so aggressive. His strong arms were exactly the sort that she enjoyed on a male. If she''d been in a better mood, Nessalir might have been tempted to flirt a little¡ªmaybe play matchmaker. It would hardly have been the first couple she''d brought together in her bed. Then again, the history between him and Gerti hadn''t sounded the most pleasant, so perhaps it was for the best.


    Her stomach growled. That was the real issue. The fool had interrupted her breakfast and made it far too awkward to continue eating at that inn. Nessalir thought she recalled a bakery on the edge of the village¡ªperhaps she''d stop there on the way out.


    A presence came up behind her, and she stepped to the side to let a man in a thick cloak enter the stables. He regarded her with dark eyes, his gaze running up from her boots to her scarlet hair in a way that seemed to go beyond simple curiosity. Then he bowed.


    "Nessalir the Red?" the man asked.


    "I am," said Nessalir. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"


    "Jaran Gunderson," said the man. "I have been sent by King Kartesk of Redair, ruler of these lands and this village, to request your audience at his hall."


    Nessalir sighed and glanced across the stables. The boy was coming back, leading a huge black-furred horse. He didn''t look altogether comfortable in the beast''s presence.


    "Have I done something wrong, or does the king have a request of me?" she asked.


    "To my knowledge, it is a request," said Jaran Gunderson. "I was dispatched last night and rode through til morning to reach Halvar''s Crossing, so I know that it is an urgent request indeed."


    "This is all you know?"


    Jaran smiled. "I can hazard a guess or two as to the king''s business. However¡­" He glanced at the boy and raised an eyebrow to Nessalir. She understood his meaning; this was not a conversation to be had around others."


    "Very well," said Nessalir. "I will accompany you to Redair."


    She paid the stablehand, and led Huunang out onto the muddy road. Snowflakes fell through the air of Halvar''s Crossing, though it was not cold enough for more than a thin lair of powdery white to remain on the ground. Jaran untied a gray mare, half the size of her own steed, from a post, and the two prepared to depart.


    "There is a bakery I''d like to stop at before we go," said Nessalir.


    "Of course, my lady."


    "I''m no lady."


    The look the messenger gave her was inscrutable, but Nessalir didn''t care. It was a rare thing that anyone knew what to think of her.


    She prepared to mount Huunang, but was interrupted by a shout from across the road.


    "Where do you think you''re going, bitch?"


    Perfect. Her would-be foe had recovered from his humiliation in the Trout''s Last Meal and was ready for a rematch. Oh, and this time he''d brought some friends.


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    Rost¡ªshe thought that was the name Gerti had called him¡ªhad murder in his eyes, and he held an ax in his hands. There was a splotch of skin on his face that was already starting to bruise where she''d kicked him. Two other men flanked Rost. One held a pitchfork and the other carried an ax of his own.


    "Do you want me to stay?" Nessalir asked. "Shouldn''t you be trying to patch things up with that lovely young lady?"


    "You think this is funny!?" Rost spat. "You may be a freak, but we''re going to show you what happens to women who don''t know their place." He grinned, and Nessalir noted he seemed to be missing a tooth that he''d had that morning. She hadn''t even noticed it vacating his mouth when she''d kicked him. "Don''t worry. I''ll be gentle."


    "Shame. I''m not really a gentle sort of girl." Nessalir glanced at Jaran, who was already astride his horse and watching her with an expression of anticipation. He was excited to see the famed warrior in action. With a shake of her head, Nessalir patted Huunang''s neck. "Stay here," she told the horse.


    He snorted, and Nessalir was certain he was annoyed at the delay. She smirked, then stepped toward the advancing trio of men, hands settling on the weapons at her side.


    She drew her sword with her right hand, and a light hand-ax with her left. Shifting her feet into position, Nessalir held both weapons in a light but firm grip, and rolled her head along her shoulders, cracking her neck. "Well come on, then," she said. "I haven''t got all day."


    Red-faced, Rost bellowed in rage and charged forward. He had a woodsman''s ax¡ªheavy and made for felling trees, but not exactly the most wieldy of weapons. His balance was thrown off just a little in his swing and Nessalir was easily able to hop out of the path of the head and thwack his hands with the side of her own ax. He yelped and recoiled, but didn''t let go.


    Nessalir snickered, and Rost''s face twisted in embarrassed rage.


    The man with the pitchfork charged, attempted to spear her in the side while she was distracted by Rost, but Nessalir had been watching him from the corner of her eye. She twisted out of the way and brought her sword up against the haft while at the same time bringing her ax down. The wood snapped and splintered apart, and the fool was left holding a shattered stick in lieu of a farmtool.


    He blinked at the wood in his hands in confusion, and Nessalir kicked out at his knee. With a grunt, the man fell over, eyes wide as he tried to comprehend what had just happened to him.


    By now Rost was coming in for another swing, and the other ax-wielder was trying to flank her. Nessalir took a step back, then another, nimbly dodging the mad blows that Rost attempted again and again to rain down on her. He was so furious he didn''t even see where she was leading him until it was too late.


    Without warning, Nessalir dropped down and rolled away. The woodsman''s ax sailed over her and buried itself into the left shoulder of the other man. He screamed in pain and terror as blood splattered all over Rost''s shocked face.


    "Tovir!" he exclaimed. "No! Not you!"


    He wrenched the ax out of his friend, which was the wrong move. With nothing blocking the wound, blood now spurted freely. The other man fell into the mud, gasping and howling in pain, clutching at his shoulder with his right hand. His left flopped about uselessly beside him.


    "You bitch!" Rost screamed, whirling on Nessalir and raising his ax high. Nessalir had hoped that accidentally butchering his friend would humble the man somewhat, so she wouldn''t have to spill any blood herself, but she could see now that wasn''t going to happen. So, in the split second it took Rost to focus once again on her, Nessalir decided to end this farce.


    She stepped under his guard, brought her sword up, and before he could react, slit his throat.


    Rost collapsed, red blood flowing freely from his neck, gurgling and sputtering as he tried to hold onto life. Nessalir stood above him and watched for a moment, then glanced over her shoulder at the man whose pitchfork she''d destroyed. He had only just succeeded in standing back up, and his clothing was completely covered in mud.


    "Are you going to keep fighting?" she asked. "Or will you do the smart thing?"


    He didn''t answer. He just turned and ran. Evidently, he''d chosen to do the smart thing.


    Nessalir relaxed her shoulders, sheathed her sword, and hooked her ax back into the ring at her side. "Am I expected to clean this up?" she asked Jaran, gesturing at the dead Rost and his dying friend.


    Jaran hadn''t moved from atop his horse the entire fight. "No need," he said, pointing to the guards who were approaching.


    "Shit," one cursed as they reached the scene. "That''s the drakkowar."


    The messenger held out an amulet. "I am an envoy of King Kartesk, sent to collect this woman. As we were preparing to leave, she was accosted by these men."


    "Always knew Rost would pick a fight he couldn''t win one day," a guard said, shaking his head. "His father''ll want a blood price."


    "If Nessalir succeeds in the task the king sets for her, then he will gladly pay it," said Jaran.


    "And if she doesn''t?" asked another guard. Nessalir frowned at him.


    "Then she will be dead, and the point will be moot," Jaran replied.


    "Fine," said a guard. "Get on out of here, drakkowar. See that the king is satisfied."


    "Gladly." Nessalir climbed atop Huunang, who glanced over his shoulder at her like he couldn''t believe she''d wasted his time with all this nonsense. "Let''s go see what your king wants, Jaran Gunderson."