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Thread: The Slaver

  1. #11

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    Dreams rarely visited Guy and he preferred it that way. Wine helped ensure the oblivion of dreamless sleep and most nights when not campaigning, Guy collapsed into bed with a brain dripping wine like an overfull sponge. Dreams, when they managed to breach the wine sea’s surface, only reminded him of things beyond reach. Things that once might have been. Things lost.

    “Oh come on, it will be fun!” Sofia tugged Guy by the hand, leading him through the long, arched garden arbor. Across the garden the sound of tambourines and flutes drifted like fairy laughter through the autumn night.

    “You know I’m not a very good dancer,” said Guy but so siren-like was Sofia’s youthful exuberance that Guy found himself following though he did not really wish to.

    Sofia stopped and looked to Guy with her large, dark eyes. She found his reticence to dance charming. This from a young man who, with assured confidence, entered the tourney lists with men who were in saddles before Guy had even been born. “Oh, I don’t care about that,” she said smiling. “Just dance with me, Guy. Every dance so I do not have to dance with anyone else.”

    Guy took her hands in his. How beautiful and perfect she looked in the moonlight dripping through the arbor vines. The silver light danced like blue fire along the thin braids woven into her midnight hair. For weeks Sofia had anticipated Duke Elon’s harvest dance. In his own youthful exuberance Guy found himself wanting to be seen with her. To show others the son of a silk merchant, a simple ward squire to the Duke who entered the lists with borrowed armor and a borrowed horse, could have in his hand the hand of a girl sought by other young men far above his own station.

    Guy’s eyes found Sofia’ and became lost in her dark, adoring gaze. “I would dance an eternity under those eyes in hope that they might smile upon me. For such grace would inspire my humble soul to deeds undreamed even by the heroes of old.”

    Sofia’s smile widened. “The poet Verillon,” she said recognizing part of the poem, ‘Madrena.’ Sofia stepped closer, drawing Guy’s hands to her waist. “But in the poem, Madrena never gives Marcus the smile he so desperately wants and he dies alone with an empty heart.”

    Guy rested his hands on Sofia’s hips, feeling the soft brocade decorating her white dress and the firm suppleness of youth beneath. He shrugged a shoulder. “I only remember the parts that would earn me a kiss.”

    Sofia draped her arms around Guys neck and leaned closer, her body forming to his. An errant curl broke free of the thin braids twisting through her raven black hair and dangled along the side of her face. Sofia’s soft lips teased Guy’s as she coyly whispered, “Is that what you want, Guy de Leon? A kiss?”

    “That and more, Sofia di Corbron.” Guy pushed his head forward to take from those teasing lips a deep kiss but Sofia giggled and twisted out of Guy’s arms. “Then you will have to come dance with me,” she laughed and hurried down the arbor draped in the orange and red leaves of fall.

    Guy opened his eyes and rolled his head to the left. The candle had burned itself out and hardened wax fell over the edge of the table in a frozen white waterfall. A pewter mug and empty gourd of silphium lay nearby.

    Guy’s head and limbs felt heavy, weighed down by all the wine still rushing through his blood. As his vision became more focused, his eyes found Elena sleeping on the floor, curled in a beam of moonlight falling through the room’s lancet window. For a moment he thought himself still in dream. There lay Sofia pale and vulnerable in the moonlight, the curve of her waist and hips calling to him. A tendril of black hair made deep blue in moon light dangled across Elena’s cheek and there rose in Guy’s heart a deep, crushing emptiness.

    “I’m sorry,” he said but regret quickly gave way to anger as the realization came that no, it was not Sofia come to him in sleep.

    “Out,” he growled to Elena.

    Elena stirred as if half in dream.

    “I SAID GET OUT!” Guy reached over the edge of the bed, grabbed one of his boots and hurled it toward Elena. It hit the table, sending the gourd, mug and candle clattering onto Elena and across the floor.

    Startled from sleep, Elena scurried toward the door away from the shouting like a frightened little mouse. “Forgive me, Sir,” she begged, uncertain of what she had done to suddenly arouse the man’s drunken anger.

    “Out,” bellowed Guy, heaving his other boot in her direction. “Back to the slave pens, damn you!” The boot banged against the door just as Elena ducked behind it. “And have the steward send up wine!”

    “Y-yes, sir.” Elena hurried away not bothering to close the door, the sound of her small feet disappearing down the hall.

    Guy rubbed his face. Twelve years and he had seen Sofia only in dreaming memory, suffered silently his torn heart when her father promised her in marriage to another, older man. But now about to fight for Count Chazar, he’d again hear her soft, breathy voice. He’d again gaze at her. Not as Sofia di Corbron but as Countessa Sofia Chazar.

    Guy collapsed back onto the simple cot that served as his bed. Wine. An ocean of wine to drown the dreams and dull the ache.

  2. #12

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    “Will she be alright?” Wall Sergeant Guiterez stood in the bath's doorway regarding Elena and three other slaves.

    Elena huddled in a corner, wrapped in a threadbare towel clinging to her still wet skin. An older slave woman, the bath house matron, dumped a bucket of water on the floor and two young men began scrubbing away the reddish stains with old horse bristle brushes.

    “She’ll be well enough,” said the matron turning to look at Guiterez. “But ten dram of silphium? The poor thing thought she was bleeding to death. With all the dark red soup dripping down her legs, even we thought she might bleed out.”

    Guiterez’s age faded eyes studied Elena. Sitting, head between her knees, the girl’s body hitched in quiet little sobs drowned out by the brushes scrubbing away what was left of the blood. “The commander will want to know if anything else came out.”

    “Nothing other than the usual clots,” said the matron. “Or at least nothing recognizable as anything other than the usual blood clots. Can’t say if that much silphium did any damage to her, though.”

    “The commander won’t care about that so long as we can claim she is not bearing a child when the time comes for auction.” Guiterez nodded toward Elena. “Have her made presentable. The commander has taken an odd liking to this one and may send for her when he hears she’s been flushed out.” Guiterez limped off, not waiting for a reply or a protest. The matron was one of the fortress’ slaves and would either do as she was told or suffer the lash.

    The matron set down the bucket and went to crouch beside Elena. “You poor dear,” she said rubbing Elena’s back.

    Elena lifted her face to look at the matron and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Do you think it is true?”

    “Think what is true?”

    Elena rested her head on her knees. “What the wall sergeant said. That the commander likes me.”

    “Has taken a liking to you,” corrected the matron. “Not the same as liking you.”

    “Sounds the same.”

    The matron brushed a tangle of black ringlets away from Elena’s face. “Now and then the commander takes a liking to young, black haired slave girls. It is not a thing the other slaves envy, I can tell you that. He’ll demand more of you. Punish you more harshly. Sometimes for no reason other than it suits him to do so. Trust me, it is better that you do not have the commander’s eye.”

    “But he did not give me to the men like the one that captured me did. In that way he’s been kind to me.” Elena’s dark eyes looked to the other slaves still scrubbing away the blood. Small pinkish rivulets snaked across the simple slate floor. “Even this was a sort of kindness. I did not want the child of one of those men in me.”

    The matron scoffed and stood up. “Kind? Don’t think that, ever. You stupid little girl.”

    Elena lifted her head, challenge rising in her voice. “What do you mean?”

    “There is nothing kind or gentle about the man,” said the Matron going to retrieve the water bucket “Especially when he is drunk.”

    “That is true of most men.”

    The matron snatched up the bucket in one hand and turned to again face Elena. “He puts on a kind face and courtly manners when it is necessary but it is never necessary with slaves. Why do you think he calls us livestock? Why do you think he lets bodies dangle on the gallows until they rot off the ropes? He does not care for you or me or any of the hundreds of others in this fortress.”

    The matron smoothed out her apron with her free hand as if brushing away the conversation. “Come along,” said the Matron, extending the hand to Elena. “We need to get you ready or else we will both have hell to pay.”

    Elena rose and took the matron’s hand. The woman did not know what she was talking about. Elena had slept in both the slave pens and on the floor of Guy’s room. Elena preferred the floor and the drunken mood swings over the pens and the stench of unwashed bodies. She preferred scraps from meals brought to the commander over the pasty gruel slop fed to the common pen slaves.

    In a few days, Guy and a hundred men would leave with Graecus to go fight for Count Chazar. The wagons stood in neat rows being loaded with supplies and rather than stay at the fortress awaiting auction, Elena determined she would be on one of those wagons. Even the cookmaster’s wagon if she had to.

    After all, the commander liked her.
    Last edited by Guy-de-Leon; 7th October 2013 at 20:40.

  3. #13

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    The room smelled of sweat, leather and old hay. Part armory and part common area, half empty weapons racks and cross shaped armor stands lined the walls. Stairs curved up through second and third floor of the gatehouse’s north barbican tower all the way to the parapets. Thick posts of old growth timber supported the weight of upper floors. Lamps hanging from rusting sconces threw feeble, oily light and indistinct shadows across Guy and wall sergeant Guiterez sitting at a square, peasant built table.

    Guiterez leaned forward, arms resting on the table, his meaty hand wrapping an old wooden cup. The roughhewn table with its one short leg shifted just enough to be annoying but not upset the gourd full off wine on the table. “How long do you think? This thing with Chazar, I mean.”

    Guy shrugged and Leaned back in his chair to prop his booted feet up on the table. A risky thing given the chairs were no more sturdy than the old table. “Hard to say,” he said and took a swallow of wine from a scarred wooden cup. “We stand to earn handsome coin should it last into winter.”

    Guiterez scratched at the white stubble on his chin. Guy, having known the old soldier for so long, recognized the simple scratch as a precursor to Guiterez about to think aloud. “There is more than coin that interests you,” Guiterez said with a concerned certainty. “I cannot help but think you agreed to this campaign because of Sofia.”

    Guy downed a deep swallow of wine. “You think too much, old man.”

    The older, rugged faced soldier looked down at his cup before draining it in. “Sometimes, it is all we useless old men have to do when we walk the walls.”

    Guy heard the resignation in Guiterez’s voice, tried dismissing it with a smirk. “More like hobble along the walls, you old goat. Don’t know which is worse, you or this table.”

    Guiterez snorted and reached for the wine gourd to refill his cup. The table wobbled under the shifting weight. His mood lightened. “You’ll be lucky to hobble half as well after an arrow shatters your shin. “ He took a swallow of the tepid red wine. “Still doesn’t change the fact you’re doing this because of Sofia. Oh, I remember her when she was in Duke Etona’s court. My son Eduard sought her too. Just like all you other young fools.”

    “Much steel was drawn over her. So much that the Duke Etona forbade carrying a blade in his court. Too late for Eduard, though. And for that I am still sorry.” Guy’s smirk faded. A decade and a half later he still saw in perfect clarity Eduard’s once green shirt stained black with the life that leaked from his wounds. “I never thought a man could have so much blood in him. Or still fight with it all pouring out of him.” Guy found it difficult to look at the older man. His hawkish eyes instead stared at the scuffs on his boots and the gouges in the wobbly old wood table.

    Guiterez set his cup down. Annoyed with the table, Guiterez broke off a finger sized splinter from the tabletop’s edge and jammed it under the short leg. He gave the table a test shake to be sure it was stable, and told Guy, “Eduard knew what he was doing.”

    “Still, I could have stopped it. I was his second in that duel. I should have stopped it. He was in no shape to continue. But he was like a brother and how can one deny a brother the right to uphold his honor. Hell, I would have done the same thing.”

    The older man took up his cup of wine once more. “As I recall, you did just that. Several times. I’m sure Graecus remembers each time he pulls his shirt off and sees the scar on his side from your sword. All for a girl.”

    Guy, eyes afire with fond memory, looked back to the grizzled soldier across from him. “How her beauty maddened us. All reason fled when she smiled at you at you and you found yourself only wanting to keep her from turning that smile to another. We craved her bright gaze as trees crave sun light and so we were always trying to overshadow each other for our share of sunshine.”

    Guiterez slapped a palm on the table. “Then that settles it. I’ll be riding with you.”

    “You, campaigning?” Guy laughed. If not for their long friendship it might have sounded cruel and mocking but between men who had fought and bled together it was a friendly jest “When was the last time you were in the saddle? Do you even remember what one is?”

    “I was lancing rings before you stopped sucking at your mother’s teat, boy. Just because an arrow gave me this limp doesn’t mean I can’t still ride.”

    Guy regarded the older cavalier. They both knew this would likely be the old man’s last chance at campaign glory. Better to fall in the field than to waste away walking the walls. Guiterez, though, was too proud of a man to ask if he could go on campaign. Guy nodded, considering aloud, “I suppose Vetrano could be wall sergeant while you are away.”

    A wide grin spread across the older soldiers face. “Good. I’m better able to keep you out of trouble with the Count.”

    “And what is that supposed to mean?”

    Guiterez glanced to the door then to Guy. He leaned closer, voice falling to a near whisper. The table did not wobble. “You think I don’t know why you’ve taken a liking to that peasant slave, Elena? I’m old. Not senile. She looks like a young Sofia. I guess that’s why you’ve marked her as untouchable with the red and green tags on her collar.”

    “The little bitch will fetch a good price at auction,” said guy waving dismissively but in such a purposely causal manner that Guiterez knew he was right about the slave. “I simply do not wish her to be over used before then.”

    “As you say,” said Guiterez. He knew better than to press the commander much more on such a thing. Guy had already agreed to allow Guiterez to go on the campaign and the senior cavalier did not want to jeopardize that, knowing Guy’s penchant for sudden and violent mood changes. “Will we be taking Elena with us?”

    “God’s no,” blurted Guy. He downed in a few gulps the rest of the wine in his cup. “Last thing we need is some little slave tart getting the men all crotch sweaty. Besides, I am sure we’ll at least capture a few they can use to douse whatever embers of smoldering lust they might have.” Guy swung his feet off the table and rose. He filled the old wooden cup with enough wine to last on his walk back to his quarters.


    Guiterez watched Guy ready himself to leave the gatehouse for the evening. “Embers when properly fanned grow into uncontrolled fires. I do not wish to see you burned by embers which still smolder for Sofia. Eduard was consumed by his fire. In his absence you have been like a son to me, Guy. I do not wish to lose another son over his desire for a woman.”

    “A wager, then,” said Guy heading toward the door. “An eagle weight silver if I so much as cast loving eyes toward the Countess.”

    “Done,” agreed Guiterez and both men raised their cups to seal the bet with a drink.

    Outside, the first fires of the evening were being lit. Tiny little sparks soon to be hungry flames devouring all that was thrown into them.

  4. #14

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    Cage wagons ringed the fortress’s main courtyard. They sat on creaking axels, stuffed full of supplies which as they were used would make room for prisoner slaves captured on the campaign. Teamsters waited for the word to move out, either sitting on hard wooden wagon benches or busying themselves rechecking the pole straps and bearing buckles of the wagon horses. Outside the fortress walls, two lines of fifty lancers each stretched along the rutted road. Not quite midmorning and already the August sun and humidity conspired to drench the men in sweat.

    Elena stood in the shadow of the gatehouse just inside the fortress walls. She had tied an old blanket into a sash and draped it from her shoulder. Once she stuffed the sash with barely ripe apples, ‘treating the horses before they left’ proved an easy excuse to get away from the slave pens and out into the courtyard. Neither the matron nor the kennel master stopped Elena. They both knew she was the commander’s current favorite. Besides, there were other slave girls meandering about the wagons. Though unlike Elena, they could be set to use.

    Elena peered through the gatehouse to the road. Guy, Graecus and Guiterez sat on horses at the head of the cavalry column discussing something. Graecus in his steel cuirass regarded the other two as if their simpler, lighter leathers were a thing to be politely tolerated if not outright despised. Eventually Graecus nodded his consent and Guy signaled for the horns to sound the march. Signalers at the front sounded the horns and raised the banner. The cavalry column lurched forward and within the fortress, wagons began rolling. Elena started to walk through the gatehouse when someone grabbed her by the wrist and flung her back into the courtyard. Elena fell, apples spilling from the sash.

    “Stupid girl,” barked a voice. It was one of the wall guards. “You know only chained slaves are permitted past the inner portcullis.”

    Elena quickly scrambled to her knees and averted her eyes. “Sorry, sir, I only wanted to watch the men leaving.”

    “The look from someplace else,” snarled the man, irritated by heat and sweat.

    “Y-yessir. Of course, sir.” Elena quickly gathered up the fallen apples and hurried off. The guardsman watched her until satisfied she was far enough away then he continued into the gatehouse.

    Elena moved among the creaking wagons and snorting horses, dark eyes looking for something, anything that would get her out of the fortress. No matter the dangers that lurked while on campaign, Elena knew it would be better than being left here to an uncertain fate and perhaps a cruel master once she was put on the auction block. She just knew the commander would be pleased to see her.

    The cookmaster’s covered wagon had just started rolling toward the gatehouse, hanging pans and spit rods clanging and banging against one another. Elena hurried alongside the wagon, pulled herself up and sat confidently on the seat.

    The cookmaster looked to her, at first confused by the sheer audacity of the slave. The confusion gave way to his usual irritable manner. “Get the hell off, slave.”

    Elena looked directly at the cookmaster. The man was as dirty and greasy as she remembered. “I don’t think the commander would be very happy with that,” said Elena confidently. She smiled over her nervousness as the wagon drew closer to the gatehouse. The guardsman was still there, watching the wagons leave. “The commander said I should come along.”

    The cookmaster regarded Elena with suspicion. “He did not tell me to expect you.”

    The wagon drew closer to the gatehouse and the guard. Oh what hell there would be for her if the wall guard caught her passing through the gate house. Elena shrugged. The loose linen tunic she wore slipped down over a thin shoulder. “He’s a busy man. He cannot tell everyone every little thing, sir.”

    “Still, it is unlike him to not mention a thing like this.” The cookmaster returned his attention to the horses, guiding them toward the gatehouse. “At least you are cleaner than you were. A bit more appealing if he takes off the collar tags. I suppose you could be the spitjack or something.”

    “I’ll put my things away,” said Elena crawling into the back of the covered wagon. There she crouched among the barrels of wine, hanging haunches of salt cured pork and crates of dry beans.

    The wagon slowed as it reached he gatehouse. “Get out the way,” barked the cookmaster. “This fat ass of a wagon can barely fit through as it is without you standing there. Bad enough I’m overloaded.”

    Elena heard men shuffling about the wagon to make room for it to squeeze through the gatehouse. “Overloaded? With what?” Elena’s heart dropped. It was the voice of the wall guard that had pulled her from the gatehouse.

    “Commander’s favorite tart,” sneered the cookmaster. Elena closed her eyes, silently praying that the guard did understand the cookmaster meant her and that the man did not look in the back of the wagon.

    The guard walked behind the wagon as it rolled through the gatehouse. “Must be damn fine tart.”

    “Wouldn’t know,” said the cookmaster. “But maybe I’ll get my fingers in it before it gets used up.”

    “Save some for me!” The guard laughed and smacked the back of the wagon. Elena almost yelped and held her hands tight over her mouth. She lifted her head just enough to peer over a wine cask. The guards paid no more mind to the wagon now that it was outside the fortress but the gatehouse, like some yawning, jagged-toothed skull stared silently after her.


    The head of the column had just rounded Gallows Hill when a woman’s urgent voice joined the bickering crows pecking at agibbet cage corpse atop the hill. “Lord Commander! Lord Commander!”

    Guy Guiterez and Graecus looked to the young woman hurrying toward them. Dressed in drab and coarse linen blouse and long skirt, the peasant woman led a child by the hand, a girl no more than six, who stumbled behind. The woman scooped up the little girl, resting the child on her hip and quickened her pace. “Lord Commander, please!”

    “She seems intent on coming this way,” said Guiterez. His tone left no doubt that he was in essence asking if Guy wanted him to stop the woman.

    Guy smirked. “So it would seem. How ungentlemanly it would be for us to deny her being in my presence, yes? If she can catch up, let her walk with us a bit and we’ll hear what she has to say that is so very important as to promote me from Knight Commander to Lord Commander.”

    “A simple ‘let her through’ would have sufficed,” said Guiterez.

    “Really, de Leon,” asked a disbelieving Graecus. “Look at her. Do you truly suffer the peasantry such common manners casual audience?”

    “I’ve suffered worse manners from nobility,” said Guy cutting his eyes briefly to Graecus. “But I can at lease leave them a small token off my displeasure.” Guy scratched his side, a subtle reminder of the scar he’d left Graecus after one of their arguments over Sofia years before.

    The woman rushed up to Guy, breathing heavily from her dash down Gallows Hill. Guy did not stop or slow down. While willing to hear what the woman had to say, he would not halt the entire column for her. She fell in step with Guy’s horse. “Lord Commander, a word, if you please.”

    Guy looked down, hawkish eyes falling first to the woman’s chest and how delightfully her simple bodice made young breasts seem all the more firm. He looked to the little girl who hid her face in her mother’s unruly hair. “What do you want woman?”

    “My husband,” said the woman catching her breath. “He is in the fortress. Captured by Knight Captain Travera at the Siege of Castle Zirva and sold to you as a slave prisoner.”

    “And…” prodded Guy.

    “Please,” begged the woman looking up to Guy with the eyes of a lost soul. “I beg of you. Release my husband. Our farm and land was razed. Our cow slaughtered. My daughter and I have nothing left, my lord.” She laid a hand on the back of Guy’s calf and kissed the tip of his boot .

    Graecus harrumphed. “Pitiful. Hardly a worthy grovel.”

    Guy rested his hands on the saddle pommel but still did not stop the horse. “Have you walked all the way from Castle Zirva to plead for his release?”

    The woman nodded and shifted the little girl to her other hip. She found she could not look up to Guy or say anything. She thought only of how she might humble herself more in hopes that Sir Guy would offer some small amount of mercy. She sniffed, emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

    Guy shrugged. “I suppose I could find it in my heart to give you your husband…” The young woman looked up. Joy welled on her lovely face. “…for twenty silver.”

    Joy fell into despair as if Guy had kicked her in the face and in front of her, smashed with sadistic glee all of her fragile glass hopes. “My lord,’ she pleaded a hand digging into the apron she had bundled up into a small pouch to pull out a few silver coins. She held them up in the palm of her hand as if sacrificing them up to the gods. Four crude minted silver pieces so dull and tarnished they looked like tin. “Please! This is all we have! Take it, My Lord! Please!”

    Guy smacked her hand away. The tarnished silver coins arched away into the tall grass beside the road. “You stupid, lying bitch! You say you have nothing then offer up a palmful of silver! Twenty-five silver. Or pay more at Cordova when he is up for auction.”

    Weeping, the young woman pawed plaintively at Guys leg. Without a husband or home she saw only a winter of starvation and she wailed in fear of clawing out a child’s grave from hard winter earth. “My lord, NO!”

    Guy pulled his boot from the stirrup and planting it on the woman’s chest, shoved her away. She fell to the side of the road, clutching her daughter who wrapped tiny arms around her mother’s neck. They both wept. Mother out of despair and child out of confusion and fear. Men on horses had taken her father. They burned their farm and killed their cow, laughing as if it was all some game to them. Now, men on horses had thrown her mother aside and even in her young mind, the girl knew the meaning behind the jeers of passing horsemen offering to help her mother earn those twenty-five silver.

    Mother and child sill wept when the cookmaster’s wagon passed them. Elena paid them little heed. She was thinking how wonderful it would be when she brought the commander his dinner.

  5. #15

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    Elena lifted a fat bottomed soup pot from the cookfire and set it on the ground. A few ladles of heavy broth still simmered in the pot so she took a wood spoon from her apron and slurped up some of the broth. “I think the commander would like some stew,” she said to the cookmaster.

    The cookmaster banged an old coffee pot against his wagon and scraped burnt coffee grounds from the bottom. “Girl, you think more than you should and talk twice as much as you think. The commander ain’t sent for you so no use disturbing him. Besides, one of the men took some bowls to him, the sergeant and that ass, Graecus. Oh pardon me,” said the cookmaster with a mock apologetic bow. “I mean Sir Graecus de Poloma, Knight Seneschal to Count Chazar, Templar Secunda of the Blue order, and a dozen other titles no one gives two shiits about.”

    Elena giggled. “I can never remember past the knight seneschal.”

    A black lump of burned grounds fell from the coffee pot. The cookmaster looked in the pot, saw a few stubborn grounds still clinging to the bottom and hung it up figuring it was clean enough. “It’s shiit anyway, all those titles. Just a way for nobles to feel superior to common folk. Even the commander will tell you that and he has a bushel full of titles.”

    A girlish smile crept across Elena’s lips and she recited the commanders honorifics as if she were his personal herald. “Sir Guy de Leon, Knight Commander of Skalvo Forikajo, Cavalier of the Third Rose, Fifth Courtier to Duke Etona, Champion of the Boar, Honored of Cordova and Hero of Green Bridge.” Elena turned the pot over and tapped the bottom. She looked hesitantly to the cookmaster. “The commander likes wine after dinner. You think maybe I should bring him some?”

    “Mitra’s hairy balls,” huffed the cookmaster. “If it will shut you up, go! Take him a skin of wine and just go!”

    Elena beamed. “Yessir! Right away.” She rushed to the back of the wagon and started filling an empty wine skin from a tapped cask. It gurgled out too slow for her and she patted the top of the cask as if that would help the wine flow faster. Once filled, she draped the sloshing fat wine skin over her shoulder and hopped down from the wagon. “I’ll be back,” she called to the cookmaster and hurried through the camp to the commander’s tent. Secretly, though, she hoped the commander would keep her there and not let her go.

    Guy, Graecus and Guiterez sat on simple stools around a small table in Guy’s tent. With Guy’s cot against the back of the tent and his armor and saddle against the right, barely enough room remained for the three men to move around the table.

    “I disagree,” said Guy shaking his head. “It will take us at least two days out of our way to get to Pelucium. Then it is two days back plus whatever time we waste there. Those days are better spent marching to join Chazar at his fortress.”

    Graecus brushed some imaginary dust from the chest of his blue silk doublet. Even for this informal meal and discussion the man had changed into what he considered more proper attire than the sweat stained and ill-fitting linen shirts Guy and Guiterez wore. “Pelucium may have men we can bring with us,” explained Graecus as if to children. “We go there, gather more men and continue on.”

    Three bowls sat on the table, two empty and one still full of broth. Graecus had excused himself as not hungry but Guy and Sergeant Guiterez knew it was a subtle protestation at what Graecus perceived as rustic accomodations unworthy of a true knight. Guy flicked one of the empty bowls in Graecus’ direction. “Waste of time. They won’t have any men worth a damn,” countered Guy.

    Guiterez swept the bowls toward him with his arm. “Pelucium certainly does not have any cavalry,” added Guiterez. He stacked the bowls and hoped that would prevent the two knights from throwing them at one another. “They probably have nothing but town watch.”

    Guy leaned toward Greacus and jabbed the table with his index finger. “Exactly! A burden that will slow us down.”

    Graecus arched a brow, his tone condescending and laden with smug accusation but just barely enough to not be offensive. It was a skill the man had perfected and one which he used to incite others to rash acts. “De Leon, are you so eager to see the Countessa that you would pass the chance to see your uncle?”

    Guiterez watched the two knights, ready to insinuate himself between them if they came to blows over the woman as they often did when younger.

    Guy dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “That has nothing to do with it,” he said. “Yes, my uncle is Magistrate of Pelucium but that does not mean he has any decent men to give us. If it is your intention to use me so that my uncle feels obligated to give you men, you will be sadly mistaken. Pelucium is an unwalled small town surrounded by vineyards which produce, at best, marginal wine. The money you have agreed to pay us is likely more profit than Pelucium will see in a year.”

    Graecus stood, preparing to leave, and swiped a finger along the table as if it had just occurred to him to see if it was dusty. “You might be surprised, de Leon. Under Chazar’s patronage, Pelucium and your uncle have grown wealthy in the five years since your father died.”

    “Murdered,” countered Guy.

    Graecus smoothed out his doublet and that smug, condescending tone returned. “Oh yes, I forgot. Killed in the streets of Leon. Tragic when a silk merchant dies. However can the tailors then make a proper set of clothes?”

    Guy’s hand clenched into a fist on the table and he glared at Graecus. Sergerant Guiterez rested a hand on Guy’s wrist. The weight of it, fatherly in a way, held in check Guy’s quick temper. Guy unknotted his fist and laid his hand flat on the table.

    “We will go to Pelucium,” said Graecus in a manner that made it sound like an order. “We will ask for men. You will make your best effort to secure those men or you will not be paid. Am I understood?”

    “All too well,” said Guy, his words measured and begrudgingly deferential.

    “Good. Then I expect that we will march toward Pelucium first thing in the morning.” Not waiting for a reply or even wanting one, Graecus exited the tent, the flaps fluttering shut behind him.

    Guy waited until he was certain Graecus was beyond earshot then slapped the table. “Pompous shiit,” he growled. “He’ll drag us all over the principalities looking for more men when we should be fighting.”

    “Well, he is Chazar’s man and he holds the purse strings,” said Guiterez acting as the voice of reason. “Where the strings go, we follow.”

    “We both know that if we don’t fight, we don’t get paid,” said Guy. “If it is all over by the time we get to Chazar, we’ll have wasted time and money.”

    The grizzled old sergeant pushed up from the stool. “There will be plenty of fighting for us. Just try to make it against the Grand Duke’s men and not Graecus. If he goads you into a fight and manages to kill you before we get to Chazar, how will you pay me that eagle weight silver for making eyes at the Countessa?”

    Guy’s mood lightened. “So sure are you, old man? Or just envious that she would cast eyes back at me and not at a hobbling old soldier like you?”

    Opening tent flaps interrupted Graecus’ reply. All broad smile and dark hair, Elena entered the tent. “I brought you some wine, sir.”

    Guy glanced to Elena. The beginnings of a grin died immediately, his face becoming hard as a grimacing stone statue. His eyes snapped to Guiterez, accusation ssdatabbing at the older man. Guiterez, surprised by the slave’s sudden arrival, offered Guy a shake of his head to indicate he had nothing to do with Elena being here.

    Elena offered Guiterez a quick, unpracticed little courtesy. ““Oh, hello, Sergeant, I did not-“

    “Silence!” barked Guy smacking the bowls on the table toward Elena.

    Cold broth spattered over Elena, drops speckling the old canvas tent. Her gut twisted, knotting with apprehension. It was not the sudden rage in the commander’s voice or the unexpected physical outburst that accompanied it but the horrible realization she had done something to displease the man. She dropped the wineskin and fell to her knees as if hammered down by some invisible weight. Forehead kissing the ground, she supplicated herself as she had seen other slaves do when angering the man. She wanted to beg his forgiveness, plead for his mercy. But as she had seen with other slaves, the man had neither when angered. She prayed only that his fury and her punishment would be over quickly.

  6. #16

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    Elena kept her head to the ground, arms outstretched, eyes closed like the penitent worshipper of a wrathful god. Guy stood over her, so close she could smell the old leather of his boots, hear them scuff against the wagon board that served as the floor for the tent. She wanted to make herself small, unnoticed but she dare not move for fear of further angering the commander.

    Guy nudged Elena’s side with a boot. “Is this your doing, Guiterez,” he demanded of the old sergeant.

    Guiterez shook his head. “I gave no orders for slaves to be brought with us.”

    Placing a boot on Elena’s hip, Guy shoved her onto her side. “Well, bitch, what are you doing here?”

    Elena folded herself back into the bow. “I came with the cookmaster,” she said quickly. “But it was not his idea.”

    “Then who’s idea was it,” demanded Guy.

    “Mine sir. I… I thought-“

    Guy snatched a handful of Elena’s dark hair and jerked her onto her knees. He tugged her head back forcing her to look up at him. “Thought what!”

    Elena yelped, believing the hair would tear from her scalp. Crying, she reached up for his wrist, her slender fingers begging delicately for mercy. “Please, sir!”

    Guy looked to Guiterez. “Metal collar, ox chain and hobbling spike,” he ordered.

    Elena looked to the old sergeant, fear in her eyes. Guiterez hesitated. “Is hobbling necessary, commander? Perhaps a flogging. Have a man take her back to the fortress.”

    “Dammit, do as I say,” Guy commanded the older man. “Fetch the collar, chain and spike and meet me at the cook wagon!”

    “As you say,” conceded Guiterez and hurried from the tent. He knew reasoning with Guy once he grew sufficiently angered was as useless as reasoning with a storm. All one could hope was that the storm passed quickly.

    With a hand tangled in Elena’s thick hair, Guy pulled her through the camp to the cook wagon. Bent over and stumbling along behind him, she found it difficult to keep up with his angered stride. When she tripped, Guy just hauled her back to her feet by the hair, growing more irritated each time she fell. Elena wept. Part pain, part confusion. This is not how it was supposed to be. The commander favored her. He was supposed to be pleased to see her.

    At the cook wagon, Guy threw Elena down beside the fire. “Cookmaster!” he bellowed

    The porcine man stepped from behind the wagon. “Yessir,” he said, voice a nervous warble. The commander only yelled like this when someone was about to feel the full weight of his wrath.

    Elena started to fold herself into that penitent bow but Guy shoved her onto her back with his foot. Guy pointed at Elena. “Is this you doing?” Elena lay on her back, breath hitching, afraid to move and feeling all the more vulnerable.

    The cookmaster shook his head, voice becoming more confident now that he knew the commander’s rage was not directed toward him. “No, sir. She said you wanted her to come along.”

    Guy glared at Elena. The campfire bathed his face half in light and half in shadow. Elena rolled onto her stomach and wrapped her arms around Guy’s ankle, hugging it desperately. “Please, master,” she begged. “I only wanted to be near you. I’ll do whatever you want just don’t send me back.”

    Guy snorted. “Master? You count yourself good enough to be a slave to me?” Guy paused and then boomed, “You cannot even stay where I want you!”

    Guiterez limped into the firelight, carrying the collar and chain in one hand, the hobbling spike and a hammer in the other. “Commander.”

    Guy wrenched his foot free of Elena. Whimpering, she curled into a ball. Guy took the hammer and the spike from Guiterez. “Collar the bitch,” he told the sergeant. “Lock the chain to it.”

    “Stand up, girl,” Guiterez said to Elena.

    Elena wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand and dragged herself to her feet shaking. She kept her eyes down, unable to look up to Guy or the others. “What about the leather collar she has on,” asked Guiterez.

    “Cut it off,” said Guy.

    Guiterez slipped a knife behind the knot that cinched Elena’s leather collar to her neck and with a quick jerk, cut it loose. The collar fell to the ground like a broken winged bird. Guiterez pushed Elena’s hair over a shoulder, slipped the metal collar around her neck and locked the length of ox chain to the back flange. The metal band rested heavy on her collar bone, its weight made more oppressive by the long, thick chain locked to it. This was meant to be a burden. A reminder of what she was. Property.

    Elena hesitantly looked up to the commander. Tink, he tapped the hammer against the head of the hobbling spike. At the fortress she’d watched slaves get hobbled with a spike through their heel or ankle. She remembered the sickening wet crack of bone and the screams that followed. Weakened by fear and despair, Elena’s legs no longer held her and she crumpled, wailing to Guy. “Please master! I’ll be good, I promise!”

    Guy said nothing. He took the end of the chain and started for the back of the wagon. Elena crawled after him, sobbing, weak and unable to stand. “Anything you want, master. P-please don’t!”

    The cookmaster stepped out of Guy’s way. ‘A waste to hobble such a pretty little thing,’ the cookmaster thought but he knew better than to say anything like that to the commander. Once the commander had set his mind to a thing, a person only risked the man’s ire by trying to convince him to change his mind.

    Guiterez picked up the leather collar. The knot, he saw, was one of Guy’s. A form of signature in the way he threaded the passion knot and an unspoken sign of his interest in a particular slave. Guiterez had only seen that signature knot used four other times. His wizened eyed lifted to Guy and Elena. ‘Poor girl,’ he thought. ‘You’ll never be as perfect as he wants you. Never hold his heart or mind like the woman who years ago was given the first knot.’

    Guy threaded the spike through the last link in the heavy chain and with three heavy blows from the hammer, drove the spike into the back of the cook wagon. He gave the chain heavy tug, ensuring it was securely nailed to the wagon. “Now, maybe you will stay where I want you, slave.”

    Elena huddled against a wagon wheel and said nothing. She watched the commander storm off with Sergeant Guiterez falling into stride beside him. With a few blows of a hammer, the man she so wanted to please had reduced her world to the reach of a fifteen foot chain. She found herself despising herself for angering him and misunderstanding him. If only he knew how much she wanted to make him happy. If only she knew how to do so.

    Guiterez waited until he and Guy were back at Guy’s tent before speaking. Before going in, he stopped Guy. “What about this,” he asked holding out the leather collar. “I mean the tags on it. Put them on the girl’s metal collar?”

    Guy looked at the colored leather tags marking the collar’s wearer as unavailable for sexual use. “She’s on a chattel chain now. So long as she is not overly abused she remains open. Besides, we’ll be in Pelucium in three or four days. We’ll either sell her there or give her to my uncle and be done with her.”

  7. #17

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    The walls of Pelucium wavered in the late August heat, beckoning Guy to the lush gardens and cool, burbling reflecting pools he knew waited on the other side.
    By the gods, how he hated this place.

    He hated the heat. He hated taking the company two days march out of their way because Graecus thought to get more men from Pelucium. He hated Graecus but at the moment the arrogant ass of a knight held the purse strings. Until they made it to Chazar’s fortress Graecus and his silver directed where the company of cavalry marched.

    He hated the simple dirt roads winding lazily between the vineyards and farmsteads around Pelucium. Stirred up by the horses and wagons, the damnable road grit hovered like a haze in the dead air. It bored its way under armor, past the creases and folds of clothes and irritated the skin at just the point so that Guy could not scratch without looking foolish or vulgar.

    Guy shifted to look at the cavalry column marching behind him. The dry, leather saddle creaked in protest. The grit ground its way deeper. His horse, swathed in musky sweat, harrumphed and shook its roan head, exciting the huge green flies buzzing around its twitching ears.

    The company rode, wordless, toward Pelucium, four hundred hooves crunching the rocky highway. Only the occasional clink of a swaying sword or grunt of a horse broke the heat stifled silence. Guy's eagle green eyes followed the lines to the rear of the column. Men, covered in sweat caked grit appeared and disappeared amid dust rising into the still air. Kicked up by plodding hooves and creaking wagon wheels, the billowing, dun cloud loomed over the cavalry and the supply wagons like the knurled fist of an angry god.

    Guy blinked the stinging sweat from his eyes and looked back to Pelucium. The stone walls were new. Pelucium was unwalled the last time he was here; Six years ago when his uncle was made governor. Somehow Guy’s Uncle Vacil had managed to twist prosperity out of the farmlands and vineyards with their mediocre, rocky soil. No doubt with patronage from some noble. Likely Count Chazar since Graecus was so certain Vacil would supply troops to the Count.

    Guy’s uncle was at best an uninspired administrator but Vacil de Leon knew how to play the little political games Zingaran nobles so enjoyed. Just as Guy knew how to play at war, which the nobles enjoyed just as much.

    Guy pulled his hand down his face and past his mouth, tasting the dirt and sweat. He continued dragging his fingers down his neck, scraping the grit from his skin, and wiped it across his pant leg.

    “Are you listening to me, de Leon” snarled Graecus riding to Guy’s right.

    Guy looked over his left shoulder, to the train of cavalry and wagons as if distracted. “Not particularly, no.” He turned his face back to Graecus and to neuter Graecus’ perception of being ignored and insulted said, “I do hope it was nothing important. My mind is on other matters.”

    “Apology accepted,” said Graecus though both men knew there was no apology. Guy had intentionally ignored Graecus so Graecus intentionally misunderstood Guy’s explanation. Graecus knew all too well that Guy never apologizes for anything. It was simply a way for both men to remain pleasantly uncivil to one another. “I was inquiring about where you planned to set camp while we are here.”

    “That will be up to my uncle. I am sure there is a field or something close by.”

    “Well, I at least expect that your uncle will offer proper quarters to knights.”

    Guy found he could not rein in his sarcasm. “Oh of course! No doubt you will be able to stay at the manor house. One would not wish to spend more time with common soldiers than necessary, yes?”

    “Excellent,” said Graecus with that arrogant and condescending tone of his. “While tents may be fine for common lay knights, there are certain hospitalities a peerage knight might expect.”

    “By your leave, Sir Graecus,” said Guy tugging the reins to the side, “There are matters of common soldiery that need be attended.” Guy turned out of formation and rode down the line of cavalry to Guiterez.

    The old sergeant nodded. “Captain.”

    As usual in matters of the company, Guy dismissed with pleasantries and issued his orders. “There is a mill about a half mile west of the town, just at the edge of a meadow. March the men there to take on water but do not set camp until I return from Pelucium. Understood?”

    “As you say, Captain.” Guiterez spurred his horse to take Guy’s place at the head of the line with Graecus.

    Guy looked to Pelucium. He tasted the road grit on his tongue, felt the rage of the late summer sun on his back. In Pelucium was water to sooth dry throats and gardens of old trees with thick boughs through which only dapples of sunlight managed to fall into cool shadows. For all the comfort that waited in Pelucium, so too lived memories and Guy found himself hesitant to revisit them.

  8. #18

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    Guy waited in the enclosed courtyard in the north wing of the Governor’s Estate while Ishmael, the chief house slave, went to fetch Guy's uncle. Guy stood by the marble-ringed reflecting pool, and gazed at the pale, cloudless sky reflected in clear water. He passed his fingers through the water, sending ripples across the sky and sun.

    Slaves made their way through the courtyard going about their daily chores. A few slowed and whispered to one another, curious about the dark haired cavalier in the dusty, buckled on hard leather cuirass.

    Guy splashed water on his face, letting it drip from his chin. The drops fell on the marble, evaporating quickly in the heat. If luck held, the company would disappear just as quickly and leave Pelucium behind like a bad memory.

    With even better luck he would not have to deal with his aunt, Altona. Guy knew his Uncle Vacil was ignorant of her little trysts. Vacil, at nearly sixty, found her youth invigorating. It also blinded him. Time had yet to flatten or sag her curves and she carried herself as if some insatiable desire burned in her, learned from the nymph festooned whorehouse in Zorgasa where Vacil had found her and paid for her. She ached for the stamina of youth, the feel of lean muscle pressing down on her. Neither of which Vacil had possessed for many years.

    He glanced around the courtyard at the dozen arched entrances, expecting at any moment Altona to emerge like some trap door spider springing out to snatch a meal. Guy brushed off his armor, throwing away the dust as he wished he could throw away the memory of her chestnut hair caressing his chest, tickling his stomach and thighs.

    "Guy!"

    Hearing his name, Guy looked up to the loggia from where the voice had come. A slender girl leaned over the bannister of the covered gallery and looked down into the courtyard. Long curls of sable hair framed her face and spilled over the shoulders of her white gown like loose black ribbons...

    “Octavia!” Guy smiled and waved to his cousin

    Octavia ran along the loggia and down the stairs to the courtyard. "Guy," she cried again, running into him and throwing her arms around his chest.

    "And hello to you, too, cousin," laughed Guy.

    Octavia stepped back and looked up at Guy, her dark eyes wide with adolescent wonder. "It's been so long," she said quickly. "Oh! You have new armor." Octavia placed her delicate hands on hardened leather and marveled at the hard leather, boiled and formed to resemble a torso. She bounced with excitement feeling the leather abdominal muscles. "It looks just like your chest!” Her fingers brushed over the jagged ridge at the right side of the chest. "Even your scar. Where did you get it?"

    “The armor or the scar?” Guy asked her.

    Octavia looked up to him with the exasperation only possible in a teenage girl. “Your armor,” she said swatting at his chest. “I already know where the scar came from. Battle of Green Bridge. I remember you telling me.”

    "Maceda," said Guy placing a heavy hand on her head. He tangled her dark hair in his fingers and shook her head playfully. "A present from Duke Philip."

    "One of the King’s cousins," she breathed as if awestruck. Octavia reached up and pulled his hand from her head, holding it in both of hers. "Where else have you been? Were you at the siege of Calderon?" Octavia held her breath in expectation, the suspense almost unbearable.

    "No Octavia, I was not at Calderon," he said, amazed at her raw energy, "but I have been to Nemedia and even into Pictland."

    Octavia let out her breath in an explosion of excitement. "You must tell me about it. How long will you be staying?"

    “As long as he wants," said Vacil walking into the courtyard. Vacil walked up and embraced Guy, clapping him on the back. "How have you been, nephew.”

    "Well, uncle," Guy replied smiling. "Though not nearly as well as you it seems. You are half again the man you were last time I was here. I think the life of a governor magistrate agrees with you. Or at least the food does.”

    "The food is rather filling," said Vacil patting his stomach. "Octavia says I should build a sporting yard to relieve myself of this belly pantry. Meddlesome child," he added with a father’s teasing look at Octavia.

    Octavia protested, stamping a slippered foot. "I said no such thing. I just think a sport yard would help you pass your idle time."

    "Sometimes she thinks too much for girl," chuckled Vacil. His smile flattened to a sad sort of thing like he was trying to maintain a pleasant face for and unpleasant subject. "How is your mother, is she well?"

    Guy nodded. “Well enough. She left the villa in Leon to live at the estate. She still grieves for father and the villa had too many memories, I think."

    "Every day I wish there was something I could have done to save Jurasus," said Vacil. "To be murdered in the streets of Leon outside my very doorstep. His death was hard enough on your mother. Then, to make matters worse, I get sent to this..." Vacil stumbled for the word, waving his hand around, “place... while you're away, and leaving your mother alone in Leon with a husband to bury."

    There was an uneasy silence for the next few seconds before Vacil spoke again.

    "Enough depressing talk," he said spreading his hands. "How long will you be staying?"

    "Not for very long, I'm afraid." Guy heard Octavia's disappointed sigh. "Sir Graecus has it in his mind that you can provide men for Chazar’s fight with the Grand Duke. Men or not, we’ll likely take on supplies and leave in a day or so."

    “So, it has finally come down to steel.” Vacil heaved a deep sigh, hands gripping the loose embroidered green magistrate’s sash draped around his neck. “Only a matter of time before those two came to blows. Probably because of the Devil’s Eye. They’ve been wrangling over that damn silver mine for years.”

    Guy shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t much care why they are fighting. Chazar is paying so our lances are his.”

    Vacil raised an eyebrow. "How many men?"

    "A hundred light lances and the necessary supply wagons. I have them at the old mill stream waiting to hear word if they can camp there.”

    Vacil thought for a second before speaking. "I see no reason they cannot camp there but we’ll have to talk over dinner about Pelucium giving up men from the town watch,” he said. "You and your fellow cavaliers will of course be my guests here at the estate and give me the pleasure of serving you dinner, I assume."

    "I think they would like that very much, uncle. Thank you."

    "Good. If you will excuse me, I interrupted a small case of litigation between two farmers. They argue over the ownership of a cow." Vacil leaned closer to Guy. "Between us. If the damn cow had any meat on it I might confiscate it and serve it for dinner, but the way it looks it's more likely we would be playing knucklebones."

    Vacil straitened and adjusted his green sash. "Octavia, why don't you take your cousin to the large guest room in the south wing so that he can get cleaned up. And see that more rooms are made ready for the other knight officers who will be here."

    "Yes, father," she said nodding.

    "Altona and I will see you at dinner," said Vacil over his shoulder and disappeared into one of the archways leading from the courtyard.

    Octavia took Guy by the hand and pulled him towards the south wing. "Tell me everything," she said smiling and bouncing along beside him.

    "I won’t bore you with mundane stories, Octavia. The everyday workings of the company are tedious and battle more horrific that you might expect. And courtly politics are even more horrific.”

    "Court politics? Have you been to Kordava recently?"

    "Yes we were there for a two weeks before leaving to raid Pictland."

    "Kordava? Did you see Duke Lorenzo?" asked Octavia with a girlish little sparkle in her eye.

    "Yes, he seemed to be a very personable man."

    Octavia's eyes widened. "You met him!?"

    "Yes," nodded Guy, "and I dined with him."

    "Is he as handsome as they say?" Octavia tightened her grasp on Guy's arm and bit her lower lip in expectation.

    "The court ladies seem to think so."

    Octavia sighed and leaned her head against Guy’s arm as they walked through another courtyard. "You get to travel all over and meet famous people. Father won’t let me go anywhere. Not even to Count Chazar’s court. I can’t imagine ever going to Kordava."

    "You are still young, cousin. Only thirteen and-"

    "Fourteen," Octavia corrected proudly.

    "Well, maybe in another year or two Uncle Vacil will let you go to court." Guy put his arm around her thin shoulders. "Besides, there must be plenty of young suitors after your attention."

    Octavia blushed and looked down at the polished stone floor. "Well, there are some," she conceded, "but they are only boys."

    "Well, you are only a girl."

    "I am not," Octavia protested. She shrugged Guy's arm from around her shoulders and thrust her chest forward. "I am a woman," she said "Like the dancers father has from Turan."

    "Dancers?"

    "Yes, he will probably want them to entertain us at dinner. Oh, you should see them, Guy. They are the most beautiful women I've ever seen. And their skin is so smooth."

    "I'm sure," said Guy. "When did he get them?"

    "He's had them for a year now. I think Hidalgo Francisco de Bautista sent them. Most of the slaves came from him."

    "Interesting," muttered Guy. What little games was Vacil playing that a southern Baron would send slaves to the eastern reaches of Zingara?

    Octavia looked up to Guy. "What?"

    "Nothing, just talking to myself."

    "Well talk to me instead," whined Octavia grasping him by the arm once more. "Tell me about the Picts!"

    Guy did, telling Octavia in the most grandiose manner possible how they raided into Pictland for slaves. Men to restock the fighting pits. Women as curiosities for the menageries of wealthy buyers. Children for whatever they might be put to use for. Throughout the story Octavia remained fixed on Guy, marveling at the exploits of her elder cousin. She envisioned him, tall and handsome atop his horse, leading horsemen across the misty hills of Pictland. “Of course they all fight like demons.” said Guy said finishing his story. “So you have to be sure to surprise them. Otherwise you end up killing more than you capture.”

    Octavia opened the door to one of the spacious guest apartments and led Guy in. Guy grunted. Graecus would at least have nothing to complain about with regards to the guest apartments. Brocade covers piled on the bed and translucent silks hanging from the bed canopy seemed more suited to Graecus than old horse blankets and canvas tents.

    "Could you do me a favor, Octavia," asked Guy starting to unbuckle the leather straps holding his armor on.

    "Certainly."

    "Send one of your father's slaves out to the old mill to tell Sergeant Guiterez we can make camp there. Also that he and Sir Graecus are invited to stay at the estate." Guy squeezed out of the cuirass and set it against the bed. "And have someone pour me a bath. If I'm to dine with your father tonight, I should at least be clean."

    "Anything else?"

    Guy loosened the laces of the sweat stained linen under armor shirt “No, I think that will be all.”

    "I'll also send someone by with clean clothes," said Octavia tuning to leave

    Guy turned around. "Octavia," he called, stopping before she could get too far.

    Octavia turned. "Yes?"

    "We are marching to Chazar’s fortress," said Guy.

    "Yes, I know. I heard you tell father, remember."

    Guy pulled off his shirt, rolling it up and tossing it on the bed. "Well, I happen to know Countess Sofia Chazar. I might be able to convince her to take you into her court once the fighting is over. If you father approves, of course.”

    Octavia's face beamed. "Really!? You mean I could go to Court? As a Lady?"

    "If your father approves of course."

    "Thank you, Guy, thank you," she cried running up to him and hugging him tightly. "I know you'll convince father. Oh, but I have to hurry," she said excitedly, "so I can choose my clothes for the trip. Thank you again, Guy," she said hurrying out the door and down the hall.

  9. #19

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    At dinner Vacil sat at the center of a large semicircular table. Octavia, Graecus and Sergeant Guiterez sat to Vacil’s left, an empty chair and Guy to his right. The table, carved from carob and polished black, overflowed with food wine and half melted candles. A constant stream of slaves flitted around the table, carrying away empty platters. Others followed on their heels, bearing plates piled with meat, cheese and fat purple grapes from the local vineyards.

    A cool evening breeze wafted through the ceiling high, caryatid archways overlooking the gardens. The columns stood like women titans, the frescoed ceiling of stars and moons resting heavily on their heads. Fire blackened braziers shaped like huge toads squatted in the corners of the room. Tongues of orange flame licked from their disjointed mouths and tossed orangish light across the caryatid columns that seemed to flicker and waver in time with the music being strummed by two lutists.

    Guy broke off a hunk of sharp white cheese and popped it in his mouth, staring at the fire shadows dancing across the caryatid's lithe bodies. Some sculptor's twisted hands labored long nights carving the half dozen columns. Chisel and hammer etched the thin gowns so perfectly, Guy realized at least one of the Hellenistic pillars had been carved on a cold night.

    "Guy," said his uncle Vacil, "how long have you been Knight Commander?"

    "Since I was seven," said Octavia, refilling her father's goblet with wine. Octavia smiled to Guy.

    Guy swallowed the bit of cheese and nodded. "Six years, Uncle."
    "Yet you spend little time at the courts of even minor nobility," continued Vacil. "You act as though you wish to stay a soldier."

    Sergeant Guiterez scowled. Enough to be noticeable, but not enough to betray the umbrage he took at what he perceived to be an unintentional insult from someone who had likely never taken up a sword.

    A slave offered up a small tray of roast venison to the table. Guy shook his head indicating he did not want any more and the slave moved on. "There is nothing wrong with being a soldier, Uncle. At least you know who your enemies are."

    "Indeed," said Graecus looking to Guy. Graecus stabbed at a slice of meat from the offered tray and waved the slave off.

    "It seems to me, you waste your time," yawned Vacil, scratching his bloated stomach. "I am sure the trade moving through the slave fortress is adequate but in the end it is court connections that confer the true wealth. I am sure Sir Graecus can attest to that, being Count Chazar’s trusted man."

    Graecus smoothed a hand over the chest of his doublet and reached for his wine. “In the end a slaver is just… a slaver no matter what title he might bear.”

    “My point exactly,” said Vacil who then turned to Sergeant Guiterez. "No offence to you. I have nothing but respect for men whose career and life is the sword and lance. However, in order to truly rise, those without noble blood must find their way into the good graces of those that have it.”

    Guiterez nodded politely and said nothing.

    "Honestly, Uncle, I haven't thought about dabbling in court politics since father was killed."

    Vacil took his goblet and sat back in his cushioned chair. "Your father's mistake was not realizing the ambitions of those around him." Vacil drained the goblet and rested it on the arm of the chair. Octavia dutifully refilled it. "Francisco de Bautista, for instance," said Vacil, louder. "He was elevated to Hidalgo shortly after you father's death and it is widely known he and your father were anything but friends." Vacil made no attempt to disguise the conspiratorial edge in his voice.

    Guy glanced at the slaves hurrying about. Octavia said earlier de Bautista had been sending her father slaves. Guy resisted the urge to question his uncle, especially in front of Octavia and let his curiosity pass with a raised eyebrow and "Humph!" of casual contemplation.

    The lutes faded into silence. Everyone looked at the two musicians. Three more had slipped in, unseen, and sat on the red, gold frilled cushions across the room. One lifted a small, lacquered flute to his lips. The others sat cross-legged with small drums cradled in their laps.

    Octavia craned her neck toward the garden. "Mother's going to miss the dancers, father."

    "Don't worry," consoled Vacil, "she'll be back."

    The twangy music exploded, feverously fast. Dancers ran through the archways from the garden, a maddening rush of skin and color. They twirled across the flagstones, trailing gossamer scarves. Peach. Lemon. Cherry. The colors swirled together. Bodies quaked and slithered in ecstasy, bending like bronze skinned serpents tying themselves in knots.

    A single dancer broke from the troupe and scampered toward the table. She stopped in the center of the table's half circle and began turning. Bells at her ankles jangled in time with the music's beat. Her eyes, obsidian circles, stared over a gossamer veil from an ancient time when Vendeyha was a land of myth and magic. Octavia said the dancers were from Turan but Guy saw more of Vendeyha in those smoldering eyes and the slender hands tracing hypnotic patterns in the air. Each movement, he knew, held a meaning rooted in tradition. All wasted on the Zingaran voyeurs.

    The braziers' light shimmered on brass circles hanging from her corded belt. They jingled with each subtle movement, drawing Guy's eyes to the thin waist, the long, oval navel. The skin, darkened by a foreign sun, seemed so smooth, Guy believed water would roll off her body rather than dampen the skin. Guy smirked. “Oh, what pleasures the rajahs of Turan and Vendeyha must know in their incense hazed palaces.”

    "It's nothing like Zingaran love." The whisper flirted with Guy's ear, but the lilting voice stabbed through his brain. Altona slipped into the empty chair between Guy and Vacil, her fingers trailing along Guys shoulders.

    "Welcome back, mother” said Octavia smiling. “We thought you were going to miss the dancers.”

    "Oh, I had to change. The dinner dress was a bit too stuffy," Altona explained. The gown she had worn earlier had been shed in favor of what looked to be just two long sashes draped over her shoulders and tied at the waist. She leaned toward Guy to pull a grape from a tray in front of him. The movement offered Guy an effortless, if discreet view down her cleavage.

    Altona looked around the table and took a grape in her delicate fingers. "I feel so empty I could swallow anything." Altona sucked on the grape and it disappeared into her pouting lips.

    Sergeant Guiterez coughed on his wine.

    "Please," said Vacil placing a hand on Altona’s and leaning closer, "not at the table."

    Altona pulled her hand from under her husband's and rolled her eyes as only a marriage bored woman can do. Her other hand snaked under the table and onto Guy's thigh.

    "I am impressed how Octavia has grown," said Guy pushing back from the table.

    Altona's hand whipped back before anyone saw where she had put it.

    "Indeed, Magistrate," added Guiterez, seeing Guy's need to direct the conversation. “She is a fine young lady.”

    "Thank you," beamed Vacil, bowing his grey head, "but my wife is more responsible than I."

    "My husband flatters me," cooed Altona, looking into Vacil' tired eyes. "He is more responsible for her than I believe he knows."

    "Ah, flattery,” said Vacil, enamored by Altona’s eyes. “As useful to the woman and politician as a lance is to a cavalier."

    Her husband's attention diverted, Altona's leg edged closer to Guy and began gently stroking his.

    "Speaking of the lance," said Guy snatching a pear from the table and biting into it, "If we are lucky we might make short work of the Grand Duke. Chazar’s fortress, I understand, is quite colorful in the spring. Host to all manner of courtly and social functions." Guy squeezed the fruit, letting the sticky white juice roll over his fingers

    Octavia bit her lower lip. Finally, Guy was talking about Chazar’s court.

    Vacil listened, guessing at what his nephew might be driving at.

    "The Countess, I am sure, will need ladies in waiting once the hostilities are ended." Guy dropped the pear on the table and leaned across Altona towards Vacil. "Uncle, hand me that bottle of wine," he said reaching out with his dry hand. His body masking Altona, Guy slipped his juice wet hand under her gown and into her lap.

    Altona drew a quick breath and held it in expectation.

    "Since Octavia will be fourteen soon," resumed Guy, taking the bottle, "why not let her apply to court. I know the countess and I am certain she would accept Octavia if I asked." Guy sat up, wiping the sticky juice across Altona's thigh.

    Altona's lip curled in revulsion. The juice dripped down the inside of her thigh, dampening her gown. She snapped her legs together and scooted closer to the table.

    Vacil scanned Guy's face for a second before speaking, ignoring Altona's uncomfortable fidgeting.

    "Octavia grows more like a woman every day," Vacil laughed. "I have no doubt she’s played on your sympathies, Guy. The simple fact is I will not allow her to travel." Vacil took a swallow of wine.

    Octavia slumped in her chair, knowing that she would grow old and die in the desert without ever being at court.

    "What do you say, Sergeant," Vacil asked, resting his elbows on the arms of the high backed chair and lacing his stubby fingers. "Should I send my only daughter to court?"

    "It is not my place to act as counsel in family affairs Magistrate," forfeited Guiterez. "My expertise lies more with a sword and lance."

    "You, Guy and Sir Graecus are worldly men, Sergeant, I would value your opinion."

    Guiterez thought for a moment before speaking. Octavia's long, enraptured glances at Guy had not gone unnoticed by the old sergeant. There was in those looks something more than simple adolescent adoration. "True, it may be dangerous until Chazar and the grand Duke stop fighting," said Guiterez. "However, your daughter is an exceptional and quite lovely young woman, a trait she no doubt inherited from her mother."

    Altona smiled and nodded to the grizzled old sergeant. "You flatter me," she said combing back her chestnut hair with a delicate hand.

    Guiterez forced himself to look away from those sparkling azure eyes. "No doubt that she would have her choice of more than adequate young men vying for the honor of escorting her. Like Guy, I also know the Countess and I am certain she would look after your daughter as her own for as long as Octavia is in her court.”

    Vacil scratched his chin in consideration, his index finger disappearing behind the collar of his tunic.

    "A child's place is at home," belched Graecus, eagerly devouring another slice of venison. He couldn't care less whether or not the brat went to court. He sought only favor with Vacil by agreeing with him. Vacil had yet to commit any men to the fight or even talk about it yet.

    Vacil remained silent for nearly half a minute. He stroked his chin and watched the dancer’s hips churning the air. "I see no reason why Octavia should not go to court," he said finally. Octavia looked up, her eyes growing wide.

    Graecus snarled and threw the venison to the table.

    "But I think we have forgotten one detail," said Vacil, "whether or not Octavia wishes to go." Vacil turned his weathered face to his daughter. "Octavia?"

    Octavia tried not to seem too eager. A restrained smile curled the edges of her small mouth. "I don't know," she shrugged, following the rim of her goblet with her left index finger. "It might be nice."

    Vacil laughed. "You should be thankful these gentlemen think highly enough of you to be your advocate," he said draining the wine from his goblet. "Assuming Guy can convince the Countess to accept you, we will make plans for you to go in the spring."

    Ocatavia refilled the goblet, looking sidelong at Guy. Her thin lips curled in what Guy knew was her deepest thanks.

    "Since that's settled, Uncle" said Guy rising, "I’ll leave you and Sir Graecus to discuss the matter of sending men to fight for Chazar. As for me, I feel like a walk. Would you care to join me, Altona?" Guy reached down to pull out her chair.

    "No," she shouted, scared Guy might hoist her to her feet. "Not now," she said regaining her composure. What base thoughts these rough soldiers would have if they saw the gown clinging to her pear juice dripping thigh.

    "How about you then, Octavia," Guy said walking over to her and taking her hand.

    Octavia's face glowed. "Oh, you must see the gardens at night," she said rising. "The statues look almost real."

  10. #20

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    Guy came back to a quiet dining hall. The braziers yawned only embers, their sanquine light succombing to the darkness. Dishes clinked in the gloom, slaves carrying them away.

    Cushions had been piled on the floor and blankets thrown over them in the rough approximation of a valley. A torch bearing slave stood at each end of the twenty foot valley. Vacil and Sergeant Guiterez walked around the valley, pointing to knives, forks, broken candles. Vacil’s slave Ishmael strode the soft valley like a sandaled giant, moving the utensils as directed.

    Guy walked up beside his uncle. Sergeant Guiterez and Guy's uncle might have been brothers being about the same age and both having full heads of mostly white hair. One a white haired player of court games, the other a grizzled old war hound.

    "No," said Guiterez to Vacil as if patiently explaining something yet again. "You can't do that. Those cavalry." He pointed to a knife. "Move them up."

    Ishmael slid a large knife up the valley face closest to Vacil.

    "Letting those men break to chase my retreating infantry down the slope opens a hole in your flank." Guiterez pointed along the ridge with a half empty wine decanter in his hand and to a candle nub in the center of Vacil's line. "Now my cavalry can hack a path strait to your leader."

    "Why not send the cavalry to save your retreating infantry?" asked Vacil. "They'll be slaghtered otherwise."


    "What's a hundred infantry if the cavalry can win you the battle," said Guy.

    "A regrettable loss," Guiterez admitted, "but I'd rather lose the infantry than the battle."

    Vacil sighed. "Cut off the foot to save the leg," he said and looked to his nephew. "Where is Octavia, Guy?"

    "Asleep in her room."

    “Good,” said Vacil. “Instead of Chazar’s court in the spring, I may send her to visit your mother in the next few days.”

    Guy’s hawkish eyes, looked between Vacil and Guiterez. “Something wrong?”

    “Horsemen were spotted near our encampment,” said Guiterez. “Scouts with the Grand Duke’s pinion.”

    Guy smoothed a finger along his moustache. “Hmm. If there are scouts carrying colors then the main force must not be far behind. Two, maybe three days.”

    “At the most,” agreed Guiterez. “Likely coming from the north or northeast. If they are marching to Chazar’s fortress, that would put us and Pelucium right in their path.”

    Guy looked to his uncle. “Does Graecus know this?”

    Vacil nodded. “Sir Graecus was here when one of your men brought the news. Graecus sent a rider to Count Chazar with the message that he would stand and delay the Grand Duke.”

    Guy snorted. “He means we would stand and delay,” he said motioning between Guiterez and himself.

    “At the Sergeant’s suggestion,” said Vacil, “I will order all grain and other supplies be brought within the town walls. It would help prolong a siege if it becomes necessary. That is why I want to send Octavia and Altona away to safety before the Grand Duke arrives.”

    `We’ll need to send out patrols,” Guy said to Guiterez. “Try to determine if this is the main or a screening force coming this way. I’ll lead a group and Graecus will lead a group. I’ll be damned if he is going to sit on his ass playing the Lord Commander.”

    The Sergeant nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

    Guy turned back to his uncle. “If this is the main force there will not be much we can do other than harass them. We will need to remain outside the town walls for that so do not count on us as siege defenders.”

    Vacil nodded gravely. “Even with supplies we will not last long if it comes to a siege. A few town watch and farmer auxiliary will not stand well against trained soldiers.”

    Guy shrugged. “If we are lucky it is just a screening force and they will bypass Pelucium. Maybe raid a few of the farms and be on their way.”

    Guiterez took a swallow of wine from his decanter and handed it to Guy. “When have we ever been that lucky, Guy?”

    “Then here is hoping that our luck changes.” Guy lifted the decanter in toast and downed the remainder of the wine in a few deep gulps. He looked at the empty decanter and grunted. “I think I’ll need much more than this.”

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