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Dark Lord
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The tension from the encounter with the wizard still hung heavy
in the air, added to by the Dark Lord's oppressive discontent over the
announcement that had been sprung on him moments before. The
council left off their urgings and took their seats, quietly pondering the
four figures who were already in the room and had said nothing.
Three sat facing the door, with Gold-lily kneeling timidly at their
feet, her back to the crowd. They had risen and bowed with the fluid
grace of smoke when their lord had entered, only to return to the sitting
position during the earlier trivialities. The elf just knelt, unsure whether
to turn and face her master, knowing only that whatever she did would
undoubtedly be wrong.
Noting Gold-lily's predicament, the Dark Lord gestured for the
conclave to make themselves comfortable as he interecpted Elna as she
passed through the room on her way back to the harem. "Fetch me the
whip from the waiting room," he ordered softly. She left and he turned
his attention to the generals. "The final members of our conclave," he
announced, gesturing to each black-swathed figure in turn, "Lord
Vollstrecker, Lord Wollslayer and Lady Cutlip from Tod, whom I'm sure
you all know in principle, if not in person."
The tension in the room thickened again, as the military leaders
and master spies greeted each other with solemn nods and defensive
postures. Their inherent differences made them uneasy in each others'
presence. One side was swords on daylit fields of honor, while the other
was daggers behind closed doors.
Permitting the tension to last long enough to destroy any conceit
or delusions of granduer, but not long enough to erode any feeling of
solidarity between the sides that did, after all serve, the same Emperor,
the Dark Lord directed their attention to the girl.
"And this is Gold-lily: an elven princess, youngest daughter of the
A'alaynara, barely two months ago, now merely a slave for our
pleasures." Gold-lily cowered as she felt the eyes of the entire assembly
fall on her as they had when he had ordered the whip brought up. A
small whimper escaped her as she heard steps behind her and then felt
a cold, familiar hand settle on and caress her shoulder. The comment
caused an unfamiliar sick knot to form in the pit of her stomach, and
visions of a gang-rape to cross her vision. She knew she'd never be able
to bear that.
She had already learned resistance was futile, and her will was
nothing. Her adjustment to accepting her slavery had been possible only
because her master had shared her with no one, saving Rhea. It was a
vulgar and revolting arrangement to her delicate sensibilities, true, but
the lack of sharing, as she knew the others were, made it tolerable.
Her master's rape of her on the first night had nearly unbalanced
her. The act was unknown among her people, who loved and gave
freely of themselves. Rhea's advances had been shockingly alien, but,
in her dazed state, comforting, like a mother with a child afraid of the
shadows on the walls. She could accept both now, but the thought of
being used by more than one person at a time was just too alien and
awful to imagine. She found herself once more begging Eslil for an end
to her torment.
Elna returned to the War Room with the whip as directed and
knelt at her master's feet to present it, never raising her eyes to anyone
in the room. Gold-lily shivered as the hand left her shoulder and she
heard the pliant rustle of leather as he accepted the whip.
"You played well tonight, Elna," the Dark Lord commented as he
raised her chin with the end of the whip she had just given him.
"Thank you, Master," she answered softly, her hand closing
nervously on the cushion and psaltry she yet carried. The Dark Lord
gazed down at her thoughtfully, considering her talents and how well she
might replace Rhea as his favorite, before letting the whip trail down the
front of her and lightly brush her nipples through the thin silk that
covered them. The motion brought them instantly erect, permitting slave
and master to share a private smile of a moment's pleasure, before he
released the whip's coils and let them drop to the floor.
"Return to the harem, Elna, and rest. You will be rewarded later,"
he instructed.
"Yes, Master," Elna answered quickly, rising to her feet and
dropping her eyes to the floor. She was eager to return to the relative
safety of the harem and the soft, large pile of cushions that marked her
territory and status there. She did not envy Gold-lily in the slightest,
guessing what was in store for the sad little elf. She, too, had been
displayed and humiliated before a conquerering lord and his generals
once, and she trembled at the memory.
The doors securely closed behind Elna, the Dark Lord suddenly
slapped Gold-lily's back with the whip, eliciting a pitiful yelp of
surprise. "Turn around, slave girl," he ordered. "Show us how a
princess of slaves wears her jewelry."
Moaning with humiliation, Gold-lily obeyed, turning around and
kneeling straight as she crossed her wrists behind her back and thrust her
breasts forward to display the rings that dangled from her nipples. She
blushed with shame and realized too late that as she had obeyed her
master she had also looked up at those around her.
An explosive backhand slap corrected her, sending her sprawling
to the carpet. She dragged herself back to her knees, not daring to wipe
the tears from her face. It was likely to be a very long session. Seizing
a handful of her hair, the Dark Lord pulled her across the floor on her
knees, only to drop her at the feet of the half-elf she had caught a
glimpse of moments before.
"Since you are so curious to know in whose company you are,"
he snarled down at her, thrusting her head down and placing her nose
before the toes of the general's boots, "I will introduce you. This is
General Oakleaf, slave girl. Since you dared to look him unbidden in
the face, you will now apologize for you arrogance."
"I'm sorry, Master," she wept, tears staining the carpet before her.
"A slave begs her master's forgiveness." A slap of the whip across her
buttocks made her scream and lurch forward.
"How sorry, slave girl?" her master demanded, releasing her hair.
"Very sorry, Master," she pleaded, not daring to move from the
degrading position in which he had placed her, only to have another
stroke from the whip land on the same tender area.
"No, slave girl," came his voice, clearly displeased, "how sorry
are you?" Gold-lily's mind raced for an answer, but found nothing
before another blow brought an anguished cry as her master lost
patience. "How sorry, slave girl!" he demanded angrily.
"A slave does not know, Mas--" Her plea was cut short by two
more sizzling strokes that criss-crossed her buttocks with stinging stripes.
She cowered before the general's feet, dripping tears onto the polished
brown leather before her.
Silence followed, broken only by the low sobs from the girl at
general's feet. Some of the men wore disapproving looks, but most
seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. After perhaps a minute, the Dark
Lord asked again, his words filled with venemous scorn, "How sorry are
you, slave girl?"
Gold-lily could only sob, not knowing what to say, and was
punished for her silence by several more strokes until she wailed the
only pitiful answer she could think of. "I don't know, Master! A slave
does not know!"
Her hands flew around the ankles of the general, clinging to them
in supplication, as if he could spare her the hail of leather which
followed. She could not see the sneer on his face, and the faint wave of
repulsion that went through him at being touched by her. Her master's
boot came to rest on the small of her back and he leaned heavily on her,
forcing her down as she wept uncontrollably.
"Until you can answer properly, 'princess' slave," he informed
her, "you will lick the general's boots clean while you think about it."
Gold-lily did as she was told, cringing only once at the bitter taste
of leather and the waxy polish that covered it. By the time she had
finished, unable to see and know how much the half-elf was enjoying
her shame, her sobs were manageable, but she still hurt from the whip
and could not think what words her master wished to hear. She
wondered if there even was a correct answer. It was perfectly feasible
that her master had set her an impossible task to allow for her abuse
while he humiliated her, just as she realized that her shameful display
was acting as a representation of her people. She was not only debasing
herself, but her entire race, and the thought sickened her, but she was
aware of her master's power and that resistance would only gain her
more punishment. Pride was not a commodity she could afford, and
though deeply ashamed of herself, she found she had no wish to
displease her master. This discovery disgusted her all the more as she
realized, her tongue slipping over the last inch of the general's low
boots, just how far she had slipped under her master's influence as
evinced by the glimmer of satisfaction at a job well done.
"How sorry are you, slave girl?" came the expected inquiry from
asbove and behind her, as even more weight pressed down on her.
"As sorry as my master wishes me to be," Gold-lily ventured
softly, tensing for another blow, only to cry out when it cracked brutally
across her upper left thigh.
Taking his weight off of her, the Dark Lord firmly nudged the elf
sideways to the next man. "Duke Zuberbier," he announced sternly.
"You will clean his boots as well, slave girl, and if you do not answer
to my satisfaction when you are finished, he will whip you as well."
Gold-lily's lower lip quivered, as tears welled up in her eyes
again. She bent over, her posterior raised for any punishment her master
wished to visit upon it. The first lick of the low black boots gagged her.
The excess of polish obscured the taste of leather. She gently buffed
away as much as she could with a length of her lovely hair before
returning to work at the leather again with her tongue, ignoring the black
stain that marred her hair.
She finished, even though she had tried to prolong the degrading
process to spare herself the whip. She was still unable to answer his
question, unable to think of anything better than what she had already
said. When she lifed her face from the general's boots, the Dark Lord
pulled her up by her hair to kneel back on her heels. Thus presented to
him, the duke reached down and slid a finger through her left nipple
ring.
"How sorry, slave girl?" came the dreaded inquiry from behind
her.
"I don't know, my master," she breathed, only to tense with a
stifled cry as the duke began to twist the ring he held.
"On your feet, slave girl," the Dark Lord instructed bluntly,
adding a slight prod with his foot to motivate her. She obeyed, while
the duke twisted the ring even further. The Dark Lord parted her hair
behind her head and swept it forward to expose her back. Gold-lily
trembled, antiocipating what would come, and whimpered softly as the
duke slipped another finger through the other ring and began twisting
them in opposite directions.
Ignoring the elf's pain, the Dark Lord looped the coils of the whip
and slipped it lightly over her skin and down her side. "As you can
see," he informed his guests, "she is perfectly docile and eager to please.
Soft and timid, she is a remarkable trasure, made even more exotic by
the fact that aside from those lovely blonde locks on her pretty head, she
is devoid of hair."
Gold-lily squealed softly and cringed to one side as the duke
again twisted her nipple rings in opposite directions and almost too far
around. She kept her eyes pressed to the floor; there were no more tears
to alleviate her pain and humiliation.
At a nod from the Dark Lord, Duke Zuberbier reluctantly released
the rings and stepped back a little. Before Gold-lily could sigh with
relief, she gasped and trembled with surprise and a small bit of pleasure
as her master maneuvered his whip between her legs. He rubbed her
firmly, stimulating her gently with the rough coils and unyielding handle.
"She is also extremely sensitive to pain or pleasure and
spontaneous in showing either," he continued. Gold-lily's breath caught
as he rubbed her, and she moaned with each short stroke. She rocked
on her heels as her moaning turned to heated gasps, unsure whether she
felt grateful or revolted at the pleasure she was being granted, while
standing on this humiliating display. She had already guessed that these
were very powerful and important people, and she wondered why she
was being so displayed. As quickly as he had started, the Dark Lord
withdrew the whip, and Gold-lily breathed easier for a few heartbeats.
"Turn around, slave girl," he ordered. Pivoting gracefully on her
toes, she revolved two and a half times, before he stopped her, facing
him. He caressed her beneath the chin as he passed the whip to the
duke behind her, ignoring her faint whimper. "The distinctive pointed
ears are also a definite plus," he went on, turning her head from side to
side as he smoothed her hair behind her ears, keeping her back exposed
to the whip behind her.
Gold-lily braced as best she could for the blows, keeping her eyes
directed to the floor. Her master's hand was cold under her chin as he
continued to hold it. The whip fell, not as hard as it had, and across her
upper back where she was not sore. She cringed a bit, but did not cry
out. The next blow was harder, and a faint moan escaped. The hand
never left her chin, holding her in place as firmly as iron manacles.
Somehow, it made the humiliation both more acute and more bearable.
"Enough, good duke," came the command after ten blows. Gold-
lily had not cried out, but had merely moaned and tears rolled silently
down her cheeks. He lifted her chin so she faced him. "Well, slave,
have you an answer now?"
Gold-lily lowered her eyes in shame, and shook her head the
slight amount she could. "No, Master, I do not." She knew now the
game was hopeless, and he read her knowledge on her face.
"Since your tongue cannot formulate words, put it to work again,
while you think, slave," he ordered, shoving her roughly to her knees
and turning her in the direction of Duke William James. She prostrated
herself and began licking the dignified man's boots. Here, as with
General Oakleaf, the polish was meticulous.
"Really, Sire," began the duke, "is this truly necessary? The poor
girl is obviously too terrified to come up with an answer, and it was a
very trivial infraction."
"But as a man of your experience knows, trivialities mount into
great significances. I feel it is necessary for her to learn she is no longer
a princess, and what better way to do it? Is she not a lovely toy,
gentlemen, and lady? Consider what her kind would bring on the
markets of your cities. The merchants' guild would make a profit, which
would be returned in taxes. And we all know of the elven love of gems.
Consider the treasury waiting to flow into Imperial coffers. The Queen
is mine. The rest may be distributed among the Empire."
Gold-lily had just finished licking the duke's boots, when her
master seized her hair. Pulling her to her feet, he bent her backward,
arching her back gracefully and displaying her again. "Think of the
available profit. Think of the glory of battle. Imagine riding home with
a wench like this bent over your saddle. General Oakleaf, you will
confirm the skewed birthrate?"
"Indeed, Sire. Most full-bloods are female, by a three to one
ratio. Half bloods run two to one, male to female. It may not be the
easy victory you think, Sire. Elf bitches are adapt at hiding in trees and
other sneak tactics. The average matron archer is easily as good as a
trained longbowman of your armies."
"Military talk later, General," the Dark Lord ordered, not wanting
his demonstration spoiled. "Still no answer, slave?"
The situation had finally become too much. "Do you truly want
an answer, Master, or merely an excuse?" she whispered.
"An impertinent slut. Now you see why I humiliate her. This
flaw must be smoothed out in all of them. But it does make her
amusing to break. Warlord, perhaps some help from you would
convince her that a sincere answer is in her best interests."
He handed the whip to Toggle Finger-biter.
"Why keep such an ugly slave, Lord?" Toggle asked, taking a few
practice swings with the whip. "She too small, too pale, and too weak
for anything. Bet she not even good in bed, too small." He laid the
whip on hard. Gold-lily, to her credit, did not even yell. The tears had
stopped and her face was beginning to look hardened. A hard stripe on
her already-welted bottom made her cry out, but it was not the broken
moan of a few minutes before. Toggle stopped and spun her around,
puzzled.
"Why you not cry, elf-bitch?" he demanded, slapping her face
hard. "You cry over licking half-elf's boots, but not cry when beaten."
He slapped her again, bringing a soft moan, and a trickle of blood from
the corner of her mouth.
"Perhaps, Toggle, you would like to test your wager? Shall I send
her to your tent tonight?" the Dark Lord asked.
Toggled looked closely at Gold-lily and seemed to consider the
offer. "No, no use ugly elf-bitches. Give her to orcs and see how they
do?"
"No, I think I'll keep her alive a little longer. At least long
enough to show the elf-queen what is in store for her and her people."
He took the whip back from the hobgoblin and looked over to General
Garza who had watched all the proceedings with an eager leer.
"General, you seem eager to see if you can get an answer to the question
out of her. You know what to do, slave girl, until you can answer me
properly."
"Yes, Master," she answered, no longer the timid whisper it had
been. He wondered at the change and whether he had pushed her just
a little too far.
Gold-lily licked the southern general's boots, ignoring the lewd
comments he was making to her master regarding how she performed in
bed. She had decided that if she was to perform this degrading task on
all of the men in room, she would do it well, and willingly. The
hardness that clutched around her heart was a new feeling, but one she
welcomed. It made the pain easier to bear since it did not hurt inside.
She had been impertinent with her question, she knew, but it had
informed her master that she was aware of his game.
General Garza pulled her off the floor when she was done, and
ran a rough hand over her small breasts, tugging lightly at the nipple
rings. The hand moved lower, brushing the cleft of her sex, and
wandering between her thighs. Her expression did not change as two
fingers entered her, only to be removed and continue over her legs. He
turned her around and ran his hands over her back and welted buttocks.
"Cold little chit, isn't she?" he asked. "Where's the
responsiveness you had earlier, slave? Or are you a one-master-slave?"
She clenched her teeth as he probed her anus with a lone finger. "I
think you're hiding your feelings. Do you permit that, Sire?"
"Not from my slaves, but let her hold her tattered shreds of
dignity. They will be stripped soon enough. For now, I think it is time
to tend to business. The hour grows late, and I would like to be asleep
before dawn, since I will have to deal with King Fionn and company at
noon. Gold-lily, to the study with you."
The elf rose to her feet and walked stiffly to the door. It closed
quietly behind her. Several of the men looked after her, wondering if
they could request her tonight.
"A lovely toy, but hardly representative of the resistance you will
encounter, Sire. Everyone knows the princess was a great
disappointment to her mother, since she had no talent for anything. She
has no Power, her faith is shaky, she made a poor fighter and a worse
archer, and she didn't even breed well. Her two daughters are fine
examples of inbreeding, lovely but useless," stated Oakleaf. "Her sisters
and mother are not to be trifled with."
"You make no mention of men in your speech, General," put in
Ravensblood. "Have the elves no true men? Must women do all the
fighting?"
"Elven men are weaklings. They are considered too precious a
resource to squander in battle. They do much of what humans consider
'woman's work'. We will face mostly maiden archers, women of
marriagable age who cannot find husbands. Matron archers will be the
second line of defense. The mages will be using all their offensive
powers, as will the clerics. They are aware of the artificial drought
conditions and have taken measures to counter-act it. It rains once a
week, whether your druids tell you this or no. Even if it did not, a forest
is no grassland to be set afire with ease, even after four years of drought.
It would take a decade to significantly dry their forest, Great Lord.
However, with sufficient manpower, we should be able to take the realm,
and leave most of the timberland intact for your later use."
"Enough doomsaying, Oakleaf. The elves will be dealt with later.
For now, Tavect is a more pressing issue. Your assessments of the good
king?"
______________________________________________________________________________
This shouldn't be here. I'm mailing it to horror at Pacevm. Sorry.
The Lady Walks
Angelia Sparrow
The ride out had been tiring for the couple, neither of whom were
young. The Duke swung stiffly off of his horse, and moved to help his
lady wife dismount. The bodyguards took the mounts around to the
stable, while the new owners opened the front door of the tower keep.
A plain young woman in blue homespun curtsied low at their
arrival. "Welcome, Your Grace and Your Ladyship. We hope
everything will be in order for you. May I show you to your
apartments?"
Duke William James IX of Guhrya nodded and extended his arm
to his wife as the chatelaine led the way up a set of winding stairs. "Has
all gone well?" he asked the woman.
"Quite well, Your Grace. The Lady has walked twice in three
months. We doubt she will trouble you so soon. The renovations have
gone as you wished, with less expense than planned."
Duchess Cordula looked at her husband apprehensively. "The
lady?" she asked.
"A local superstition, my dear. Nothing for devout Vanadans to
fear at all," he informed her. "And certainly nothing to disturb your
long-promised holiday. Perhaps, I shall leave the Emperor's service and
reside here."
The chatelaine opened a door on a landing. "Your apartments,
Your Grace. I trust you will find all in order. The bell-cord will bring
me at any time." She curtsied and left.
Alone and able to relax the ceremony, Cordula moved into her
husband's arms. "Sweet William, did you truly mean it?"
"About retiring? Of course, my love. I am old, and no one
knows it better. Seventy year-old steel may still make a good weapon,
and sixty year-old leather good armor, but a sixty-five year-old soldier
is no good to anyone outside the council chamber. If this keep is
satisfactory, we shall leave the palace in the city to my successor, and
live here quietly in the country."
She kissed him approvingly and summoned the chambermaids to
unpack. Dinner was eaten, and the lord of a nearby manor came to pay
his respects. The night candles were lit to mark the hours until dawn,
and they retired to the large brocade-hung bed. It had been a tiring day
and they sleep soundly.
Near midnight, Cordula awakened to a low wailing. She sat up,
staying near her husband, and listened closer. The voice seemed to be
coming up the stairs. It was definitely a woman's voice. Now the room
seemed colder, and Cordula shook her sleeping husband. He stirred and,
always the seasoned soldier, sat upright, fully awake. They watched as
a faint form entered the room without opening the door. The figure
seemed to search the room for something, walking to a place at the foot
of the bed and staring down intently.
"My baby...." the form wailed and vanished, leaving the startled
couple still sitting up, clutching each other.
"That must be the lady," Cordula hazarded. "Did she look
familiar?"
"Quite. The resemblance between her and the Emperor's sister is
uncanny, although she is definitely older. Vanada will protect us,
Cordula. The lady only searches for her lost child, and neither of us are
infants." Having given this advice, he lay back down, pulling his wife
with him, and promptly went back to sleep. Cordula lay awake a long
time. As many women had, she had lost a baby of her own, and she felt
the poor woman's loss in a way her husband could not have. But what
mother's grief could be so strong as to pull her back from the grave?
She wondered as she fell asleep.
Both arose a bit pale the next morning, and neither spoke of what
had happened. Cordula ate quickly and went to oversee the day's work
of the keep, while William went to the stables to become acquainted
with his new grooms and trainers. The night visitor seemed less real in
the stables with the good smell of horse and hay surrounding him. He
regretted leaving to eat the evening meal. There was something he
should be remembering, and he could not think of it.
That night, as he lay next to Cordula, feeling as strange and
awkward as he had on their wedding night, forty-five years ago, she
asked the question he had been dreading since dinner. "Do you think
she'll walk again?"
"I don't know, my dearest. I can only pray she won't."
They slept. Again the wailing came, and this time she did not
vanish, but beckoned the couple to follow. Cordula, always practical, lit
a candle, knowing the stairs were treacherous. They followed her up to
the top of the tower. She seemed content to wait as they rested on
occasion. Both knew they would be sore the next day from the
unaccustomed strain. The door she passed through was locked, but again
Cordula had the key.
The room was a laboratory of some sort, probably magical. The
duke and duchess neither knew nor wished to know what many of the
objects were. The ghost beckoned them to a patch of bare stone wall.
As she pointed to it, it faded away and they saw the past.
She approached the castle at dusk. The grey towers loomed
large, and she dared not move closer. Fell things walked the night,
under the direction of the owner of the keep. This was her sworn
mission, and her doom. She had delayed far too long, enjoying the
company of Nicholas Raintree and his people. Even so, when
Vanada had told her to part ways, she did so with no remorse. The
foul elf-woman of Theda had been destroyed. She was stronger now
than she had been before, and it was time to face her real opponent.
The night was spent in prayer, on her armored knees. The blue
star and silver sword on her tabard glowed with an unearthly light,
and the fey things that passed her avoided it. She took no notice of
their passing, locked in communion with her goddess.
Dawn came, and the sun rose bloodily behind a shroud of grey
fog. Momentous deeds were in the making. She approached the
tower.
"Zara beht Rima, come forth!" she cried. "Come forth, face
righteousness and die!"
"Come in, Ursala of the house of Furyblade. Come in, and
meet your doom," came the calm response, as if someone had spoken
in her ear. The door in front of her opened.
"Foul sorceress, creator of things unliving, communer with
demons, weaver of spells, I come!" she proclaimed, stepping through
the opened door of the castle. She paused in front of a hovering
candle surmounted by two glowing eyes. "You shall die with your
mistress, a prelude to the destruction of all her monstrosities."
"Agreed, warrior. But for now, follow, and I shall take you to
where my mistress awaits you," the specter said.
In the living quarters of her keep, Zara tucked the quilt a little
closer around her sleeping daughter. It had been a month now, and
she still was not well. Her master had given her knowledge of the
future, laughing as he did so. She now appreciated the bitter irony of
his gift. She knew the holy warrior would kill her, but she also knew
that from her daughter would come a mage more powerful than she.
Her death was necessary to enable the birth of her descendent.
Someday, in the far future, another Zara would unlock the powers
within her, and rule the world. But for now, little Ellanya had to be
provided for. There was another irony, that her bitterest enemy would
provide succor for her line. The fight was predetermined, but she
would make the warrior pay for her blood.
In the workroom, the two opponents met. Zara beht Rima,
standing tall and straight, her black hair flowing unbound down her
back, her sleeveless black robe revealing the pentagram shaped scar
on her wrist. She was lovely ice facing the fire of the Furyblade.
Ursala was taller than the mage, and heavier. Her armor seemed
impenetrable, with only the long red hair cascading down her back to
show she was female. She wore no helm, but carried a fiery sword.
"Greetings, my enemy," Ursala began the ritual of battle with a
formal bow. "Five times will I do you honor, under the Laws of
Vanada, may She guide me truly."
"And to you, my enemy," Zara returned with a formal bow of
her own. "Three times, by the rules of Vendan the Destroyer, Brother
of Vanada, will I honor you. And once will I beg a boon," she added
although it was not in the ritual.
The warrior was non-plussed. "Your boon, if it be wise and
good, shall be granted, after your death, my enemy," she acquiesced
with another bow, noticing how haggard the mage looked.
"It is wise, and good, my enemy. I thank you for your word."
She made her second bow, reaching for her staff, as she grimaced
from the pain.
"Name your boon, ere you honor me again," the warrior
improvised, not wanting to have to try to make out dying words. She
bowed for the third time. She had two more to make, meaning the
wizard would get first strike. No rule said she could not defend, but
she would be unable to attack until she had fulfilled the Law. Failure
to complete the ritual made the death a murder on her record, and
would strip her of all status in the temple.
"My infant daughter lies sleeping in the next room. If you slay
me, take her with you when you leave. Find her a fosterage. She is
but a month old, and innocent. Her power is dormant and will not
awaken. That is all I ask." She made her third bow, and began a
spell.
"Your boon shall be granted, my enemy. By dying, you may
yet do some good in the world." She made her fourth bow. As she
prepared to announce her attack with a fifth bow, she saw the spell
effect hurtling her way. Lightbringer, her sword, was there before the
fire-stream. It absorbed the fire, devouring it, turning it into a part of
itself. "This last time, do I do you honor, oh my enemy," she
announced. "The ritual is complete. Prepare to die."
"And you, also, Vanadan!" Zara sneered, sending another spell
out, ice this time. The pellets flew from her fingertips toward the
warrior's unprotected face. Again, the sword was there, melting the
pellets with the heat stored from the fire-stream. Leaning heavily on
the staff, Zara circled the worktable warily, keeping it between her
and the armored fury. There would be energy for one or maybe two
more spells, then she would taste the heaven-forged metal of the
sword.
"Hell-bride. I see the mark on your wrist. You cannot destroy
me," Ursala commented calmly, watching the sorceress move. She
was becoming slower, and less sure of herself. She was tired, and
Ursala would take no pleasure in her death.
"We are alike, you and I," the mage said, distracting the
warrior from the spell she was weaving. "I am a dark reflection of
you. Now defend from this reflection." The doppleganger went out,
taking on Ursala's shape and appearance. Two fiery swords faced one
another. One touch from the spell's illusionary weapon and she
would be lost, her soul trapped in a jar to sit on the mage's shelf
forever. She swung the real sword down and clashed with the
illusions. The movements were too perfect, and the spell could read
her mind. She began feinting and attacking, to no avail. The spell
followed her to the least nuance. Murmuring a prayer to Vanada,
whose sword it was, Ursala cleared her mind and let the sword move
as it would. This the apparition could not follow. The sword was
intelligent, but did not think. It struck home, cleaving the
doppleganger in twain. The spell dissipated with the scent of violets
and rotten eggs.
Surprisingly, to Ursala's mind, the sorceress had not left the
room. Most created a diversionary tactic and fled. Zara gathered her
energies for the last spell. This would have to kill the warrior, or
herself. Cold fire streamed from her fingers, heatless this time that
the sword would not absorb it.
And Lightbringer did not absorb it. Ursala interposed the
blade, and the fire rebounded from it, back, full force, onto the origin.
Death was painless, and instant, as the fire burned its way through
her, devouring the vitals.
The Destroyer greeted Zara at the gates of his realm, and
welcomed her into it with the same sardonic smile. "Opener of the
Way, most faithful of slaves, welcome home." And it was, her own
tower, which she would share with her ancestresses from time
immemorial.
The sun burst through the clouds, illuminating the plain. A
lone woman, her red hair gleaming over her armor, walked out alone,
a sleeping baby bundled into her arms. The road back to Guhrya was
long, but they would survive, and the child would become a great
force for good. Were she wed, she would have taken the girl for her
own. The privilege of marriage would not be hers for three more
years, but there was a certain lady in Guhrya who desperately wanted
a daughter. She would make fine fosterage for the innocent child.
Ursala smiled down at the child in her arms, noticing no resemblance
to the evil mother who had borne her. A fine child, one destined to
do much good. And thinking thus, she set her feet on the long road
home.
Stunned by what they had seen, the old couple worked their
way back to their bed, slowly now, the sixty-odd years feeling like a
hundred. William remembered what had been eluding him for so
long, and the new information could make life very difficult and
dangerous at a time when all he wanted was peace and security.
They broke their fast in silence, neither having slept much.
They had lain awake, pondering the new information. It was well,
William thought, that Cordula had not assembled all the pieces, like a
broken mirror. He had and he dreaded the reflection it gave back.
He finally broke the silence. "Beloved, do you wish to stay
here? I will send for an Immaculate to come cleanse the place, if you
do. Perhaps we can turn this into a good place again."
"Whatever you wish, my husband," she responded, glad he had
not seen all the ramifications of the new knowledge. With his
powerful position, it was entirely likely the Emperor would have his
head hanging in the gruesome Hall of Skulls before the week was out
if he realized all she had.
It would set ill with the High Church of Vanada were it known
that the great-grandson of the wickedest woman in the world now sat
on the throne of the Empire. And his twin sister standing beside him,
advising him, looking more and more like woman she was named for
with each passing day would be enough to spark a revolt.
Cordula remembered aiding Queen Llewella's midwife when
the twins were born, and how she had cringed upon hearing the ill-
fated name renewed. Had the late queen been wise, she would have
refused to nurse the girl. She had watched them grow apprehensively,
remembering the old tales. She was not old enough to remember the
reign of Zara beht Rima, being only four years older than the late
queen, but she had heard tales from her mother of the creatures that
had only stopped their ravages a decade before she was born. She
remembered Ellanya beht Mariah, who had taken her adopted
mother's matronymic, and had borne Llewella. It was good that men
did not know or care about such gossip. Her husband was a powerful
man, and hence the more likely to draw his lord's suspicion. She
would not tell him of what she knew. It would protect him. If he
wished to live in this accursed tower, she would do as she must and
stay with him. She only prayed the cleansing would work.
"Send for an Immaculate, if you wish to stay," she said. "I will
live where you choose."
Surprised by her tone, he sent the message at once, dictating it
to a scribe and sending him to the nearest monastery. "My dearest
love, why will you not say yea or nay? You are neither slave nor
servant and if this place distresses you, I would sooner burn it than
have you live here. The Immaculate can come tomorrow and cleanse
it. If you wish to return to the palace, I will go with you now."
"Let us see if the cleansing is successful," she said. In the city,
it would be harder to remain silent. Here, she had no one to talk to,
except the servants and her spinning wheel and loom. Her husband's
life could depend on her silence now. "Tonight, let us sleep in the
servants' quarters. I would not be disturbed again."
The night passed quietly, although the wails were heard above
them. Cordula only shifted in her sleep, and William never stirred.
The chatelaine and her husband had been sent, after a good bath, to
sleep in the master bed, while they stayed on the less-comfortable
pallet in the room off the kitchen. Breakfast smells and the sounds of
sobbing awoke them the next morning. The cook was busy at the
fireplace, pausing from time to time to comfort the crying chatelaine.
The woman looked up and saw her master and mistress before
bursting into fresh sobs. "Vanada's mercy, it was," the cook
muttered, busying herself.
"What has happened?" demanded William, disliking scenes like
this. He felt awkward around a crying woman.
"Her husband lies dead in your bed, Your Grace. Were it not
him, 'twould be you or your lady wife. The Lady did for him, as she
will do for all who sleep up there. Her room it was, and her baby
asleepin' in it when she was killed," the cook supplied.
"After tonight, the Lady will not walk. An Immaculate is
coming, and he will put her tortured soul to rest in Vanada's mercy,"
the Duke informed them. "I will have him bury your husband as
well. I am truly sorry that this occurred." He took a piece of bread
and left, mumbling something about checking the south fields for
planting.
Cordula spent her day comforting the chatelaine and awaiting
the Immaculate's arrival. He came late, as the sun was westering.
She explained the problem, and attended the brief burial service held
for the chatelaine's husband. After the burial, the Immaculate
sequestered himself in the haunted room to pray and commune with
his goddess. William came in to sup, and the Immaculate joined them
at the meal.
"I will stay the night," he informed them. "I will, with
Vanada's help, confront the specter as it walks and banish it from the
skin of this world."
"If you are successful, Immaculate," Duke William said, "I will
fund the new temple in Guhrya. If you fail, you will return to your
cloister with the pittance travel expenses. If you die in the attempt,
we will pay your burial expenses and see if one of your brethren can
do better. Forgive me for my bluntness, Immaculate, but I thought it
best to have this aboveboard."
"I shall not fail, Your Grace. The ghost shall not walk again
after this night."
"Be it as you say. Would you consent to lead us in Evening
Prayers before returning upstairs?"
The Immaculate consented, and marvelled at the piety and love
demonstrated by the old couple. He would surely do his best for
them. He climbed the stairs back to the bedchamber, remembering
that his hosts were sleeping in a servant's bed, and the servants were
sleeping near the hearth, although it was early spring. He had never
performed a ritual like this, but, Vanada willing, all would go well.
The night passed in utter silence, and the Immaculate did not
appear to break his fast with the rest of the household. Cordula
insisted that they ascertain he was sleeping, despite William's
assertions.
William pushed the door open, knocking lightly as he did.
Sparing a single glance for the scene, he immediately turned to block
Cordula's vision, but to no avail. The Immaculate lay on the floor,
his white robes in tatters. His hair had been red when he had arrived,
now it was snow-white. The star and sword that had hung around his
neck was clutched tightly in his fingers, and the remnants of white
candles guttered out in their puddles of wax. The look of abject
horror on his face was immovable.
They washed him and buried him next to the chatelaine's
husband, the horrified look still on his face, despite Cordula's best
efforts to soften it and close his eyes. The grooms filled in the grave
as William sat in the receiving chamber and composed a letter to the
Eldest of the cloister. The blue star and sword were sent with it, and
a small purse of gold Imperials to compensate the cloister for their
loss. Cordula wept quietly, more from the uncertainty of the young
man's success and exhaustion than from grief. She sincerely hoped
his sacrifice was not in vain.
The day passed quietly, neither speaking of their private fears.
Cordula wondered not only whether they would survive, but whether
they actually wanted to, given the knowledge the ghost had imparted.
William silently pondered how best to go about retiring from military
duty and where they would live if he ceded his duchy to the crown.
He knew the Emperor would provide generously for them, as he
always did for those who had served well, but still he worried,
especially about Cordula. They were old, and he knew he should take
her away from this haunted place. He felt a sense of duty to the
chatelaine, however, an obligation to see her husband avenged.
Again, they slept on the chatelaine's pallet, and William
promised himself it would be the last night they ever spent thus. He
could feel the aches in his joints that got worse every winter settling
in early. He had tried to hide his stiffness from his wife, but she
missed nothing.
The faint wails were heard again, growing louder. Whatever
she had been in life, the Lady Zara was not a fool even after death,
and she had found their hiding place, since there were no distractions
in the bedchamber. But below the tower, in the wholesome air of the
kitchen, her power was limited. She could not touch the pair, but
stood and moaned at the foot of the bed until dawn. The couple
clung to each other through the long hours, and just before the
sunrise, Cordula went limp in her husband's arms.
Believing her asleep, and not wishing to disturb her much-
needed rest, he crept out to the kitchen, and awakened the cook and
chatelaine. "We are leaving this accursed place. Come back to
Guhrya with us, and we will find you posts. The tower will be razed
in final hopes of destroying the phantom that haunts it."
William left the women to their packing, with the instructions
to take only the new things that he had bought, and went to wake
Cordula. The chatelaine heard a muffled groan, and dashed into the
room to see him cradling the limp body in his arms. A tear slid down
either cheek, and he gently picked her up.
"She was alive when I left," he said in a soft broken voice.
"She rolled over and murmured at me. Now there is no choice. This
tower will burn, a pyre to her memory."
"Your Grace, please, you can't burn this good Vanadan woman
like the barbarians do their dead. Take her to the cloister, have her
buried in full state, but please don't defile her spirit by treating her as
the Fremian heretics do," the chatelaine begged, tears streaking her
own face and falling on the recently-dyed black dress.
"You are right. She will have a state burial. But the tower
will burn. I will hear no debate. Fetch your personal trifles, and the
cook. We set the fire at once," William commanded, once more the
general in control of himself.
He sat on his horse, the stiffening tapestry-wrapped body of his
wife slung over the beast's withers and watched the fire burn. The
tower was a gutted shell now, and he watched the walls bow and list
under the heat as the rocks softened. Finally, there came a
tremendous crash, and the walls collapsed in on themselves. He rode
away from the glowing embers, following the servants to the cloister.
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