Heroes, Chapter 4

Preface: Greetings, all! This is the fourth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.

As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Heroes

Chapter 4 – Intruders

     “Banjurr, banjurr, welcome to the Long-Necked Duck!”  Sharp-toothed grin spread wide on her face, the blond-haired goblin Meri Meadspiller curtsied deeply as Roger entered the spacious dining room of New Haven’s sole source of haute cuisine.  Incongruous amid the shanties and half-finished buildings, Le Cygne was a graceful, polished gem amid the dross; its doors embellished with sweeping tall handles that, like many of the decorations, took the form of swans – or, upon closer examination, an elegant recreation of someone’s conception of swans, given that the creator had never seen the birds and had only half-listened to a description thereof.  That abstraction had not diminished the populace’s ardor and appreciation for the restaurant, giving it the widely accepted appellation of the ‘Duck, which stuck no matter how fiercely the proprietor fought to remind everyone of its proper nomenclature.

To Roger’s surprise, the restaurant had been one of the first businesses finished in the construction of New Haven, despite its elaborate nature – though even now certain elements were being altered to be more ostentatious, with workers polishing handrails or arranging decorative greenery.  When Roger had asked John about that decision, considering much of the investment had come from the town’s leader, John had actually gotten slightly embarrassed, a rare sight from the normally-sharp-natured former hero.  He had explained, grudgingly, that he expected its inclusion would please the true supporters who had sent so much wealth and talent to speed the town’s growth: influential residents of the Demon Realm to the east, in particular a certain Lady Mephis.  Roger had seen the lady in question several times; she had arrived the same day as Simon Hopkins and his group of fugitives fleeing the Orders, bringing with her several retainers and officials from the capital of that infamous realm.  While Roger had never gotten to speak to the mysterious lady, he had seen her in passing several times, and she cut a dramatic figure: swathed entirely in pure white, with a fine silk dress, long gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat with a drooping veil.  Not a single bit of her skin was visible under all her clothes, aside from the pale leathery wings that emerged from her lower back, and the spade-tipped tail that was similar in hue.

“Merci, mademoiselle,” Roger replied politely, his own familiarity with the Frankish tongue considerably more polished than the goblin’s.  Her toothful grin only grew wider at his playing along with the game – this, too, was another community-wide conceit that had come to a silent consensus.  The proprietor, Mithal Tirel, had dreamed of creating one of the classy brasseries he had known from his youth in the Barrier-City Parisius, far to the northwest of Roger’s own home.  When Roger had been a child, the Miralis family business had given them reason to travel to several of the cities.  He had been as far afield as Avalon City, though never all the way east to the one that was now-closest to him, Vindobona.  Of the six great cities, Parisius had been his favorite, especially considering his love for good food, although some in his family had chafed at the notion any cuisine could best that of their homeland.  It had been this fascination that had led to Roger meeting Mithal, a lowly dishwasher at the time, and their conversations about fine food had led to their friendship.  Mithal’s youthful dreams, too, had blossomed into this restaurant… though Roger knew that it was far from precisely what the other man had envisioned.

The open seating featured plush wingback chairs, and the broad tables sported gleaming white tablecloths, but filling those seats at those tables were a wide array of various monster women – granted, most tried their best to dress in their finest, but options for apparel were limited so far afield, and many of the customers were rough-hewn laborers enjoying a chance to dress up.  The utensils gleamed under the light of the candelabra, but each had been shaped by goblin hands to resemble the restaurant’s namesake waterfowl – or the image of such present in one goblin mind.  For one customer, a waitress poured a cup of steaming tea into a smooth porcelain cup – but the hand holding the pot aloft was that of a hobgoblin with a vacant, if pleasant, smile.  Even the crisp suit jacket of the maitre d’ fit oddly on the short, childish form of the goblin girl wearing it.  Le Cygne – the ‘Duck – was a paradoxical self-parody, and yet Roger knew Mithal loved it with his whole heart, almost as much as he loved the girls that staffed it.

Roger’s friend himself was in the kitchen, the alchemist assumed.  It was rare that the chef didn’t come out to greet his closest friend – Mithal had taught his sous chefs well in the time they had been together, and it was rare that the upscale restaurant had an overwhelming number of customers during the daytime.  Aside from a few wealthier merchants, Roger was one of the only lunchtime regulars, and so Mithal usually had the opportunity to emerge from his culinary haven and exchange gossip and a few jokes.  Today, though, Meri led Roger to a table without calling for his friend, and the doors leading into the galley stayed shut.  Roger’s attention was drawn to the blond goblin by a hissed whisper, and as he climbed the steps to the higher level of the restaurant’s floor, he leaned close enough to hear her muttered words. “We’ve got a bigtime fancypants today,” Meri hissed, her smile both manic and slightly anxious. “Mithy-poo is bouncing off the walls.”

Roger straightened, following the girl without a hint of having heard her words, but his eyes scanned the crowd surreptitiously.  It wouldn’t be the honey bee woman Belinda, even though rumors said that she was trying to start her own hive nearby.  She ate here frequently, watched over by her hornet bodyguards, but she was too familiar of a face.  Nor would it be the Far Eastern arachne that had paid for the construction of her own dress shop; the modiste herself was secluded in her usual dark corner, but even she seemed to be on guard, her eyes shadowed as she watched the crowd across the room.  Not any of the town council, who were earthier sorts, and often sent Mithal orders for the roast boar he had made for them back in Goslar, which he fulfilled with a wry humor.  Perhaps the squirrel woman who was trying to start a printing press for community papers; Mithal had spoken of her often in the past, anxious about her supposed love for gossip and what her opinion could mean for his business.  No, even she seemed nervous in turn, glancing at a sole table further back – ah, that one, then.

The glimpse of white cloth and a wide-brimmed hat made Roger’s blood chill.  Yes, that made sense: Lady Mephis herself.  The noblewoman had never even left John’s tower since her arrival, as far as Roger knew – mostly, food was brought in to her, and she spent her time either in her apartments in the tower, or in the office at the tower’s summit while meeting with John.  It had only been in passing that Roger or Priss had seen her, as she had made her way to and from that office, and she had never spoken with them.  From her body language, she had seemed a serious person to Roger, and he had heard raised voices from the tower’s peak at least a few times, but those threadbare clues were all he had to judge the woman on – that, and the fact that every monster that knew anything at all about her tended to go pale at any mention of her name.

Roger kept his gaze subtle, but his glance gave him the basic details of that secluded table.  Mephis alone sat in front of an impressive spread of delicacies, though two women flanked her, dressed in the style of western maids.  Roger had seen them, too, about the tower, but they also spoke to no one but their mistress and John – and Ceann, the knight who was frequently at John’s side.  Her table sat along a wall and was surrounded by empty space, all other customers seated at tables closer to the center, as if an impenetrable bubble surrounded the woman in white.  Despite her solitude, the lady exuded an air of gentility and poise, delicately spearing a morsel with a thin fork with a long stem and raising it to slip under the edge of her veil.  Even now, it seemed, the lady kept herself from sight entirely, adding to her mystery.

“Gotcha,” Roger said, concealing his word with the slight scrape of the seat that Meri pulled back for him at his usual table.  Louder, he announced his order to her, “I’ll leave it to the chef’s discretion.  Ah, and I’ll have a glass of that red I had last time.” Meri bowed slightly, making her way towards the kitchen, but Roger could see a hint of appreciation on her face that he was falling into his role so well.  Normally, out of all the customers, he treated the experience here the most casually; as the chef’s best friend, he considered it a fair privilege, and those who knew his connections with the town’s leader would likely not question the matter anyways.

He sat straight in his chair, exuding a posture of formal constraint that he had developed back during his excursions with his parents as a child, when he had been dragged to elaborate dinners despite his wishes.  He regretted that he wouldn’t be able to have his usual chat with Mithal over his meal, but hoped he could help his friend cultivate the image he wanted to portray to this rare, monumental patron.  Still, he was glad that his back was mostly turned towards Lady Mephis, afraid, perhaps illogically, of betraying his friend’s delicately-crafted image with some casualness born from his frequent visits to this place.

His eyes turned at motion from the kitchen, and he smiled to see Mithal himself emerge from those swinging doors, holding a tray aloft.  The young man, the same age as Roger and with a thin, pale face, had shed both his chef’s hat and the apron that frequently bore the marks of his craft, and instead wore his usual plain but formal attire with his blonde hair slicked back from his forehead.  His face was a mask of polite haughtiness, concealing every hint of nervousness, but for the brief moment his blue eyes touched on Roger they softened with the trust of friendship, the relief of having someone else to bear an emotional burden.  Roger could tell Mithal was in his element, but knew that he intended to take this particular performance with force, and Roger mutely wished his friend the best.

“And lastly, for your mignardise, madamoiselle, a selection of fruit tarts, made with local produce, as well as a few ingredients you may find familiar shipped in from the east, and a glass of coffee with hostaur cream.  I shall have a member of the staff bring you a digestif once you are through.  I hope you enjoy,” Mithal announced, and Roger smiled as Lady Mephis clasped her hands together in a well-practiced gesture of delight before reaching out to take up one of the bite-sized desserts, cupping her other hand underneath it to catch the crumbs as she delicately bit into the treat.

“Oh!  How marvelous,” she purred, and even though she was so far away, her voice flowed like warm honey into Roger’s ears, the sound as sweet and rich as any confection Mithal could make.  The chef’s cheeks heated as well, and he bowed deeply in appreciation of the compliment. “The prisoner fruit is still ripe and didn’t suffer for the travel, and the vanilla is a good pairing for it.  And this cherry one looks simply divine!”

“Merci, mademoiselle,” Mithal replied, and despite a valiant effort as he faced her directly, when he whirled on his heels and turned to march back towards the kitchen, his face split in a grin so wide that it would have made his goblin partners proud.  He mostly had recaptured his composure as he reached Roger’s table, still acting the consummate professional despite the giddiness bubbling from him like a freshly-popped bottle of champagne.  He stopped at Roger’s table, and leaned closer as if conversing with just another client, but his eyes danced. “Did you see that?” he hissed, too low for anyone else but Roger to hear, but higher-pitched and more tremulous than usual. “A month since we’ve opened the doors, and we’re already serving royalty!”

‘Not just nobility- royalty?’ Roger wondered, glancing past Mithal towards the gentlelady and her efforts at depleting the plate of sweet morsels.  He nodded his head and offered a smile to his friend, not bothering to hide his own pride at Mithal’s success. “I think she likes it.  Imagine if she becomes a regular, eh?” Roger’s eyes widened as Mithal’s own pair rolled back, and for a moment it looked as if the transcendent satisfaction of the moment would make the man collapse into a puddle on the floor, utterly belying his professional mien. “Whoa, man, get a hold of yourself – you still have work to do.”

“Yes, yes, better get back to my kitchen before the triumph of the moment overwhelms me,” Mithal admitted, his chest heaving a bit as he beamed at his friend. “I’ve got something coming up for you; Mari should have it done in just a few minutes.”

Roger nodded, hiding his trepidation as Mithal departed.  Mari – his closest friend of the goblin girls, and a former potter.  Her dishes tended to be artful, but she tended to be focused on presentation far more than flavor, and often let herself get distracted from little things like recipes.  Still, in light of his friend’s current excitement, he could forgive it if his own food ended up a little salty, or moderately inedible.  A grumble from his stomach showed that his hunger had opinions on the matter, but he willed himself to be patient.  After all, even if Mari made more than a few mistakes, he could always just make extra of the lunch he would be preparing for Priss and Lacy-

“Mr. Miralis.”

Roger jumped slightly in his seat.  He turned to see a woman standing right at his shoulder – how had she gotten so close without him hearing her?  He hadn’t even noticed her in the restaurant at all, which was surprising considering how striking her outfit was.  Unlike the formal attire worn by almost every other monster within the room, this woman wore a Far-Eastern-styled martial arts outfit that didn’t cover quite as much as he supposed it should, her thighs, shoulders, and cleavage left entirely unguarded.  She wore a mask over her mouth, of the same violet hue as the rest of her attire, and her long black hair fell over one of her eyes as well as far down her back in a long ponytail.  She looked almost human, but a sharp-edged spade-tipped tail was wrapped around her waist.  How had he missed seeing such a strange figure in this setting? “Ah… yes?  What can I do for you?”

The woman, her face impassive where it could be seen, bowed from the waist with her hands on her upper thighs. “My mistress wishes to inquire if you would be free to join her for a brief chat while you wait for your food to arrive, if it would not be an imposition.” She straightened, meeting his gaze with a calm stare, her eyes not wavering even as he glanced behind her towards the table where Lady Mephis was still savoring her delicate desserts. “What response shall I give to her?”

“Ah…” Old instincts kicked in as Roger met her gaze once more. “Inform your mistress that I would be more than glad to join her momentarily.”  He waited until the retainer bowed once more and turned to walk away before he stood and followed behind her.  As he did so, he felt like his blood was thickening with chill inside his veins – what could such an important person want with him, and why speak with him here instead of within the tower?

“Roger Miralis,” the woman, no doubt the lady’s bodyguard, announced to her patron before stepping aside to allow him to approach the table.  He stepped up, bowing with his arm across his chest.  As he did so, one white glove indicated the chair across from her in a mute offer, and he scooted it away from the table and took the seat.  Even as he sat down, he noticed the retainer had vanished from his peripheral vision, but he decided to forego searching for her, certain he wouldn’t manage to find her without making himself look like a fool.

“Mr. Miralis,” the lady said, and a thrill danced up his spine at hearing his name in her voice.  There was something about the woman that was innately exciting; he hadn’t seen an inch of her skin aside from wings or tail, or seen the shape of her face, but she exuded a sultry aura, an atmosphere of feminine confidence, and he had to fight to keep his cheeks from heating.  He even felt sure it wasn’t something she was doing consciously, and that knowledge made him more determined to keep his wits about him. “Thank you for accepting my impromptu invitation.”

“I’m honored to,” Roger said, inclining his head to her.

“It is a shame we have yet to have spoken,” she continued, leaning back slightly and crossing her wrists over her lap, the plate of delicacies before her emptied of all but crumbs. “I have seen you within the tower, of course, but have been so busy setting up my quarters and discussing matters of some import with my darling John that I have scarcely had time to arrange an introduction.”

“Then I appreciate you taking the time now,” Roger replied, finding himself slipping back into older mannerisms he thought he had left behind in his childhood.  Behind the veil that cloaked her face, he thought he could see red lips quirk upwards in a smile.

“I’ll not impose on you long – I know your entrée should arrive soon – but I had hoped to make a brief inquiry of something of a personal interest,” she continued, her politeness melded with a sincerity that left no chance for her to come across as cold. “You see, as someone from the other side of the Great Veil – this is my first time ever venturing this far west – I am deeply curious about certain… differences in culture.  I grew up hearing tales from my father about these lands, but it seems much has changed since then, especially according to my dearest, who can sometimes be a tad…” She paused, and lifted her coffee cup up to her lips behind the veil. “Pessimistic,” she continued finally, lowering the cup. “But I would value the opinion of those, such as you, who grew up amid the postwar culture.”

Roger glanced to the side, noticing the motion of someone approaching: Meri, with a glass of wine.  He smiled thanks to her before returning his gaze to the lady across from him. “Of course,” he said, trying to keep the caution he felt from infiltrating his inflection, “I’ll answer whatever questions you have that I can.”

“Marvelous!” the woman purred, leaning forward slightly in her seat.  For just a moment, Roger heard a faint creak – an oddly familiar sound that seemed out of place here – but what stole his attention was the red gleam he could see behind the veil that drooped from her wide-brimmed hat. “So, when it comes to those who live within the Barrier Cities-” Mephis began, her voice louder than before, more enthusiastic.

The sound of a throat clearing was all but silent, and Roger could barely tell it had come from one of the maids – perhaps the one to the left, with feathered wrists and a lengthy tail and a sharply serious expression, rather than the other with dark-purple-hued skin.  Mephis paused, and Roger could sense the attention that was on them – conversation in the restaurant had died as most of the other patrons struggled to hear what they were discussing.  Mephis turned her head slightly, facing towards the rest of the tables, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, raising the hair on Roger’s arms and sending a shiver down his back.  A sudden cacophony of energetic conversation erupted as every customer suddenly found something of interest to discuss, and Mephis turned back to Roger. “As I was saying… how do the people feel about monsters, really?  Not the religious sorts, of course – darling has spoken at length on how extreme the Orders can be.” Her tone made it clear how tiresome she found John’s warnings. “No, I am speaking of the common people – the men and women living normal lives.”

Roger paused, sculpting his answer carefully as he took a sip of his wine. “I’m not certain I’m the best person to ask about this.  I’ve spoken to John about this a little, but… my family was of some consequence back in the southern peninsula.  Because of that, we had close ties to the church – particularly the Cathedral of Faithful Munificence, the branch of the Ecclesiarchy that handles taxation and resource procurement.” Roger’s smile was tight as he noticed her withdraw slightly. “It was a mutually-beneficial arrangement for my family and the church, but know – I’m not really a fan of either.  My older brothers had it out for me from a young age because they thought I would be a threat to their own inheritances.  The only thing they saw me as useful for was possibly marrying me off for a political alliance, no matter what I wanted, and they didn’t take it well when I resisted that idea.  When my parents… died, I decided to leave before something drastic happened to me, too.”

The lady’s stance softened slightly. “I’m sorry,” she offered, and her sincerity was clear. “I… have had a rough relationships with my own siblings.  I’m often the butt of their jokes, and have never fit in with them, but… I still could never do anything to hurt any of them.  I love them.  Even my half-sisters.” Her voice got softer, more introspective. “Even the ones who get in my way.”

“I understand that,” Roger replied. “My other brother, Richard, was better than the other two.  I still wonder where he is, what happened to him after I left.  I hope he got out, too.”

Her head lifted once more behind her veil, and she nodded. ‘I hope so, too, for his sake,” Lady Mephis replied.  She seemed to inspect Roger for a moment. “And that explains your familiarity with more formal settings.  But, then, the nobility of your homeland; how would they view monsters?”

“As a threat to their power, and an enemy, because the nobles are inextricably allied with the Church,” Roger replied simply, without bothering to soften the response. “I’m sure there are exceptions – probably many – but only in the provinces, and painfully few in comparison.  In general, to have power is to bow to the Church, and that means having their eyes upon you and all you do.”

“And if power was offered to them by another source?  Wealth?”

Roger chuckled, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t even listen.  Oh, if it came to another war, I’m sure that there are those who would gladly profit from both sides, but in general they cling to tradition, and tradition says that monsters are humanity’s natural enemy.  To even speak with monsters is to risk the flame, and disgrace, which they fear just as much.”

From behind the veil came a hiss of frustration, and the lacy fabric couldn’t hide her scowl. “It seems nobility is useless, regardless of whether they are human or monster.” Roger arched an eyebrow, and Lady Mephis raised a placating hand. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“You don’t need to think of me as ‘noble,’” Roger corrected her. “Most of what I own comes from John’s generosity.  I’m a simple alchemist, and nothing more.  I am just surprised to hear that from, well…”

Lady Mephis chuckled. “I meant myself as well in ‘present company.’  Even my mother is slow to aid John’s efforts, and I worry how that might change with me here instead of close by her side – she is easily… distracted.” Again the coffee cup ascended, and as it descended, “And you shouldn’t sell yourself so short.  John has much faith in you, and that means you have my backing, as well.” Seeing his slight self-conscious discomfort, she continued. “But I take your original point: you wouldn’t be well-suited to answer the question of how the common people may see us monsters, and what it would take to change their opinions.”

“I don’t think Simon would be a good fit, either, since he was raised as part of the Orders,” Roger admitted, “but what of the Kramers?”  Seeing her head tilt slightly, he continued. “The innkeep and his daughter, who came here from Videre.  They run the Second Home, here in town.”

The quiet sound of porcelain ringing decorated the pause after his words. “A human girl, then?  John… hasn’t mentioned her.” The words hung in the air from a gallows of rigid formality.

Roger nodded innocently. “She’s young, but her dad was a mercenary, so he’s been all around.  Oh, and Lyra Wulfe, who often spends time with Simon – she’s only recently become a monster.”

“Oh, I know Lyra very well,” the noblelady chuckled. “She spent quite a while at my manor before we came here together.  A charming girl – I think I remember her speaking of her friend Mary.  Is that…?” When Roger nodded, Lady Mephis inclined her head, as if in thought. “She’s the one who often sends things for Simon, is she not?” Another nod, and the faint tension in the air seemed to dissipate. “Yes… perhaps I will call on her, then.  On both of them.”

“I just visited the Second Home, and they were there.  It’s, ah, a bit more…” Roger struggled to think of a word that would sufficiently prepare her expectations. “Rustic, than this establishment.”

She laughed low, and again warmth rose in his cheeks. “It’s a bar.” When he nodded, starting to offer to have the Kramers visit the tower instead, she shook her head. “I’ve snuck out of the castle more than a few times to visit my beloved, you see, back at home.  He was fond of a few bars nearby, and so I disguised myself to check in on him – the Second Home can’t be worse than those, trust me.” Roger laughed, but wasn’t certain how right she would be.

Instead, his mind was snagged by another intrusive thought.  Throughout the conversation, the lady had referred to John with terms of endearment, but… it was hard to imagine the embittered former hero being anyone’s ‘darling.’  As a matter of fact, Roger had instead often wondered at the relationship between John and Ceann – the teal-haired knight who was his bodyguard.  She, too, seemed quietly enamored with the man, but John kept her at arm’s length – like he did with, well, everyone else.  Come to think of it, when John had mentioned Lady Mephis, his voice had seemed touched with anxiety and not a little bit of exasperation… an odd reaction, especially to a woman so innately magnetic as she.

“Thank you, Mr. Miralis – may I call you Roger, as John does?” As he nodded, he could see a hint of a smile through her veil. “You have been quite helpful.  I am quite sure we will get the chance to speak again soon – not to leave you in suspense, but John’s plans hinge a great deal on both you and Simon.” Seeing his eyes widen as he prepared to seek an answer to the question that had been haunting him since he first arrived at New Haven, the lady held up a hand to forestall him. “I can’t say more at the moment-” The slight tilt of her head towards the general crowd, which seemed suspiciously quiet once more despite having better auditory camouflage than before, communicated the reason for her caution. “But I assure you, it is a conversation we all will be having very soon.” Her gaze turned to a different direction, and this time he followed it, seeing Meri walking towards his table with a tray of food aloft.

Roger nodded to Lady Mephis, trying to dismiss his frown. “Well, then I will look forward to that.” He stood, bowing his head in parting. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see to my meal, but it has been a pleasure.” And a mystery, too, he thought to himself.

“A pleasure, indeed.” The way she said the word felt like a finger running down his spine. “Farewell, Mr. Miralis – Roger.”

“Farewell, Lady-”

“Just Mephis will suffice,” she offered. “It is only fair, between those of us with little patience for those with titles.”

At that, he smiled at her, and nodded. “Then, goodbye, Mephis.  I’ll look forward to that conversation you mentioned.” Standing from the table, he inclined his head to her in farewell, and she returned the gesture.  As he walked back to his table, he felt a chill at his back, as if he had contemplative eyes locked on him – perhaps from all directions, judging from the way the restaurant’s other patrons looked away as his gaze swept over some of them.  Lady Mephis might disdain politics, he decided, but it sure seemed determined to follow her.

Despite feeling on edge, the mouth-watering food sitting ready for him at his table soon dispelled his concern.  He lifted the cover over his plate to reveal a moist-looking slab of fish cooked a la meunière, with some sauteed vegetables alongside.  Inhaling deeply, he took up his utensils and prepared to indulge, hoping that Mari had finally broken her curse of giving appearance preferential treatment over flavor.

A bite, a wince, and a shrug later, and he decided that this was close enough to count, even if she had gone especially heavy on the salt once more.  And so he lost himself in his meal, savoring the flavors of the place that carried many of the fond memories of his childhood, not even noticing when Lady Mephis and her maids departed shortly thereafter, or when the conversations redoubled immediately after her departure.  Soon enough, he supposed, Mithal would join him to celebrate the good response he had gotten from his most prestigious customer yet, and their conversation could pass a bit more time before he returned to his chores.

And so Roger ate happily, blissfully ignorant of the consequences of his words – the events he had inadvertently set into motion with his guileless desire to be helpful, and the revelations that would come sooner than anyone expected due to them.

 

******

 

When Roger made his way to the mercenaries’ encampment outside of New Haven, it was well into the afternoon.  He had made judicious use of his time – his deliveries were finished, and secured to his back by a web of straps he carried a hefty kettle full of the soup he had prepared for Lacy and Priss, since he knew it would be hours before either of them would be ready to come home.  He had already made a second stop at the Second Home, leaving a portion for Priss with Mr. Kramer in a covered bowl; she was apparently still making her rounds, and hadn’t come in yet.  Now, he hastened to take Lacy hers, guilt speeding his steps because he knew she had skipped breakfast and had to be famished.

As he made his way into the camp, several of the lizard women raised their arms to wave at him, and he greeted them in kind.  Most of them were well-used to him, since he frequently visited or brought food to their commander.  He had even gotten used to the teasing he typically suffered; it seemed many of her subordinates were as enthusiastic for Lacy to come to terms with her feelings as Priss was (He could only admit to himself that he was just as eager).  Stepping carefully as he passed the stables, the home of the outriders that scouted the areas around the nascent town, Roger saw the largest structure in the camp, a rough building at the end of the lane that served as a command center for the Company of the Forked Blade.  The building itself looked to have been built with defense in mind, complete with narrow windows that could serve as arrow slits and a second story balcony with a wall, and before it stood a small guard shack that served as a security post for those coming to speak with the company’s leadership.

Soon enough Roger drew near to the command center, but a coarse voice brought him to a halt just at the edge of the walk leading directly into it. “Customs review,” the woman ordered, and with a chuckle he stopped and looked at the armored figure approaching him from the guard post. “I’ll have to seize any contraband, of course.” The woman drawing near was tall and lean, her sun-bronzed skin left exposed in several places by the scalemail she wore.  Her own natural scales were of an amethyst hue, darkening to indigo in places, while her hair was a sandy blonde kept cropped short.  She carried a light billhook in one hand; the polearm was shortened for maneuverability and to allow her to strap a shield to her left arm.  Her yellow eyes were focused on the kettle encumbering him, and her smile was easy and eager.

Roger nodded respectfully at the woman, stopping to slide a shoulderstrap off one arm before lowering the kettle to the ground. “You know, Maggie, if you wanted some soup, you could just ask.  I always make plenty.” He pulled a bowl and a spoon from one of the pouches attached by the straps that had restrained the lidded kettle, and removed the clamps keeping the container closed to reveal a generous amount of a thick, hearty stew, languid chunks of meat and vegetables bobbing at the top.  Ladling out a bowlful, he passed it over to Lacy’s second-in-command, watching her reaction as he closed the kettle back. “Eat up.”

“A job this boring has to have some perks; bothering you is practically the highlight of my day, since Lacy’s the one putting the recruits through their paces today.” Maggie Starscale inhaled deeply, groaning in delight at the aroma, and greedily nabbed a lump of stewmeat, moaning unreservedly as she savored it. “Gods, I’m starving – forget harassing you, eating this is the best part of my whole week.”

“I do what I can,” Roger said, spreading his hands in grinning humility, and the lizard woman snorted into her second spoonful. “My lessons with Mithal may be paying off.”

“Thank the gods for him, then.  Lacy’s had some of the newbies on kitchen duty and let me tell you, I can distinguish about five different flavors of ‘charred’ now.” Maggie paused to devour another couple of bites before she nodded towards the building Roger had been approaching. “Might want to wait just a few anyways – Lacy’s got a couple of newbies with thick skulls in there, and to be honest, I don’t know which of them to pity more.” They both laughed, but Roger could see a sudden intensity in the yellow, slitted eyes of Lacy’s lieutenant. “Speaking of…” She waved him over to the booth where she had been sitting, a small shack with just enough room for a table and a couple of chairs.  She plopped down into one of the rough-hewn seats, ignoring the distressed groan it made as she leaned back in it enough to put her feet up on the table, cradling the dwindling bowl of soup atop her chest.  Her eyes, however, stayed locked onto him as he took the opposite chair. “Had something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Roger met that gaze, bracing himself for what he expected would be coming. “Go ahead.”

Despite the prompt, Maggie stared at him for a few moments more, though her pace at eating the soup didn’t decrease.  He had known her long enough to have her sorted as a woman of action over words, but she was thoughtful enough to deserve her position as the second-in-command of the mercenary company.  It went beyond her martial skill – which was likewise only second to Lacy’s own – to her tactical instincts.  Finally, when her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, her eyes narrowed. “You know, this is a good soup.  Better than any of us in the company could make.”

This… wasn’t what he had expected. “Ah, thanks again-”

“You’re an odd sort.  A thinker, not a fighter.” Ignoring the color in his cheeks, she continued. “I’ve been by your house – it’s immaculate.”

“Well, yes, I do try to keep things organized.  I’m an alchemist; I have to, because sloppiness can lead to, ah, explosive results.”

“Yeah, but that’s just it.” She tapped the spoon on the edge of her bowl. “You cook, you clean, you even take care of the wounded – how many times has Lacy sent one of our recruits to you for a minor injury?” Maggie smirked at him, her eyes gleaming with humor. “You’d make a very good bride.”

“Thanks.” Roger’s tone was flat, his smile tepid.

“Hey, take the compliment; I can’t say that about everyone.” Maggie leaned forward to deposit her bowl on the table. “For example, there’s one member of this company who is excluded from cooking duties even when we’re afield.  We, ah, call it executive privilege, but it has more to do with the fact that no one can stomach anything she makes.  She’s messy, too – her armor and weapons are polished to a sheen, but someone always has to come behind her and straighten up the equipment she uses.  And she is demanding, strict, downright abrasive at times… arrogant to boot.” Maggie’s chuckle was warm, her smile like a parent discussing a beloved but difficult child. “She’d make a terrible bride, and she knows it.”

“Do you mean-”

“You see, Roger, there’s something you might not know about us lizard women.” Maggie leaned forward, her eyes capturing his. “We have pretty… rigid expectations.  Lizard women are warriors by nature, and we respect strength; we are supposed to become as great as we possibly can, and only put down our swords when we meet a man stronger than us.  That way, the next generation will be even greater.  Lacy’s parents, for example, were famed duelists, and her mother only lost once.” The sigh that interrupted Maggie’s story drew a frown across Roger’s face. “Literally, only once, because of the other thing about our culture.  We live dual lives – incredible warriors, and then, incredible housemakers and mothers.  We are supposed to devote ourselves to the broom and skillet as much as we do the blade, once we settle down with our mate.  It’s a kind of balance, a life of peace after a life of war.  That’s our ideal, our philosophy – which is great, if you can achieve that kind of balance.”

“But Lacy can’t,” Roger guessed, understanding better where this conversation was leading.

“She’s the best fighter I’ve ever served with,” Maggie confirmed. “She knows how hard it will be to find a man good enough to beat her, and she’s never seemed to mind that.  But even if she did, she would be giving up what she loves, what she is amazing at, for a life that, quite bluntly, she will never be good at.  In an instant, she would go from superlative swordswoman to mediocre housewife.”

“But she doesn’t have to do that,” Roger said, his vicarious frustration hitting close to home.

“She thinks she does,” Maggie’s response was unyielding. “As a matter of fact…” A wistful smile touched her lips as she looked out the window of the guard shed. “She’s always hated the idea of settling down – said she’d prefer a glorious death in battle, if it came to it – but there was one time I saw her thinking hard about it.  There was this guy she met that she started to fall for…” The lizard woman glanced back to him, smiling at the frown she found on his face. “He was someone she guarded on a routine caravan run.  He was fleeing the Orders, running from a life where every decision was made for him, and he’d decided that if it took leaving behind everything he knew, everything he had, then he’d do it to be able to choose his own fate.  I can’t tell you how much that inspired her.  She felt like, if he could do it – leave behind everything he was supposed to be – then so could she.” Roger’s frown faded and a blush spread on his cheeks as he listened. “He was just the kind of man she’d want, but he was no warrior – and yet he treated her like a woman, and a fighter, and didn’t see the problem with her being both.  Of course, she would never be as good of a housekeeper as he was…”

“That doesn’t matter,” Roger muttered, and Maggie grinned at him.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?  Because that man would let her have it all – to be what she is, and still be happy as a woman.” The lizard woman’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, then that man had to go and get snatched up by some orc-”

“An orc who isn’t the problem you are suggesting she is,” Roger corrected her.

Maggie leaned back, spreading her hands in a gesture of peace.  “Oh, I know.  But Lacy doesn’t.  She’s taken a few too many hits to the head, needs things explained to her real simple.  Needs the, ah, point driven in.  Repeatedly.” Roger blushed at the obscene hand gesture the woman was now making.

Roger met her eyes, and now he was the one who was resolute. “Which is what I’m here to do today.”

“Yeah, I-” Maggie paused, her eyes widening.  She stared at Roger for a moment, and her eyes grew once more. “Oh.” Now, her grin began to spread. “Ohhh.”

Roger knew his cheeks were incandescent, but still he nodded.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Maggie demanded. “In that case, I didn’t-”

The sound of the doors leading into the command center behind them drew her up short, and both paused as they heard voices coming down the path approaching the guard shack, apparently the recruits that Lacy had been working over. “Gods and devils, that woman!  You can’t tell me she doesn’t piss you off, too.” Roger raised an eyebrow at Maggie, who scowled as she apparently recognized the speaker and stood from the table. “‘Too slow, too fast, too sloppy, too hesitant.’ It’s no wonder she’s never gotten a man, but by my aching muscles, someone needs to find her a good hard rod to sit on a few times so she’ll stop riding my ass-!”

With a voice hard enough to sharpen steel on, Maggie barked out of the guard shack just as the pair of women walked past. “Private Teira Rockgrip!” Just visible through the door leading into the small room, the navy-scaled soldier in question came to an immediate halt, her eyes widening and her face slackening from its scowl with comedic haste.  She, and the other woman just behind her, assumed a formal stance of attention, straightening their spines and staring ahead, though the one caught mid-grousing did so with difficulty, her face and eyes twitching nervously. “Would you care to repeat what you were just saying?” Gone was the casual demeanor with which she had been chatting with Roger; in its place, Maggie had slipped into the persona of the consummate drill sergeant.

“Sir no sir!” Teira replied, her face alternating between redness and paleness at an unhealthy rate. “Please forgive my indiscretion, sir!”

Maggie stepped in front of the smaller woman, looming over her with a scowl as her tongue flicked out to taste the fear in the air. “Indiscretion? You were just bad-mouthing our commanding officer in front of a civilian!” Teira’s eyes flicked to Roger, and she paled further. “Rod- Roger here might want a clarification as to your opinion of our captain.”

“Lacerta Steelscale is the best of us, sir!” Teira erupted, still standing painfully straight. “And might I add she would make a delightful mate, sir, if one is in the market for one, sir!” Her eyes flicked over to Roger, and then back to her now-dangerously-close superior.

“You cheeky, little, moist-bottomed, newt-faced whelp!” Maggie barked, scowling a hole through the other woman. “Tomorrow I will personally be adding my share to those bruises you were just whining about.  Now get out of here before I change my mind and have you digging latrines for a month with your bare hands!  On the double!” Teira took her escape with unseemly haste, the woman she had been talking to following suit.  Both women marched away as if their lives depended on both the speed of their stride and its precision, and Maggie scowled at them as they went.  It was only once they disappeared around a building that she relaxed, chuckling. “That recruit is going to be a pain until the day she finally decides to become a soldier, but she’ll make a damn fine one when she does.” Maggie shot a grin back to Roger. “And we’ll keep pounding her on the sparring mat until then.”

Roger’s eyes shot wide. “Oh, speaking of sparring-!”

Maggie nodded, but as he re-shouldered the kettle of stew, she approached to clap a hand on his back. “Good luck in there, eh?” She nodded towards the building that the two recruits had just left. “She’s probably still worked up.  Seems she had a rough night of it last night.” Now it was Roger’s turn to shiver at the gleam in Maggie’s eye, though that soon faded into something more kind, almost maternal. “Lacy deserves the best,” Maggie continued, smiling softly in Lacy’s vague direction.  “So make sure to give her the best, alright?”

Roger couldn’t reply with anything but a nod, but the heat in his cheeks was apparently enough to satisfy the woman.  Instead, Roger made his way into the building, not noticing the fact that Maggie was immediately distracted by another of the lizard soldiers, this one with dark hair and scales, who came running up breathlessly.  As the door closed behind Roger, Maggie, fresh from hearing the soldier’s report, glanced to the building – but shook her head. “Let’s go,” she ordered the other woman, and the pair of them marched towards the town, determined to deal with the issue without involving their commander.

After all, Lacy had long-awaited, pressing business of her own to take care of.

 

******

 

“Roger,” Lacy sighed as he entered the sparring hall.  She was toweling her long mane of reddish-brown hair, her face still flushed with exertion.  She gave him a tired smile, nodding towards one of the rectangles that had been cut into the floor of the hall and left open to the earth beneath to better simulate uneven footing during sparring.  He could see depressions and fresh prints gouged into the dirt, and wooden practice swords lay where they had been dropped. “You come at a good time.  I just finished working with a couple of recruits, so I’m already loosened up.” Illustrating her point, she stretched her arm, swiveling her hips as she pulled the muscle as taut as she could, unintentionally showing off the slim lines of her body.

Setting down the kettle once more, Roger began to do his own stretches, remembering well the lessons his body had taught him about the importance of those preparatory motions, after he had started training with Lacy. “I met them outside,” he chuckled. “Sounds like it’s good I brought something heavy to eat, because they looked like the sort to make you work up an appetite.”

The humor on her face was replaced by a sour scowl. “You have no idea,” she grumbled. “The mouth on that Teira…” Her eyes caught the kettle of soup, but returned to Roger. “But the food can wait,” she said, stepping towards the dug-out patch of packed earth. “Better to exercise on an empty stomach.” She paused, noting the wineskins at his waist. “I’ll take a drink before we get started, though.”

Roger stepped up to her, pausing before pulling one of the wineskins from his belt.  Lacy didn’t even glance at it, pulling the stopper and taking a long draught of the lukewarm drink before gasping, wiping a wine-dark trickle that had escaped her mouth, the last vestige of which raced down her neck, wandering towards the curve of her breast.  Roger broke away his gaze with a blush as Lacy raised the skin once more, draining it further before capping it and setting it aside. “Come on; the sooner we get to this, the sooner we can take a break over some stew.”

Roger agreed, but he still found himself anxious about what was to come.  Underneath the loose clothes she wore, her normal armor discarded in favor of more maneuverable attire, Lacy’s muscles were taut – something Roger couldn’t help but notice for a variety of reasons.  He could see how eager Lacy was, a certain tension about her like a coiled spring, and knowing that they were about to spar made him deeply conscious of how closely his own fate could parallel that of the two recruits Lacy had just been drumming.

Those concerns proved to be prophetic. “Again!” Lacy ordered minutes later, and Roger groaned as he forced himself to his feet. “Come at me like you mean it!”  The dirt was more yielding than the wooden floor, but only in comparison did it feel ‘soft.’ “No, too wide; a werebat could have seen that one coming!” ‘Soft’ didn’t fit Lacy’s training methods either, and today was a little worse than usual. “Your opponents are often going to be bigger and stronger than you, so trying to overpower them just wastes time for you both!  Deflect, aim, move!” Roger was beginning to think that the roughness of today’s session might be borne out of a little personal frustration after all- “Too slow!  At this rate, you’ll never pin me!”

The ceiling overhead swam lazily as Roger panted, staring straight upwards as he sprawled out on his back.  It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than being thrown right back down.  Maybe if he spent some time down here, it would mean fewer bruises overall.

His eyes widened at the dulled practice blade against his throat as Lacy pounced on him, his right hand pressed into the dirt as she sat straddled atop him. “If you’re going to spend so much time on your back, you might want to learn how to fight from there!” Lacy panted, sweat trickling down her brow.  Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her pupils were slightly dilated as she stared at him. “Resist me!  Throw me off!” Roger rocked his body back and forth, yanked on his arm to try to free it, pushed at her side with the other arm, but nothing he did could dislodge her.  Instead, her legs gripped his hips tighter, and she rode him like a recalcitrant bull, her eyes watching his face the entire time. “Come on, are you going to fight like this the next time those bandits come?  When it’s Berala Blackaxe on top of you?”

Roger’s eyes narrowed, and he threw his body against her, sprays of dirt geysering into the air as he kicked and tore at the earth below him.  Still she stayed astride him, pressing her practice blade against his throat hard enough to choke him. “That’s it, show me what you can do,” she commanded, her eyes eager, taunting. “Or do you submit?”

“Like…hell,” he grunted, trying to get her accustomed to his weight from one direction, and then, with a sudden reversal, he threw himself in the opposite.  It was the oldest trick in the book, but the hand that accidentally pressed against Lacy’s chest made her eyes widen, made her cry out in a tone atypical for this setting, and, cheeks burning, Lacy found herself rolled onto her back.  Roger pressed his advantage, trying to lay his practice blade across her neck in turn, but she caught his wrist, as tightly as her legs still gripped his hips.  Actually, now that he considered the way they were laying…

Lacy panted as she looked up at him, her legs circling him as if locking him in place, pulling him even closer to press against her.  He stared down at her, sweat trickling down his face, but the flush in their skins didn’t come from the exertion of sparring.  When Lacy reached a hand up to him, biting gently on her lower lip, in her eyes he could only see wonder, desire, need-

“Gods, what am I doing?” Roger grunted as he was pushed away, sprawling onto his back.  Lacy quickly stood, walking swiftly away from him. “I’m sorry, Roger.  I’m sorry.  That was-  I’m just so… Last night, you and her…” As vehement as the last words were, when she turned to face him, her expression was a new kind of wordless desperation, a need to free emotions too entangled to escape. “That wasn’t- Don’t think that I-”

“Ow.” Roger stood, rubbing his backside where he had landed. “Kicking me off was a bit much.”

Her jaw dropped, and she mouthed wordlessly for a moment.  Finally, she managed, “Didn’t you notice- aren’t you upset at what I was…?”

“Nope.” Straightening, Roger wiped the sweat from his brow. “Actually, a bit more surprised that you stopped.” He winced a little as he stepped out of the sparring pit, surprised at how sore the past half-hour had left him.  A bucket of water and a selection of coarse towels rested next to a bench nearby, and he dampened a couple of the cloths. “You didn’t have to.”

Lacy’s reply was wordless, a glottal choking as she blinked at him as he approached, at the damp towel he offered her. “What do you mean?” she finally asked, in a voice tiny compared to her usual tone of confidence.

He tried, valiantly, but couldn’t restrain his smile at her out-of-character behavior.  When she didn’t reach for the towel, he took the initiative, dabbing it at her forehead, wiping the sweat away. “I mean,” he said, paying attention to her face as he wiped it yet aware of her eyes locked onto his, “we could have continued from there.” He paused, meeting her eyes and smiling. “I would have liked that.”

Her cheeks flared crimson, but she looked away with a stricken look. “Roger… I can’t,” she said, and his smile faded.

“Why?  Is it-?”

“Because you don’t understand what you and Priss mean to me.” Lacy couldn’t look at him now, her voice stricken with emotion. “I decided when I was very young that I wanted to be the best swordswoman ever – and I was so serious about it that my parents agreed to let me study with my aunt, who was once the leader of this company, years before I should have been able to be her apprentice.  I was just a kid then, and I started traveling with her to every place the company got hired to go.  And then, I became her successor, and when she got married, I took over, and grew our organization as much and as fast as I could.  We went everywhere – even deep into Order territory.  But…” She swallowed. “Ever since I helped you get settled into Goslar, and even more so here, for the first time I… had a place to think of as…”

“Home.”

Lacy nodded, closing her eyes. “I don’t want to think of it that way.  I don’t have a right to.  It’s yours, and hers.  But, each day, I think about it more and more, and it feels…” Her voice was ragged. “So good to go home at night.  To have my own bed.  To have someone to…” Her voice cracked as it made its way through her tight throat. “You and Priss mean more to me than anything I’ve made here.  Eating breakfast with you, walking around town together, laughing with Priss.  I’ve talked to Maggie about letting her take over when the contract is up, staying here with you two.  So, I can’t…” She paused, catching her quickening breath. “I can’t mess this up.”

“But why do you think you will mess it up?” Roger asked, incredulous, stepping close to her and resting a hand on her shoulder. “You know that Priss wants this.”

“I know, but I don’t-” Lacy paused, and Roger withdrew his hand, a pained expression on his face.  Lacy fought for a moment with herself, before blurting the rest of her sentence out. “I don’t want to ruin what you two have, just because I want it too.”

“Lacy-”

Opposite to the gentleness in his voice, Lacy whirled to face him with conflicted passion, but her gaze wandered anxiously as she spoke. “What if Priss changes her mind?  You chose her.  I don’t want to put you in a position where you would end up torn between us.”

“I won’t.” Roger placed his hands on her shoulders, capturing her eyes with his own. “Priss and I chose each other… and we chose you.  She did.  And I did.”

The last words he said battered her resolve like a boulder slamming into a castle wall, and he could tell.  She swallowed, holding on desperately – not to her denials, but to her self-control. “Roger, please… I’m afraid.”

“I know.” She stiffened as he pulled her into an embrace, comforting rather than passionate. “But there’s something that took me a while to realize that I want you to know.  Priss talks a lot about how she wants a tribe…” He chuckled as he could feel Lacy shaking her head in exasperation. “But I finally figured out what that word means to her. ‘Tribe’ just means ‘family,’ Lacy.  She wants us to be a family.” He could feel her trembling in his arms. “And I want that too.”

Lacy pulled back, staring at his face, her eyes shimmering with barely-restrained tears.  He could see the emotions warring viciously in the way those golden orbs trembled, could tell she wanted to flee, to surrender, to argue, to collapse.  She was probably the strongest woman he knew, but she couldn’t find the strength to make up her mind on this, to control her conflicted heart.  Despite her valor in a hundred battles, she was frozen in the weight of this moment.

So he would be the brave one.  With a gentle smile, he lowered his lips to hers.

Even as she melted into the kiss, her tense muscles relaxing into his warmth, her mind was still stubbornly indecisive.  He could hear her whimpered concerns, wordless and withering as the intensity of their kiss ate away at her consciousness until she was pressing back just as fiercely.  Their needy lips opened, and Roger discovered her bifurcated tongue was more slender and dextrous than he had expected – and more sensitive, from the way she clutched at him, moaning once more as their tongues danced together.  Her body was hot, and she pressed against him with a growing need, her hands clutching his back.

When they broke apart, their chests heaving as they both tried to suck in the air their passionate kissing had denied them, Roger could see something new in Lacy’s eyes.  It was akin to the confidence he had always found so attractive in her, ever since he had first met her during that trip east – the bold mercenary captain that seemed so ready, so in control.  This, though, was different; ‘in control’ wasn’t the phrase he could feasibly use for it.  It was the hunger she had kept bottled up for so long, the need that Priss had mercilessly toyed with to drive her to the brink.  And now, finally, it was free, and even as the predatory gleam in her eyes drew close again to his face, he could only smile and indulge his own desires just as freely.

Their bodies and lips intertwined, they careened a bit around the sparring hall, eyes too busy drinking in each other to take note of their surroundings – wasn’t there a bench, or a chair, or something?! – until finally Lacy broke away to search, locking onto the padded square where the trainees practiced throws and, mostly, being thrown.  Moaning in delight – he had taken advantage of her distraction to flank her, kissing his way along her shoulder to the sweep of her neck – she tugged on his shirt, guiding him in the direction of the soft flooring.  As they went, they shed their second skins, clothes flung aside to bare the soft newness beneath.  Roger caught her when she grasped at the edge of his pants, running one hand along her toned stomach before sliding it up to cup one of her breasts – smaller but more firm than he was used to – and she hissed in ecstasy as he teased her nipple.  Her smile revealing the thrilling sharpness of her teeth, she kneeled, as she went taking down both his pants and his undergarments.  Her eyes fell upon his ready length, but along with the cavorting hunger there emerged a hint of hesitation. “Roger,” Lacy warned him, her eyes savoring the sight before her, “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Roger reached down, helping her to her feet. “I’ll help you figure it out,” he promised, and she gave him a warm smile of gratitude as he drew close, her own belt unclasping and the last bits of her clothes dropping to the floor at their feet.  Together they stepped onto the softness of the mat, and their bodies collided, heat and softness and firmness, pressing hard and gently brushing.  The scratch of Lacy’s sharp nails on his skin drew goosebumps along Roger’s arms, and in turn those arms pressed Lacy to his chest with a tightness that made her gasp in pleasure.  Together, they lowered themselves onto the mat, but to Roger’s surprise Lacy pressed him to lay back, and, just as she had a short time ago, she climbed astride him, straddling his hips without clothes in the way of their contact this time.  Using an arm to keep his torso up, Roger helped Lacy guide his member to where it was meant to go, and after a brief warning from him to take it slowly, she heeded his advice and let gravity bring them together.  Her legs worked to keep her up and balanced on the mat as she got accustomed to his presence inside her, and he watched her face, offering her reassurance and using his other arm to help steady her.  Finally, with a last hiss of mixed pleasure and tension, she sank the last bit into his lap, and he hugged her to him, planting a kiss on the center of her chest.  His hand caressed her face, up to the green frill over where her ears would be, and she looked at him with an emotion he couldn’t name – an alchemical mix of love, contentment, need, excitement, nervousness, pleasure, and a thousand more potent ingredients.  He couldn’t help but smile at the potency of that expression, and pressed up to kiss her as she began to move atop him.

His hands roamed her tight, fit body as she rode him with increasing confidence, her concern and skittishness falling away in the face of instinct and pleasure.  The air was heavy with whispers of love and the smell of lust, and he pressed up against her, meeting her pace and her gaze.  He noticed the wince as soon as it appeared, one of her legs cramping a bit from overuse, and with a grin he nodded to the side.  She gave him a grateful smile as they reversed positions, him climbing atop her and between her legs. “No kicking me off this time?” he teased, guiding himself back into her wet warmth.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lacy moaned, and he leaned over her, bathing her neck and breasts with kisses. “I’m all sweaty!” she complained, worried, but he only responded with a shrug and a grunt, sucking on the skin of her breast with a pressure that made her gasp.  His rhythm was steady and increasing, and, free now to concentrate more on her own pleasure, Lacy’s breathing became ragged as she fought to keep her claws from digging too deeply into his back. “Roger, I…” she gasped, her chest heaving, and he drank in her expression with a giddy grin, loving the way she hovered right at the edge of release.

“Let’s go together,” Roger said, but the words themselves were enough of a trigger for her.  Her eyes went wide at the idea of it, and her mind fell away into pleasure.  Still, the ripple of tightness around his member was enough for him to catch up, and as her cries rang in the air, he grunted his own release, a strange feeling of warmth passing through and between them as together they came apart.

A moment, an eternity, later, Roger slumped over her, keeping his weight off her by resting on an elbow and keeping himself still inside her.  Her unfocused eyes slowly wandered to his face, and she smiled, her breath still heavy and fast as she reached up to cup his face.  He met her eyes, leaning in to kiss her, slow and lingering.  Only when they broke apart did the gleam of mischief enter his eyes.

“Does this count as pinning you?” he asked, nodding to the mat they rested upon.

Lacy frowned at the idea. “I’ve kicked you off once, I can do it again; don’t forget that.  And, I pinned you first!” She bit her lip as he laughed, rolling his eyes at her stubbornness. “But if you need remedial lessons, I think something could be arranged…”  They laughed together at that, their commingled gazes making clear it was more than mere invitation, closer to mutual intention.  Lacy glanced away, however, coughing slightly, her voice a tad raw from her earlier full-throated cries. “Maybe a drink first?”

Roger grinned at the idea, pulling away from her to stand upright. “Not a bad idea,” he said with a devious grin.  Stepping over to his pants, he pulled out the wineskin still tucked into the belt.  He tossed it to Lacy, who caught it effortlessly, but she paused as she noticed something about the letter daubed onto the side.  Knowing what her question would be, and before she could take a drink, Roger explained. “Just know that it probably has a little something extra added,” he warned her, “I’m pretty sure Priss spiked yours with alraune nectar this morning, so just in case I gave you mine earlier.”

Lacy gaped at first him, then the wineskin. “You mean she…” Her brow furrowed as she stared at the wineskin. “And last night – was that…?” She glanced up to see Roger nodding, and despite her satisfaction she frowned. “That orc is shockingly devious,” she huffed, but a smile quickly found its way back onto her face. “But I suppose I’m pretty used to it.” Lacy looked to Roger with a wistful grin. “That’s part of being her family, isn’t it?”

Nodding, Roger sat beside Lacy, and she leaned against his shoulder.  She took the wineskin, and, after staring at it for a moment, popped the stopper and raised it to her lips, drinking deep.  Lowering it, she offered it back to Roger, who likewise drank deep before capping it and throwing it aside.  As the sweet fire of the nectar began to course through them, they turned to each other once more, eager smiles and questing hands crossing the little distance between them.  The sparring mat creaked as they lay down beside each other, quickly lost in the electricity of touch and taste and heat.

For some time to come, the sparring hall, which often filled the surrounding air with sounds of combat and the shouts of contest, rang out with cries of a very different nature as Roger and Lacy, uninterrupted, made up for once-lost opportunities.

 

******

 

The room was painfully silent when the fourth man stepped inside, cradling a wounded arm.  His bicep had been bandaged and he sported scratches and abrasions over every bit of skin visible, from his rough-worn face to his bared knuckles.  His clothes, too, showed signs of the struggle that had wounded him, dusty and smeared both from the fight and the long travel afterwards.  Even on horseback, making the long journey back from the mountains that formed the western wall of the plain around New Haven while so battered had to have been uncomfortable at best – and yet his three peers around the room showed not the least bit of pity for his condition.

‘Pity’ was an alien concept for their leader, the man who sat at the small, dark-stained desk along the room’s rear wall.  His stance easily betrayed him as a fighter even before a glimpse of the thick arms, hidden in loose sleeves, or the tight muscles along his shoulders.  Another early clue was the vicious scar that had clearly almost cost him his right eye, and another near his lip on the opposite side, features that did nothing to increase the attractiveness of a face easily given to scowling.  He, like the other three, had his dark hair cropped short, though not as short as the clean-shaven man that bore the wounds.  As much as the four men seemed cut of the same cloth, however, it was readily apparent that the man behind the desk was in charge.

Harold Hawkhurst was his name, and his field was acquisitions, specifically of goods hard to find so far to the east – his connections made him ‘valued’ more than ‘liked’ among the townsfolk of New Haven, especially the council, who had become accustomed to his dour personality and ruthless practicality on matters of business, which were the only matters he ever seemed to deal in.  His socialization was largely limited to his three male employees; he would spend time at taverns with them, but rarely spoke to others.  His frequent references to his ‘mistress’ and the reek of monstrous mana about him and the others kept the interest of the town’s women away from him, though his activities did tend to draw attention of another sort.  He and his men often found themselves being carefully watched by the lizard woman mercenaries that patrolled the town and its surroundings, leading to no end of tension between the two.

As unpleasant as the relations between their factions were, it was never a question that it had been one of the mercenaries who had attacked the wounded man – if it had been, the meeting between the four would be considerably more tense.  Instead, the man’s most severe wounds had been to his pride, and being forced to report on his defeat was only forcing salt deep into that abrasion.  Still, he knew better than to hide any of the details of the scuffle with his leader; Hawkhurst was not a man to tolerate the least hint of insubordination, and each of his followers knew well the price of failure or omission.

As one of the others stepped in front of the room’s only door leading outside, blocking it bodily, the wounded man crossed the room to stand before the desk.  Hawkhurst stared at him for a long minute before barking a command, “Report.” Desperately, his subordinate tried to think of the best way to present his case, but the dangerous gleam in Hawkhurt’s dark eyes spilled his words from his mouth like blood from a severed artery.

“It was just one, but she was a tough bitch.” Hawkhurst’s eyebrow raised, but the man pressed on, desperate to save his hide and his pride. “A high orc, all by herself.  She had a huge axe, and she jumped me as I was going up the pass.  I could’ve taken her in a fair fight-”

“Spare me the whining, Marcel,” Hawkhurst growled. “Did you finish the job?”

The other man paused, not certain how to respond. “She’s still alive.  She told me to come back and tell-”

“Not the orc, you idiot.  The relay.  Did you-”

The low whistle from one of the men stopped the conversation dead.  Hawkhurst glanced at the man at the door, who stepped aside, his hand lowering to his belt and the cudgel strapped there.  A loud rapping at the portal made all four of the men tense visibly.  The man at the door raised a panel on the door, opening a small peephole that let him see who was on the other side of the door, but the authoritative declaration from beyond ended the mystery for all of the men simultaneously: “Company of the Forked Blade – open up!”

The bald, wounded man winced under the fearsome scowls the others shot in his direction and stepped to the side, out of the room’s center.  Hawkhurst glanced at the doorman meaningfully, and before he reached for the door’s latch the subordinate released his grip on his cudgel, but kept his free hand close to it anyways.  As the door creaked open, revealing the evening-red sunlight beyond, two lizard woman soldiers stepped inside.  Both women were clad in armor and bore weapons, the purple-scaled one at the front with a shortened billhook, the other with her swords sheathed, though they sported exotic guards and had wide scabbards that suggested they were curved in some fashion, a match for the wielder’s Far-Eastern features.  This dark-scaled woman stood back by the door after the man closed it behind her, arms crossed and sternly observing, while the other, a woman Hawkhurst recognized as the mercenaries’ lieutenant, walked up to his desk, a cold smile splayed across her lips. “Evening, Mister Hawkhurst,” she greeted him, her fanged grin not reaching her snake-slitted eyes. “We’ve had a report of some banditry nearby and were directed to check in with you and your men.”

“Evening to you as well,” Hawkhurst replied, slipping into the closest thing he could manage to joviality. “Thank you for coming by the check on Marcel… was it, Sergeant Starscale?” His smile dripped with stale saccharine.

“Oh, close enough.” Despite the slight, Maggie’s smile didn’t change – but then again, it had already been sharp-edged. “I wouldn’t expect a smuggler to be well-versed in military parlance.”

“Smuggler?” Hawkhurst gasped, glancing in shock to the other trio of men, who also acted affronted.  The effect was almost comical on the faces of the three bruisers, though the dark threat in Hawkhurst’s eyes kept his own expression far from humor. “Sergeant, I will have you know I run-”

“A legitimate business, I’m sure,” Maggie interrupted him drolly.  She took a step closer, her eyes scanning over the desk in front of him.  It was well-organized, with stacks of papers and receipts, along with a wickedly-sharp letter opener.  The only personal embellishment was a small wooden carving of a bird of prey, and Maggie casually lifted it to inspect it, turning it over in her hands. “You know… I’ve been at mercenary work for so long that I actually almost agree with you.”  She shrugged, replacing the statuette on the desk, albeit with a markedly different facing.  “I can’t tell you how many times that, during our campaigns, we’ve relied on goods that came from questionable sources.  I know how important it can be to reach things that one can’t find through, shall we say, standard routes of acquisition.”  She planted her hands on the desk, leaning closer to Hawkhurst’s face.  The man didn’t budge, but a vein in his temple throbbed, and her smile grew. “But for now, we’re in charge of protecting this town, and that means I can’t have anyone,” her eyes shifted to glance at the wounded Marcel, “trying to find passes through the mountains that circumvent our patrol routes.  And when the same names keep coming across my desk, well… I tend to get curious.”

“Can you blame us for seeking more efficient-”

“If it means compromising our defenses, you had better believe I can.” Maggie straightened. “Or would you prefer I take this matter up with Mr. Foster himself?  I’m sure he would be very interested in your unofficial efforts at exploration.” Her smile grew further, in inverse proportion to his scowl.  That smile dropped suddenly as she gave him her direct command. “I want you to tell us when and where you will be ‘exploring’ in the future.  And-!” she continued, running down his attempt at a complaint. “The next time you have a run-in with bandits, I want a report on it immediately.”

“But I did that!” complained Marcel, from the side.

“Explain,” Maggie demanded, whirling to face him, giving Hawkhurst a chance to shoot his subordinate a murderous glower. “None of my soldiers reported speaking to you; we heard it second-hand from a trapper that did a custom’s check at the southwest post.”

“It wasn’t one of you,” Marcel explained, looking away sullenly. “It was that orc woman, the one trying to start a town guard or something.”  With their attention away from her, none of the men noticed Maggie’s eyes widening. “She met me in town and I told her everything about the woman that attacked me.  I figured she could take care of it, since she seemed to know about the high orc that did it.”

Now, it was Maggie’s turn to scowl. “Fine,” she snapped. “You’re off the hook this time.” She tapped her polearm on the floor, making the reference a bit more pointed.  Returning her gaze to Hawkhurst, she met his eyes coldly. “Keep your nose clean, Hawkhurst,” she commanded. “I’ll be seeing you again.”  Without waiting for a reply, she marched to the door, which her subordinate opened for her, shoving past the man that had reached for the latch.  The other uninjured man shot a glance to his boss, his hand straying near his belt, but Hawkhurst gave a minute shake of his head, happy to see the back of the mercenaries.  A moment later, and the door closed behind the pair, who were already marching quickly down the street that would lead back towards their command post.

Marcel stepped closer to his leader, mouth open to apologize, but Hawkhurst raised a hand to forestall him. “It’s fine,” he commented brusquely, opening a drawer in his desk. “Seems they have bigger issues than us right now.” He withdrew from the desk a cleaning rag and a bottle, and dashed the bottle’s contents onto the rag before scrubbing at the places Maggie’s hands had touched it.  The trio of followers stood respectfully as their boss polished away any remnant of contact with the lizard woman before moving onto the statuette, giving it the same exacting cleansing.

Only when he was finished did he move to replace the rag and bottle, but he paused, leaving them atop the desk.  Out of a compulsive anxiety, he reached into the desk drawer and tugged at one corner of it.  The false bottom pulled away, and he sighed in relief to see that, still safe atop a layer of cloth, the four medallions sat undisturbed.  Each of them bore the same icon, crossed knives atop a flame, the mark of the Excising Blades, symbol of the Holy Order of the Hospitalliers.  Content that the medallions, and thus the secret they bore, were safe, he replaced the false bottom to the drawer and returned the rag and bottle into it, closing it firmly.  Only then did he look up to his subordinates, his scowl returning.

“We need to get that relay up and running so it will be easier to communicate with our fellows in Goslar,” he commanded sharply. “It sounds like the lizards know to watch for us, so if one catches you…” He left the sentence unfinished, but the knife edge of the three smiles facing him showed they knew exactly what he meant. “Tomorrow, Maxim, slip out and take a roundabout route to stay clear of the patrols.  And avoid the area where that high orc is – sounds like they’ll be looking for her.” He stood from the desk, sharing a determined stare with each of his subordinates, and his face took on the closest thing to a smile that he knew. “Keep it up, lads, and soon enough we’ll be done with this one.  As soon as our brothers raze this shithole, we’ll be ready to go home to actual civilization.”

The trio of Hospitallier-Errants allowed themselves a quiet cheer, and went about their preparations.  They knew that a force of their brothers was on its way, and in the meantime they would do all they could to set the stage for the battle to come.  And so, the cancer growing in New Haven sank even deeper for another night, waiting for a chance to bring ruin and death to its new home.

 

******

 

As the sun sank towards the western mountains, Roger and Lacy returned home, their chests heaving for a far less pleasant reason than before.  They had raced through the town, stopping for nothing in their determination to reach their house as soon as possible.  Even as they drew close, however, Roger’s stomach plummeted as he noticed the darkness behind the glass of the windows, and he shared a look of concern with Lacy.  Redoubling their efforts, they sprinted the last bit to their front door, and a moment later it fell open, the pair stepping into the quiet shadows of their home.

The search took only a moment, and even as Lacy lit candles, calling out for Priss, Roger discovered the note. “Over here,” he called, and he read over the letter even as Lacy ran to his side.  His face crumpled as his suspicions were confirmed. “She went alone,” he groaned, glancing to Lacy, who was still reading over the scratchy handwriting. “She can’t have more than a few hour’s head start – we have to get to the stables and-”

“Roger,” Lacy interrupted him, her tone carrying the weight of warning. “It’s close to dark.  Even if we do make up some ground, we’ll be camping practically within sight of town, and there’s no way the two of us can travel in the dark without risking the horses.” She winced at the pain she saw on his face. “Honestly, the best we can do is prepare what we need, sleep early and wake before dawn, and use that time to catch up.  She’ll get a lot less rest than we will, and maybe that will be enough to make up for the lost time.  She won’t be stupid enough to-”

“That’s the problem,” Roger growled, his ire directed at the paper before him. “She isn’t stupid… except when it comes to Berala.  I knew, the second we heard that she had been sighted, that Priss would run off and…” He slumped, and Lacy stepped closer to him. “This has to be a trap, Lacy.”

“I know,” she reassured him, rubbing his upper arm, her face close to his. “And it was a trap last time, too.” She looked up, towards the windows that faced west. “But this time, Priss has a bigger tribe.”

Roger nodded, stepping away from her and towards a small collection of crates.  Each of them bore markings from across the continent, proof of the long distance they had traveled to reach New Haven.  Roger pulled one of them from the stack, staring at the sigil at the top: a gear marked with the letters ‘V M.’ His smile was more eager than kind. “And this time, I’m more ready too.” He turned back to Lacy with a nod. “Let’s get everything ready, then.  We’ll catch up to Priss and take care of this together.”

     But despite Lacy’s words, neither of them rested easily in the hours to come, their hearts far afield, lost in the night-dark grasslands between New Haven and the western mountains, searching for an orc that traveled with her horse below and moon above as her only companions.

Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 5”

 

Author’s Note: Whew, thanks to time stolen this weekend, I finished this one ahead of schedule!  I’ve set for myself the goal of a chapter every other week, with the cautious acceptance that, like in football (something I have no experience with despite where I grew up and currently live), goals are to be aimed for but not achieved every time.  I figure that, with my hiatuses coming irregularly, I owe it to my readers to write as much as I can when I can, and hope this will be a pleasant surprise to you.

However, the next chapter is… worrisome.  Not because I fear it will be difficult – I expect the writing will flow quite easily, as it will be dialogue-heavy.  No, I worry because, along with the demands on my time as a teacher (a cultural festival and a yearbook deadline and testing for a state convention, all in two weeks or so), I need for this coming chapter to hit like the bass dropping.  Chapter 5 is the first of Simon’s initial pair of chapters, and his Calling (see last author note) is Revelations – and this chapter has them by the truckload.  Simon’s story will also have his interactions with the monster girls that changed his life, but much of this particular chapter will be exposition on both the world as it is, as well as the past – and the Heroes.  I just find it ironic and mildly regrettable that the last revelation of this chapter to come, which in some regards is the biggest reveal, is by far the most predictable!

One last issue I need to tend to in the days ahead is a continuity bible.  I’ve already caught myself in a small retcon (I’ve been forced to go back to Not Alone and change a line where Roger says he grew up in a Barrier City to saying that he grew up near one, which was my intent after I fleshed out my concepts for his family).  I love doing foreshadowing, and frequently include references to the stories, characters, and events to come long before they appear – but that means I need to get my facts straight, to the detail (For example, Hawkhurst actually appeared in Not Alone during a town meeting, though he was unnamed – I had to go back to get his description right.).  If changes need to come, I’ll make note of them when I change them, but as I make my sweep, filling out the notesheet I’ve used since I started this project, I expect there may need to be a few minor alterations to keep things fully aligned with what I envision.  How expansive that vision is, I shall save discussion of for another day…

But, to give myself time to hammer away at the work yet to come, I should tend to myself first.  Time to indulge my exhaustion before it arrives, and catch a little preemptive sleep…

~Wynn Pendragon

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