R. Salvatore - The Dame

Affwin Wi smiled a little bit outwardly and a great deal inwardly. She heard the longing and the love in the old laird’s sigh, the wistful dreaminess in his still sharp eye. She entertained him, but she was no harem piece, no subservient or helpless creature.

She was, or had been, Jhesta Tu. She could outfight any man or woman in Ethelbert’s army, and he knew it. She carried great power and great independence, and she was here, dancing before him, because she chose to be and not because he had ordered her.

And that gave her power.

She danced on and on, to one sigh after another from the man who wanted to consume her in passion but no longer could.

Gradually, Ethelbert’s eyes closed, a look of great contentment on his face. Affwin Wi danced over to him and slid down onto the arm of his throne beside him, hugging his face against her small breasts until he began breathing in the deep rhythms of pleasant sleep.

Smiling still, Affwin Wi left the room, to find Merwal Yahna, young and strong, his virility shown in his hardened warrior muscles and exaggerated by the imposing profile of his shaven head. He wasn’t large and bulky like so many of the greatest Honce warriors, who required such brawn to swing their gigantic swords and axes, but lithe and taut, a warrior of the desert and the fighting arts favored there, where speed and precision overcame bulk.

“I do not like that you dance for him,” said the man, whom she had trained in the ways of the Jhesta Tu, her finest student.

She laughed dismissively.

“He loves you!”

“He cannot make love to me,” Affwin Wi reminded as she reached up her hand and gently stroked Merwal Yahna’s chiseled shoulder and upper arm. “He desires it but is too old.”

“But you would let him if he could,” the man accused.

“Your jealousy flatters me,” Affwin Wi replied playfully. “And excites me.” She moved toward the man alluringly, but he grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her back to arm’s length.

“You would!” Merwal Yahna growled.

With a subtle roll of her arms, Affwin Wi brought her hands up, under, and then back out over Merwal Yahna’s grasp, her elbows breaking his hold. She caught a grip on his forearm as she pressed his arms wide, and let her hands slide up until she had him firmly by the wrists.

A movement subtle, gentle, and effective, as was Affwin Wi.

“We are here to fight,” Merwal Yahna reminded her. “We are paid as mercenaries, not whores!”

Affwin Wi laughed disarmingly. “We are employed by Ethelbert.”

“To fight!”

“And so we have and so we will. His warriors look upon us with awe,” said Affwin Wi. “He pays us well, but is there nothing more?”

Her conniving grin gave Merwal Yahna pause, and he stared at her curiously.

“Ethelbert is the ruler of a great city and land with wealth to rival the sheiks of Jacintha,” she said. “He has no heir.”

Merwal Yahna, not even fighting her hold, could only sigh at the ever-pragmatic attitude of his lover. Affwin Wi had no shame about her body or about lovemaking. To her, all of her physical being was merely a conduit to help her attain the emotional and spiritual goals-or in this case, the simple power offered by her alliance and dalliances with Ethelbert.

She had never pretended to be anything other than a woman who would have her way. No man-not Ethelbert, not even Merwal Yahna-could ever possess her.

“I grow warm and hungry when I dance,” she purred, her voice suddenly husky. “Are you going to disappoint me?”

Merwal Yahna tugged his hands free and pulled Affwin Wi in for a crushing hug and passionate kiss. He tried to bend her backward to slow-drop her to the thick pillows spread about their room, but with an easy step and a twist of her pretty feet it was he, not she, who went down on his back.

Merwal Yahna was not disappointed.

T

wo banners preceded the lines into Chapel Abelle’s courtyard soon after, one of Laird Delaval and the other of the third great city of Honce, the port of Palmaristown. The pennants came in side by side, a curious arrangement in these times, when the arrogant Laird Delaval was claiming unequivocal kingship of the whole of the land. But when Father Artolivan, no stranger to Palmaristown, noted the man riding the armored chestnut stallion before the banners, he surely understood.

The large warrior held up his hand to stop his entourage, then trotted the chestnut stallion over to the group of monks and dismounted with great ease, a man obviously accustomed to riding in full and decorated bronze armor.

“Prince Milwellis,” one of the brothers greeted when it became apparent that Father Artolivan was struggling to recall the young warrior’s name. “How fares your father, Laird Panlamaris of Palmaristown?”

“Well, Brother…” the man replied and motioned as if he, too, could not remember a name.

“Jurgyen,” the monk explained.

“Indeed, and I do recall seeing you at my father’s court.”

“And this is Father…?”

“Artolivan, yes, that name is known to me,” said Milwellis. “A fine day to be in such company, Father.” He bowed low in respect.

“A fine day?” Father Artolivan replied. “You have many outside who might not agree with your description.”

“The battle was won, and that is no bad thing.”

“Won at great cost.”

“Pollcree?” Brother Pinower asked, and Milwellis snorted.

“It once was,” the warrior replied. He pulled off his helm and shook his great shock of red hair, which bounced thick about his shoulders.

The flippant response brought a sour look to the faces of some of the brothers, Artolivan included, but that only made Milwellis snicker even more. Brother Pinower decided then and there that he didn’t much care for this one.

“I did not know that Palmaristown had joined in the fighting,” said Father Artolivan.

“We threw in with the claims of Laird Delaval long ago.”

“Yes, yes, of course, the brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories so informed us,” Artolivan pressed. “But I did not know that your army had marched.”

“No choice to it,” Milwellis explained. “Laird Ethelbert has procured the allegiance of the many holdings along Felidan Bay and even on the Mantis Arm,” he explained, referring to the long stretch of rocky coastland of easternmost Honce. “They had claimed neutrality, but no more. Ethelbert the dog has raised the stakes in this war.”

“Many of those same seaside holdings have been sailing for Laird Delaval, have they not?” Father Artolivan interrupted with startling forcefulness, the man clearly tired of all this seemingly pointless warfare.

“They would have been wise to hold with their first choice, then,” said Milwellis. “Their march to Pollcree was no more than an act of the deepest desperation by Ethelbert. Laird Delaval has established the center around the Holding of Pryd, commanding a line from that crossroad all the way to the Belt-and-Buckle in the south. Desperate Laird Ethelbert thought to flank that line and strike at Palmaristown, but rest assured that the tactic has failed.”

“I will rest assured when this war is at its end, and not before,” said Father Artolivan.

“We near that day!”

“So we have been hearing for many months. And yet, the wounded and the prisoners come in at greater pace each week.”

“Many wounded today, I fear,” said Milwellis, and he turned to glance back at the gate, where his soldiers were bringing in dozens of injured men.

“They will fill the courtyard and more,” Brother Pinower dared to interject.

“Nay, that is the lot of them,” said Milwellis.

Pinower wore a most curious expression. “Surely there is many times that number! I saw them from the wall.”