The Thief of Virtue Ch. 01

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A Paladin meets a thief, losing more than he bargained for..
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 10/24/2022
Created 05/19/2014
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JD_Blythe
JD_Blythe
16 Followers

Part 1:In which a Paladin meets a thief, and loses more than he bargained for...

The text below is original content which belongs to the author. This work must not be reproduced either in part or in full without the permission of the author.

That said – enjoy! This is my first Literotica submission (as it were), so please let me know what you think! It's a three part story, and all the parts are online.

*****

Trystan saw it ahead of him in the swamp, twenty metres away through the mist - a delicate, purple marsh rose. It looked innocuous enough, but Trystan knew the power held within those rare petals. Wading through the mire, mud sucking at his armoured shins, Trystan headed for the bloom.

He heard a squelch of mud behind him and, before he could turn, a voice saying "mebra bindet". Trystan felt his arms and legs clamp stiffly to his body, as through suddenly bound by invisible ropes. His armour gave a clang as he fell face-first into the swamp, spitting out mud. He kept his eyes on the flower as he struggled to hold his nose out of the water. Straining his ears, he heard footsteps circling around behind him.

A small hand reached down and tugged at the marsh rose. A dark head descended with it, suddenly appearing in Trystan's field of vision; the cheeky, lop-sided grin seemed out of place on the doll-like face. He watched as she tauntingly folded the blossom into a roll of waxed silk. Then the dark-haired woman stood up and Trystan felt a pressure on his shoulder – she was rolling him over onto his back with her booted foot.

"That's so you don't drown," she explained, with a wink, looking down on him.

"You can't just leave me here," he protested, his words slurring futilely as her spell held his muscles taut.

"You're free to get up any time you like," she grinned. She glanced left and right; there was no one else about. "It'll wear off in five minutes or so. Just enough to give me a head start." She tipped her leather hood to him with mock-gallantry, and disappeared altogether from his field of view. He heard her footsteps splash off – shut his eyes for a moment, listening to her retreat, working out her path. She was going north.

Trystan lay flat on his back in the mud for some minutes, angry and frustrated. He took slow breaths, trying to calm himself. He was a Paladin of Arnan. His calling was to balance chaos with order, and to bring justice into the darkness. It seemed impossible that the small, dark haired thief had got around him, but he couldn't let injustice go so easily. Gradually, the feeling returned along his limbs and he was able to hoist himself up. He stood still for a moment, casting his eyes around the swamp. The ankle-deep water covered any prints but, glancing around at the scrubby weeds, he saw a clear disruption heading north. On closer inspection, it then doubled back on itself along a few rocks. She was sneaky, but he could track her. He nodded to himself grimly and set off after her. Trystan's business in Glainmarsh was finished for now, and he'd been heading to Fenacre where some sort of legendary monster was apparently terrorising the town. Well, he would finish this first - the infamous beast would just have to wait.

The marsh was eerie, and he could feel the damp breeze quashing his spirits. He muttered a prayer to Arnan as he walked, more to keep himself cheerful than anything else. He stopped short when he heard a low hum on the chilling, wet wind. Mudlings. Cursed, ugly things – they looked like homunculi, with webbed feet and strange, flat faces. They weren't very strong or very smart, but damn did they swarm. And they ate meat, and they weren't very fussy about what it was. Usually they stuck to birds, or even luckless travellers, but Trystan had cleared out some nests recently searching for local children who had been taken from Glainmarsh. He'd eventually found and rescued the children, and recovered all the bones he could find of the little girl who'd been taken first and hadn't survived their appetites. He shuddered, remembering the Mudlings' greedy, sucking faces, remembering the girl's parents as they wept. His ears pricked up as he heard a high-pitched screech, carrying across the damp air. It could possibly have been a lonely water bird, but then he heard it again. It stopped abruptly. Perhaps something else had found his thief first...

*****

Ellia was not happy. The mist clung to her, the swamp was disgusting and the first piece of luck she'd had all day – wresting the marsh rose from that gigantic oaf of a warrior – was rather clouded by her current predicament. She was trussed up like a chicken, bleeding heavily from a gash in her side as the Mudlings splashed excitedly around her. One of them was clearly very hungry, smelling and pinching her flesh, coming so close to her that she could see every fold of its grey gills. Her first instinct had been to try to talk her way out, but the creatures bubbled away with phlegmy guttering she could barely distinguish as speech, let alone copy. Her second plan had involved screaming for help – there were sometimes merchants brave enough to cross the swamp for a profit, and perhaps one would hear her. So she had screamed. Clearly the Mudlings disapproved of noisy food and had quickly gagged her. Now she felt cold and dizzy, and was covered in mud. This wasn't how she wanted to go out. Not happy at all.

She heard a clanking sound and looked up. That lumbering warrior from earlier, it looked like – his armour was thoroughly daubed in mud now, his face a grimy mess, but the heaviness of his tread and his bulky outline was unmistakeable. He towered above the Mudlings. She watched him raise his sword, slashing through the creatures, brushing them off with an iron-clad fist when they tried to climb him. Most were already fleeing in the face of this furious giant. Those who stayed to fight were swiftly dealt with. When the last Mudling lay still in the brackish water he looked about, poised for a moment. He had a ruthless efficiency in battle, Ellia acknowledged to herself grudgingly; the way he whirled and swung, predicting attacks, almost approached gracefulness.

Trystan pulled out a dirty rag and wiped his sword.

"It's you again," he observed levelly, turning to the bound-up woman. She glared at him, unable to speak with the gag in place, her eyes shining with rage. "You're free to get up any time you like," he added, repeating her words mildly and gesturing out to the marsh. Trystan tried always to be patient, but this woman riled him. Arnan had made her beautiful, and he felt somehow that she should know better than to use her gifts for ill. The people of Glainmarsh had mentioned a lovely looking woman, a thief who had come through before him and abused their kindness, stealing keepsakes and a few petty treasures. Perhaps this was the woman. He spent some time rustling through the boxes and packs of the Mudlings' camp, quite certain that she would run the moment he untied her. He found a few trinkets, mostly shiny baubles and a few rare items; the Mudlings certainly hadn't made them, and he wondered how they had come by them. He also turned up a potion-maker's pouch of healing herbs, which he pocketed. Potion-making was a rare ability amongst humans, and had become rarer still since the Dragonhorde massacres had destroyed the bloodlines. Those with the old blood, though, like the Mudlings and the giants, still practised it regularly. Trystan had the gift, which along with his height and muscular build had been the only legacy his anonymous parents had left him. His apprentice-master had often speculated with him (in private, given the taboo nature of the question) that giant's blood ran in his veins.

Presently it began to rain and he could put it off no longer. He knelt by the woman to untie her. It was then that he realised something was wrong. Her skin was greyish and sweaty, her pulse was fast and weak. Her eyes, which had been glaring at him, were now glassy and vague. Lifting her slightly he realised that the dark brackishness of the water around her was her own blood-loss – she was going into shock. He swore under his breath; his own delay might mean the woman's end.

This wasn't the best place to treat her and he was no real healer, not in any conventional sense, but he knew had to stop the bleeding. Slicing open her leathers (and wondering, not for the first time, why anyone would consider leather as sensible armour in which to leave civilisation), he looked at the dirty wound. He couldn't clean it out properly amongst all this muck but did what he could, looking regretfully as he poured his water bottle over the deep gash. He bound her up with a strip of blanket, swaddling her with the rest and fastening it in place with his own belt. The bleeding seemed to be stopping under the pressure of the binding. He lifted her in his arms and she murmured in protest, which was probably a good sign. Glainmarsh was still closest, he judged. He squinted at his compass through the increasing rain, took his bearings and began the sodden, slippery walk back to the town.

It was full-dark by the time they reached Glainmarsh and the rain had set in to a steady beat. Trystan, exhausted, thirsty and soaked-through, glared at the barred wooden gate as he approached. He knocked heavily.

"Who go-es there?" cracked an adolescent voice, suspiciously. He heard a cough. "Hghrrrmmmmm... I mean, who goes there?" tried the voice again, this time remaining baritone. Trystan recognized the speaker.

"Lees? Leesbert! It's Trystan. Let me in. I have wounded." A curious head with lank, red hair peered from a watchtower. He heard whispers of "it's Sir Trystan..." above him, and feet upon wooden steps. Finally, the gate creaked open a fraction and Trystan took one step through.

A sword was poised at eye-height, shaking slightly, but he had been expecting that. He dodged sideways, ducked and swerved, drawing his own weapon as he moved. He let his blade arc to meet the outstretched sword in front of him, his eyes locking with its wielder's. The bound woman was still clutched beneath his other arm.

"Well remembered, Lees," Trystan said with a sudden smile. "Keep your stance lower, though."

"Be vigilant, Sir Trystan! That's what you told us!" squawked Leesbert enthusiastically, nudging his buddy.

"Very good," nodded Trystan, distractedly. "I found her in the swamp. She's injured. Badly." He gestured to the woman in his arms.

"Yes, Sir Trystan – let me help you with her." The spotty teenager sheathed his sword, and reached out to help the knight. His demeanour changed instantly when the blanket fell from her face.

"The thief! Throw her back in the marsh!" he shouted indignantly.

Other townspeople had finally been roused by the noise, and were coming out wearily to investigate. Leesbert, tripping over his words, began to announce that "Sir Trystan had caught the thief". There were angry whispers and calls for 'people's justice'; Trystan didn't much fancy the thief's chances of getting a fair trial unless he took her part. 'People's justice' usually translated, in his experience, as stoning.

"Alright, that's enough," Trystan said to them firmly. "I'll take her to the Old Smithy. She's injured. She needs help now, whatever happens after." He recognised the face of the Mayor's secretary in the crowd. "Please tell the Mayor I'll come see him on the morrow regarding justice for her," he said firmly, deliberately leaving his last sentence ambiguous. Justice was in the eyes of the beholder. No one would contradict him tonight at least, he thought, as he turned his back on them and trudged through the darkness. Hopefully the Mayor, at least, could be persuaded to see reason.

The Old Smithy looked very different since the first time he had come to Glainmarsh. It'd been abandoned back then, and haunted. Now the Women's Council had refurbished the house, and even added a wooden plaque – 'Sir Trystan's Retreat'. They had built a lean-to stable for his horse, which the town children love to spoil with apples and carrots. The town was trying to claim him as their own. Stepping inside, he carried the woman straight upstairs to the bedroom, lying her down on the bare paillasse. She still looked feverish, but her pulse had normalised now.

Trystan sighed, dog-tired; there was still work to be done. He pulled off his iron gauntlets and carefully unbuckled and unwrapped the swaddled woman. The tightness of the swaddling had put pressure on the wound, as well as keeping her warm, but as he pulled the woollen blanket away fresh blood began to ooze down her side once more. The gash was ragged and deep and, knowing the filthiness of the Mudlings, probably already infected. Maybe in a city with accomplished healers she would stand a chance - out here, it wasn't looking hopeful for her. Trystan remembered the herb packet he had taken from the Mudlings – pulling it from his pack, he unfolded it, searching through the dried leaves. Within an oiled silk roll he found the marsh rose - the Mudlings must have found it on her. Maybe the thief would get the use of it after all, he mused sardonically. Retying her bandage and covering her with a dry blanket, he left her in the darkness and hurried downstairs to prepare the necessary potion.

*****

Ellia awoke with a start to the sound of heavy boots on wood. Excruciating pain in her side and chest made her wince as she squinted into the darkness around her. It was shivering cold here, and every inch of her body ached brutally, but this wasn't the marsh. There had been walking, and voices, and the clash of metal. As the footsteps arrived it became lighter, and she could understand that she was in a sparsely furnished bedroom.

"Where have you taken me? Who are you?" Ellia demanded of the unseen figure. Her voice sounded weak and croaky, which made her feel even more vulnerable. That made her angry.

"You're back in Glainmarsh," said Trystan softly, trying to keep her calm. "You're safe," he added, when he saw her panic at the town's name. "I won't let anyone hurt you." He sank down into the chair beside the bed, letting out a sigh of exhaustion as he finally rested his feet. He was still wearing parts of his armour, and periodically the dry, crusted mud fell in lumps to the floor.

"You from the swamp? It was you with the Mudlings..." she trailed off. "I can't stay here. They... don't like me here," she protested, weakly.

"I'll keep you safe," he repeated. "Here, drink this," Trystan changed the subject, handing her an egg-cup of unctuous, dark liquid.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

"It'll make you better," Trystan said awkwardly, unpractised at deceit. Even in her addled state, Ellia saw through him.

"It's a potion, isn't it? You must be loaded-rich to be able to afford one of these."

"Come on, drink up," he encouraged.

He slid his hands beneath her back, and gradually sat her up enough to drink, supporting her with a straw-filled pillow. She sipped slowly at the liquid - he thought that she would protest, but she was quiet. Soon the little cup was empty, and she turned it over in her hands, thinking. Trystan remained silent, waiting beside her for what was to come and trying not to fall asleep.

Ellia had been musing on what exactly this man expected of her, and how she was going to escape Glainmarsh yet again. Then pain, so much pain, made her gasp, and she grabbed the blanket reflexively with both hands. Poison? Her insides were boiling. Her side burned. She tried to scream, but somehow she didn't have the air. There was a war going on inside her. As this happened, she felt Trystan's large hands holding her down, heard him whispering "it's OK, you'll be fine, it's just for a moment". His worry-lined brow was the last thing she saw before she sank into the cool blackness.

*****

It was dim in the room when she woke again. Watery light beamed from the window, where the shutter failed to close properly – daylight then, though she couldn't guess what time. Opening her ears, she heard the patter of persistent rain. She lay back, her muscles still stiff and sore. The gripping pain inside her was gone, although there was still a throbbing ache in her side. Now that she was better, she would have to figure out how to leave Glainmarsh with her head attached. She'd lifted a couple of valuable-looking items whilst she was here before. She'd thought she had more time but they'd caught on quick, for country folk, and clapped her in the cells. The locks were pitiful and she'd slipped out in the night. But that had meant going into the marsh, where she'd wandered around for days lost. She'd thought she had a stroke of luck when she met that big warrior – not just the marsh rose she'd 'found', which would make a tidy profit with perfumeries on the market, but she'd intended to double back and follow him out. Neat and tidy. She hadn't counted on those disgusting Mudlings, she thought, shuddering. She heard footsteps again, coming up the stairs, and feigned sleep.

"How are you doing this morning?" he asked cheerfully. Ellia opened her eyes, as if just waking. He seemed different without his armour; with peasant clothes over his muscular form and those wide, blue eyes he looked almost like a simple and rather astonished farm-hand. Still, there were signs of the warrior on him - his arms were knitted with scars, and he had a long slash down one stubbled, brown cheek. A tray of food looked strangely domestic in his powerful hands.

"Breakfast?" he asked, smiling cheerfully and placing the tray on the chair beside the bed. She sat up gingerly, wincing – looking down she saw that her entire torso was bandaged.

"You'll still be healing for a day or two," he explained, helping her prop herself upright. She enjoyed the warmth of his hands against her skin, and he smelled deliciously of wood-smoke and earth. She berated herself instantly. This was no time to get soft.

"You won't have to face the town until then," he continued matter-of-factly, laying the tray on her lap. "And as long as they get back their possessions they won't be after your blood. I spoke to the Mayor this morning." He sat down in the chair and reached to take a bowl; there was porridge, jam and tea, in rough, mismatched crockery. "I'm Trystan, by the way," he added as an afterthought, between mouthfuls.

Ellia stared at him, but couldn't take a reading. She thought she had caught some moment of attraction seconds ago; now he seemed cheerful and earnest, but utterly closed off to her. She wondered what he was hiding.

"Is this your house?" she asked after a while, looking round. The place was devoid of uniformity – every piece of furniture had a different style, every blanket and bowl was a different colour. The spoons they ate with – hers was tiny, like a teaspoon, and Trystan's was a serving spoon, though it looked moderate in his large hands.

"I suppose so," said Tristan vaguely, looking around. "Not for long, perhaps."

She looked at him quizzically

"The town gave it to me..." he shrugged.

"They gave you a house?"

"S'a long story."

"Tell me anyway," she insisted.

Trystan sighed, and put down his spoon. "Well, it was haunted. As far as I can tell the previous occupant - that was a hundred years ago or something - was a smith. Just a normal smith in the beginning, only he started binding souls to his pieces to give them an edge. Apparently everything seemed fine, but when the pieces were gradually destroyed the souls broke free. Of course, they came back here - wanted revenge on the smith, only he was dead too, by then. So they just started tearing up the town." Ellia looked around, suddenly fearful. Angry ghosts were bad news, she'd learned that her first time crypt-looting. Trystan chuckled.

"It's OK," he assured her. "I appeased them – they're at peace now," he shrugged at her casually as though talking of the weather, whilst Ellia gawked at him. "Knights in my order aren't supposed to own property, though, so I don't know what I'll do with the house. Only it seemed a bit rude to refuse a gift. Maybe I'll, I don't know, turn it into a hospital or something..." he tailed off, looking around him.

JD_Blythe
JD_Blythe
16 Followers