Lady Sting

Yet her neckline bothered her. Her trimming had been careful, but the garment was designed with a cowl and now looked awkward. She cast her eye about the armory for something suitable.

"What are those?" She pointed to an assortment of leather cylinders hanging near the back corner.

"You mean, the dog training collars?" Garrick frowned. He took a few from the wall.

Regeneria selected a particularly wide collar and placed it around her neck, tucking the ragged edges of the blouse beneath. A pleasant, acrid scent of leather warmed her nose as she tried the fit. It would do. In fact, the high collar made her seem even more imposing. It was a singularly odd, but oddly satisfying outfit she now wore. She was reminded both of a Spartan and a geisha.

Garrick returned with a francisca. It was utilitarian, but well balanced. The metal haft had a wrapped leather grip. The axe blade was narrow and long, and tightly coupled to the haft. Two nasty spikes formed an L at the back of the blade and the tip.

Regeneria weighed the blade, stepped up to the gallery, and snapped the axe overhand. It flew through the air and cleaved into the target. She walked down the gallery and wrenched it out of the oak.

"I'll need shoes," she said, "for appearances sake."

* * *

When she approached the Great Hall this time, Regeneria was more composed. This was why she had come, and it had gone rather well considering the contingencies. She no longer cared about seeing her father's body. It was obvious that he was dead.

As she entered, the reaction was audible. Allies and detractors alike were unsure what to make of her dress. Was this a mockery? Had she become deranged? Whispers spread about the hall.

Regeneria climbed the dais and stood at the edge of the platform to look over the crowd. The net impression dazed her. The faces were mostly familiar, but distorted from her memories by scale and time. Everyone had grown and changed, just perceptibly, setting everything she knew to zero.

It was notable that she did not take the throne, but merely stood and watched. She then lifted her arm to conjure silence.

"When last I was with you, I sat at that table and learned what path we Franks would take under my father's rule. I was but eleven, two years from adulthood, yet my father wished me to wed Prince Von Bruen to ensure political ties."

Involuntary ire crept from the lips of the crowd. Regeneria latched upon it.

"Speak, Argonulf, why your disdain?"

"Highness, your flight left us in a bad way. The Von Bruens withdrew all support and the brigands have beset us ever since."

"You would rather I had wed, then, Argonulf?" He had the sense to stay silent. "Was it I who threatened our people? What of the Von Bruens? Have they become the High Kings of Bohemia? Shall I go to them now with vows upon my lips?"

Many in the crowd looked uncomfortable. By default, Argonulf spoke again."

"Nein, Highness, they too are in disarray."

She thundered. "They were in disarray then! The aristocracy ever grows. They gain our lands and our power and care not who sits on the throne. Are we so diminished that such pallid alliance compels the Crown Princess? Is our will that malleable?"

Regeneria stepped across the dais to the throne. She sat upon it, glaring at the throng with her eyes aglitter.

"War has come upon us. I did not bring it, but I am responsible. For it was the fault of this throne! Through weakness and bartering we have become targets of lesser kings and playthings of the aristocracy. That shall end now."

Garrick stepped forward, great weight on his mind. She bade him to speak.

"Highness, I welcome you as my sovereign. Yet they will never accept you as a candidate for High Queen. You will paint a broader target upon our backs."

"Nein, Quartermaster, they will not accept me as High Sovereign. But they will accept Monrovius."

The murmur from the crowd could not be contained. It was some moments before order returned. Garrick spoke again.

"Highness, you take the throne only to abdicate it three years hence?"

"I take the throne, yes, with intent to yield it. But in the interim, I shall polish this crown so that it shall gleam upon the brow of High King Monrovius!"

This was too much and a darkness crept across the hall. Florid men clenched their fists and made to rise. It was then that Robeart stepped forward.

"Captain Robeart."

"Highness. Your path has but three outcomes. You will pull us into a stalemate war when we are already besieged. You will die and tarnish us further through your fall. Or you shall triumph."

"Your logic is unparalleled, Captain." She spoke with irony but knew he was speaking down for the sake of others in the hall.

"Highness, you claim the throne and that is your right, as everyone in this hall respects. But now you ask us to accept you as the champion of the people under the code of war. You are but eighteen, and untrained, and untested on the field of war."

Many in the throng were nodding at Robeart's words. If this annoyed her, such wound was hidden by the smile that tugged at her lips. She anticipated his next words.

"Highness, I decry you unfit for the Throne of War."

Guards stepped towards Robeart but she stayed them. "By what right can you lay claim against my royal blood, Captain?"

"Highness, I am Robeart, a Boii and Baron of Peak Arragone."

It was then that Regeneria connected with the memory of his name. The Boii had integrated throughout Bohemia, goaded by famine. Some families had retained their royal heritage and been granted minor swaths of lands as tokens of their acceptance of Bohemian rule. Robeart had come to the manor a few years before Regeneria had fled it. He had risen quickly, then.

"You have insulted the crown, Captain."

"Nein, Highness, I uphold it."

"What is your claim, then?"

Robeart thought for a moment. "I claim treason by way of ambivalent succession."

"You believe my father is still alive?"

"Indeed not. Yet you have not confirmed it for yourself."

"Very well. I recognize this claim, to be settled by judicial duel to submission. If I submit I forsake my claim to the Throne of War. If Baron Von Peak Arragone submits, then the Royal Guard accepts me as the champion of the people."

The silence of the hall was absolute. The pair turned as one and headed for the judicial grounds.

* * * Their pace was measured, but others -- guards, servants, and the people -- scurried ahead. A loud drum began to thud, unnecessarily. Between the assassination of the king, the attempt on Monrovius, Regeneria's claim to the throne, and the capture of the assassin, the manor was already thoroughly roused. Anger permeated the air, tinged with the stench of fear and uncertainty.

By the time Regeneria and Robeart reached the judicial grounds, the throng had formed a wide circle around the arena. As she suspected, the judicial grounds had seen little use of late. They were trimmed, as were all of the manor grounds, but clumps of thistle and thorn peppered the rough sea of grass and dirt.

Robeart stepped to the edge of the arena and began to remove all metal accouterments from his gear. He shucked off one boot and another, then removed a dagger held by straps to his calf. As the pile of weapons and sundry grew, one of his men came forward with a wicked-looking francisca. Though blacked by a patina of sweat and age, the axe boasted a bright edge along its clean, deadly swell.

A judge came forth and beckoned Robeart into the ring. They spoke perfunctorily. The judge called out to the crowd. "The accuser Baron von Peak Arragone claims treason against the Queen Regnant, Regeneria von Rupii Ilse. This claim has no witness and shall be settled by traditional combat unto submission." He threw a rumpled hat and a stick into the arena. "Now shall the accused step forth. Regeneria von Rupii Ilse!"

The ring of the crowd parted into a C, forming an isle for Regeneria. She did not move but stared coolly around her. Her singular outfit which had raised such an outcry in the hall -- rough hewn in haste from fine fencing leather, a coarse dog collar, and bracers -- did not seem so strange now. In fact, she struck them all as imposing. Again the judge called her name. Regeneria scanned the ground once more then fixed Robeart in a dead gray stare. All coyness and irony had fled her countenance. Before the judge could call a third time, she stepped forward. "I accept this claim." She hardly paused as she kicked off her shoes and let the axe handle slip down into her grip. The combatants faced off over the hat and stick laying in the grass. Each touched the tokens with the blades of their franciscas. And then it began.

No sooner had the stick quivered from the touch of her blade when Regeneria sprang forward. Her feet barely glanced the earth before she was aloft again, swinging her axe through the space where Robeart had just been. Her onslaught stunned the crowd with its deft ferocity. Yet Robeart was ever one step ahead, dodging and parrying with minimal movements. Regeneria found that he was leading her through a progression of angles, testing the variations of her attack.

Then the briefest shift of stance and he was on her. His axe whirled and bit the air, attacking with precision. Regeneria noted that he always pulled back when she had to rely on her left hand for the parry, but otherwise his blows were crushing and cruel. The jarring crack of their blades rang through her bones.

Regeneria had had enough. The day was already overlong and midday had barely passed. She ceased their dance and went for Robeart in earnest. Regeneria had studied the terrain while the judge had droned on. She forced the Captain of the Guard around and then gave way, stepping backward directly into a thicket of ground thorns. Regeneria had spent seven years prowling the woods in bare feet, toughening them for just this reason. She relented ever so briefly, demanding Robeart to press the attack. Just as his brow creased in suspicion, his foot scraped into the ground thorns and his eyes twitched in pain. She'd been expecting this moment and her axe whistled forth, reflexively going for the kill. It was all she could do to arrest its descent as Regeneria awkwardly turned her blade into the flesh of his shoulder. As Robeart buckled in pain, the queen could not suppress her instinct and drove an aggressive sweep of her heel under his legs, lifting Robeart off his feet. He crashed into the ground and lay still.

* * *

The ladies-in-waiting and the doctor had just left the Queen's chambers. Robeart cracked open his eyes to check his surroundings and found Regeneria glittering intently at him. He sat up and removed the bandages with some irritation. He knew better than to speak out of turn, for Regeneria was now truly his queen.

"Let's be blunt. I know I'd have lost, if not for you allowing me to defend to my right."

"And I know that you were hampered not by your arm, but by the awkwardness of staying your hand. Had our duel been to the death and not submission, I would have lost my life."

She was impressed by his accurate assessment but did not show it.

"So you have killed before, Highness." It wasn't really a question, for he already knew. Her movements had not been forged by training, but by necessity. She was unused to pulling her blows, and unused to the drawn out style of ritual combat. She was not, however, unused to carnage.

"Many times."

"Then why am I here? You have proven your valor to the people and I am ready to accept my fate."

"What fate is that?"

"I have challenged you and lost. Am I not to be exiled?"

"Our people must be truly twisted about if they would expend good men for so poor a reason. You are the Captain of the Royal Guard and shall retain that title."

He was beginning to understand why he was still here.

"You could have beaten me and I need to know how. I have never been formally trained, particularly not in this mockery. I have no thirst for war, but at least such combat is honest. If I am to represent our people in duel, I need to be ready."

"So you want me to train you, then, Highness; that is straightforward. I will begin preparations immediately. But it will require much effort and sacrifice from you. To train you best I must know what will motivate you."

If it were possible, the glittering in her eyes had intensified. Robeart felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had trained many men and some women; though the bulk of training required only broad strokes, finely tuning another's style required keen manipulation. Some people could not bear it for long.

"Did you take pleasure in searching the assassin this morning? Did you enjoy the feel of her breasts beneath your hands?"

No doubt remained. Robeart's trap was plainly laid. "She is attractive. But at the time my only thought was to clear her weapons before she woke up."

"Are you married, Robeart? Do you have children?" She edged closer and her scent drifted towards him.

"No. Highness. A life such as mine leaves no room."

"You're a particularly clinical man." She was testing him; he had to decide whether to cave or maintain, and wasn't sure which she wanted.

"You want to know what motivates me, Captain? Leaving behind my full time bodyguards and penalty of death upon any who besmirched my honor, I fled into the wild. There, no cloak of law protected me. I had to exact such penalty myself. And did, numerous times."

She was moving ever closer to him, and the scent he'd caught earlier was now trickling throughout the room.

"In the wild, sex was something I was constantly fighting off. And now that I am a wartime Queen, it is something I cannot afford to have. So where does that leave me?"

His nostril flared but he gave no other sign.

"I judge you a man who can separate pleasure from love, and one with a broad definition of duty. Can you separate the two?"

"Yes. Can you?"

"I do not know."

He sighed, for this greatly complicated matters. Yet sex was as potent a reward as any he might come up with, as audacious as it seemed on the surface.

"Very well, Highness. When you meet your training goals, you shall have such reward, but only then."

Her breath caught and her face flushed. She was delirious with repressed desire. "I bested you today."

"Indeed, you did." He was up in a flash, grabbed her good wrist, and spun her around to pin her against the wall. She struck an elbow at his face but he ducked under it and checked her body hard with his, knocking the wind out of her. He reached under her skirt and tugged down the loose linen panties. She struggled so he kept her hands pinned at her back. His thumb traced her navel, then her abdomen, inching her pants past the peak of her bottom. Robeart lifted his foot between her knees and stepped down hard, mashing her dampened panties into the floor.

The heat of her body was intense on the front of his thighs. He curled a finger between her legs, expecting to find some form of resistance there. But his finger was in air, and then it was inside her, and he could hardly tell where she began but for the wet sensation and the heat around his fingertip.

He then thrust forth his finger in earnest and twirled it around inside her. Regeneria gasped sharply. He kept his foot on her panties and pushed her to the side so she was forced to step out of them. She used the opportunity to kick him hard in the side, but he turned her around and bent her waist over the hospital bed. He flicked up her rear skirt, which flopped into her back with a faint leathery slap and stayed put, leaving her ass and thighs obscenely bare. He pressed her into the mattress and sank to his knees, marveling at how pink she was before moving in to taste her. He probed his tongue into her folds and rudely licked around.

Regeneria stopped struggling then, and soon Robeart was thrusting inside of her. She copulated ferally, aware only of the blood rushing in her ears as she uttered incoherent cries of lust.

* * *