Queen Tarna's Regalia

"Half-blood elfspawn," the sorcerer spat, "I am not afraid of you. I am a disciple of the Sable Tower." He waved a blazing hand at his robes. "Tell me before you die, have you ever faced a true sorcerer in a battle of magicks?"

Aranthir sneered back at him. "I have faced archmages who can command the Breath of Ages. Can you? No, I thought not. Your Sable Tower is a pale imitation of the Colleges of Ildranon, themselves the lesser children of Great Tirannion's conclaves. You think yourself a dragon among sheep, but you are more a garden snake than a true wyrm. Come now, enough banter. Let us settle the matter between us in the manner of old practitioners of the dread art."

"I have never heard such sweet words in my life," the sorcerer hissed. He threw out his hand and a bolt of black flame streaked forth, aiming straight for Aranthir's heart. But Aranthir was no novice in the ways of battle magic. Faster than he could think, he instinctively wrapped his sword in a warding spell and swung it at the bolt of flame. The ensorcelled blade sundered the eldritch bolt and spewed its sorcerous energies harmlessly across the hall. Tendrils of the broken spell curled around and were drunk up by the sword's runes, turning them black with energy.

Aranthir felt the spice flowing hot in his veins. His little hairs stood on end and his skin raised goosebumps with excitement. The sorcerer cast another bolt at him and again he clove it in twain with his sword. Aranthir darted forward, wrapping himself in a protective bubble of magical energy. The sorcerer snarled and unleashed a vermillion torrent of arcane energy. Aranthir knew the spell well, but he also knew that his shield would protect him from it. An elven mage would have known better than to waste the Red Wave against Keladrin's Globe.

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed in frustration.

"As I told you," Aranthir taunted, "All your Tower's magics are nothing against the Colleges of Ildranon."

With a snarl, the sorcerer conjured a blazing spear and thrust it forth. It pierced Aranthir's Globe, but he twisted his lithe body aside. He felt the spear's heat against his body, but avoided any serious harm. In response, he lunged forward with the ensorcelled blade, cutting through the sorcerer's shield, but narrowly missing a killing stroke.

The sorcerer cried out in one of the old tongues and vanished in a flash. Aranthir wheeled around to face behind him. The sorcerer emerged from a tear in the air and conjured once more. He flung his hand out as if casting seeds in a furrow and from them sprang a spread of flashing jade knives. Aranthir dove to the side as they cut the air above him, slashing and clashing against the wrought iron railing behind him before the skipped off the stone walls of the house.

Aranthir scrambled to his feet again and conjured his own sorcerous attack. A bolt of blazing light sprang from his hand and streaked toward the sable sorcerer. The sorcerer's eyes widened, but he conjured hastily and a disk of deep black, darker than the darkest night, appeared before the bolt. The darkness drank the light, growing infinitesimally less dark as it did, but Aranthir's spell was defeated all the same.

With an arrogant smirk on his face, the sorcerer conjured a fresh barrage of knives. Aranthir contorted himself around them, but felt two strike off his armor all the same. Another clipped his exposed cheek, drawing a bit of blood. Aranthir ignored it. He was familiar enough with pain.

Behind the sorcerer's back, Lutharis crept forward from the side hall, messer at the ready. Like a hungry wolf, the veteran mercenary was moving to attack a distracted foe. Usually, Aranthir would have applauded his instincts, but the sorcerer was too capable a foe.

"Stay back!" Aranthir shouted. The sorcerer wheeled on Lutharis, who ducked back around the corner in fright. No sooner had he done so than the sorcerer unleashed a fresh barrage of jade knives. Five of them stuck, quivering, in the wall where Lutharis had stood the briefest of moments before.

"Not so cocky now, are you, halfblood?" the sorcerer sneered. "Your magics are nothing!"

He strode forward, flinging another spray of knives at Aranthir, who batted aside those he could not dodge. Aranthir replied in kind with a spray of brightly colored, dancing sparks that sizzled and popped, searing the eyes with blotches of color. The sorcerer easily dispelled them, but their true purpose was to cover Aranthir's movement.

He was willing to admit he had underestimated the mage. Despite the sorcerer's unfamiliarity with elven magics, he was in command of a wide array of magicks as it was. The reputation of the Sable Tower would not be tarnished today. But now Aranthir was out of view and had time to prepare.

Imbibing all of his spice reserve, he sheathed himself in a spell of Ironskin, then set his sword ablaze with ice-cold flame. Now the spice burned hot within him, every step reminding him of the price of power. His vision sharpened, his mind raced, and his steps came faster and faster.

The spice dreams will come hard and fast tonight, he told himself grimly, and replacing all of this will cost me an arm and a leg, but I've just robbed the prince and will be rewarded by the princess, I can afford it. Now prepared, he cast a curtain of deep fog around the corner to cover his approach. He flew around the corner in a rush, his blade burning blue, white in front of him.

The sorcerer stood in the center of the upper foyer, wreathed in leaping flames. He started when he saw Aranthir closing in, his skin shining like iron and sword blazing. He hurled a hastily conjured fireball, but Aranthir slashed it apart with his blade. The sorcerer followed with another barrage of jade knives, which clanged harmlessly off his skin. Aranthir closed to striking range and plunged his sword into the shield of flames.

The icy flame on his blade went out as it passed through the shield, but it had served its purpose. The shield flickered and failed; the blade pierced the sorcerer's chest. His eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open in shock. Aranthir ran the blade through him up to its hilt. The sword's runes burned with bright fire. The sorcerer slumped to his knees, his hands twitching uselessly as he tried to conjure a final spell. His wide eyes met Aranthir's steely gaze.

"Not so cocky now, are you, Sable sorcerer?" Aranthir whispered. He planted a hand on the sorcerer's shoulder and tore the blade out. A ling of blood sprayed across him and the floor, and the sorcerer slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Aranthir looked past the sorcerer's corpse and stood up straight. The prince's mistress stood on the staircase's landing in shock, her mouth hanging open wide. Aranthir locked eyes with her, and she instantly realized her predicament. Before she could run, he drew his pistol in a flash and fixed her in its sights.

"Don't move, my lady," he snapped. The woman froze, eyes wide in terror. His pistol trained on her, Aranthir hurried down the steps and took her by the arm. He pressed the pistol's muzzle into her neck all while she was too terrified to move. From the staircase landing, he saw a cohort of guardsmen approaching unsurely. He looked terrifying, he knew, with his skin turned to iron and spattered with blood.

"Call them off," Aranthir commanded. The woman made no move. The guards' grim faces grew close, blades drawn as armored feet rang out on the floor. Aranthir jerked her arm harshly.

"Call them off or I'll shoot!"

Behind the guards appeared the man from the sitting room who bore the heavy signet ring.

"Marelka!" he cried in shock. "Unhand her, brigand!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that for fear of your men," Aranthir replied. "Lay down your arms and we'll be on our way."

The man fumed and sputtered. Aranthir pressed the pistol against Marelka's neck, hard. She cried out in pain and fear.

"Please, Daenath! Do as he says!" she screamed. Aranthir felt a pang of regret as he could feel her heart beating fast in her chest. But he held her tighter to him. The man, Daenath, clenched his fists at his side, but at last relented.

"Lay down your arms, men." The guards exchanged angry and frustrated looks, but did as commanded.

"Well done," Aranthir mocked. "Now clear the way. My friend and I will be leaving, and as long as you let us pass, your lady will be unharmed."

"I've a hundred men around the house," Daenath growled. "You'll never make it to the street."

"I hope you're ready to explain to His Highness Janndar why his dear mistress is painted on the walls of his house," Aranthir replied coldly. "Anyone gets close, she dies. Then we'll see how many more of you I can cut down before you get me."

Daenath stared hatred at him, but made no move.

"Do we have an agreement?" Aranthir asked, and the man slowly nodded.

"Very well. Come along, friend," Aranthir called upstairs. "We'll be going now."

Lutharis peered over the railing, Krulles' pistol in hand. He met Aranthir's eyes and nodded. Cautiously but quickly, he descended the stairs to join him behind Marelka.

At his belt, Aranthir saw Krulles' coin purse, still bulging with Princess Bhroka's advance payment. Lutharis saw him looking and gave a slight shrug of apology. At least he remembered the royal sword, Aranthir thought, looking at Krulles' piece of the regalia stowed in the man's pack. They advanced down the hall slowly, stepping over the prone and lifeless body of the man Krulles had thrown over. Lutharis kept his pistol trained on Marelka's neck, though Aranthir was unsure if he had managed to reload it in time.

It mattered little, for the others believed it a loaded weapon. They passed between the disarmed guards, who stared hatred and fury at them from all sides. Marelka trembled in Aranthir's grip but kept moving with him and soon enough they passed through the house's grand foyer and into the courtyard in front of the house.

Aranthir stopped at the door and looked around. Daenath had exaggerated when he boasted of having a hundred men outside, but not by much. Perhaps sixty men, armed and armored, stood by five empty carriages.

"I'll tell you what I told the men inside," Aranthir called to them. "The lady lives as long as I have free passage. Rescue her at her own peril."

None of them made a move against him, so Aranthir pushed Marelka ahead and began to cross the courtyard. As inside, the men closed in around them threateningly, but did nothing to attack. Aranthir stared hard at them, his finger on the pistol's trigger and one hand around the woman's neck as he guided her forward.

They passed through the gate even as the soldiers closed in. The guards on the outside of the gate stood silently watching as they exited the house's grounds. Backing away slowly, Aranthir and Lutharis led the captive Marelka across the street to an intersection and stopped. The soldiers gathered at the gate, prepared to follow.

"Now what?" Lutharis whispered.

"Indeed," Marelka demanded, her voice hard but edged by barely contained fear. "Now what are you to do, brigand? Are we to walk across the city with my soldiers at our backs?"

Aranthir waved his hand, and conjured a thick black fog that seeped into the street from all sides. The soldiers shouted and he heard the clattering of armored boots on cobblestones, but he was already off. With Marelka in tow behind him, he and Lutharis took off running down the street. They darted into the first alleyway and ducked around another bend out of sight. Aranthir took the opportunity to cast a glamor over them, changing their appearance to that of grey-robed priests of Askallon.

All around them, they could hear the shouts and stomps of soldiers on the hunt. Aranthir led them away as best he could, picking their way across the city to the house where Princess Bhroka awaited. Twice they were nearly spotted by searching soldiers, but Aranthir held them steady until the searchers passed. It was still dark when they arrived around the house and knocked on the side door.

The peephole slid open with a metallic clang and the same pair of suspicious eyes looked out. Aranthir raised the hilt of the ceremonial sword and the eyes nodded. Aranthir found himself grateful that his ironskin had faded, though the spice kept his pulse and head pounding all the same. The peephole slammed shut again and he heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open, and he and Lutharis pushed into the hall with Marelka in tow.

They marched down the darkened hallway into the sitting room and forcefully sat Marelka down on a couch. The prince's mistress sat straight as an arrow, her jaw clenched and fists balled. After a moment, the far door swung open and Retta entered. He smiled at the ceremonial sword in Aranthir's hands but stopped short when he saw the prince's mistress.

"Marelka?" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"Her ladyship was kind enough to shield our escape from her lover's mansion," Aranthir answered. Marelka turned a sneer toward Retta.

"Your brigands abducted me, you little worm. But fear not, my father will come for me, and for your head."

"I think not," Bhroka declared as she swept into the room with her handmaid trailing close behind. "With you in my care, your father will dare not move. In fact, I might have him turn the whole palace over to me. Or else he'll get his favorite daughter back in pieces."

Marelka's face fell. She caught herself quickly and straightened her posture.

"Say what you want. I will see the end of you in time."

"Retta, find her a secure place to wait out the coming events."

With a slight bow, he grabbed Marelka by the arm and pulled her from the room. The princess turned her attention to Aranthir.

"Well done. You have exceeded my expectations. With the marshal's daughter in my grasp, my position is greatly improved. You will soon enjoy the favor of a queen." She tilted her head quizzically. "Did I not send three of you?"

"You did," Aranthir replied. "It was not so easy a job."

"A shame," the princess replied airily. "Dead, or captured?"

"Dead," replied Lutharis with a scowl. "Slain by a sorcerer."

"I see. And the sorcerer?"

"Dead," Aranthir answered. "Slain by me."

"Well done again," Bhroka replied. She held out her hands. "My things, please. Then you will have your payment."

Aranthir handed her the sword as Lutharis unstuffed his pack to retrieve the mantle. The princess received the sword with an excited giggle. She held it in her hand a moment, admiring the jewels in the hilt and the old runes engraved in its fuller. Her brown eyes glittered in the candlelight, shining as brightly as the gems on her sword and breast. At last, the princess tore her eyes away from the sword as Lutharis handed over the scepter and mantle. The sword was passed to her handmaid and the princess took the rest of the regalia.

She held them no less reverently before draping the mantle about her shoulders. Leaysa passed the sword back to her and Bhroka posed with them triumphantly, looking no different than any of the kings or queens featured on tapestries in this house. She turned to Aranthir, her face an expression of giddy delight.

"The priests are mine to command! What do you say? Do I look the part of a queen?" she asked.

"Aye, Highness. You do."

Bhroka smiled with amusement. Her eyes looked him up and down before passing a look over Lutharis as well.

"Hmph. Your pay is there," she waved to a strongbox by the door. "You have earned it and you have my thanks."

Lutharis went straight to the strongbox and began counting coins. Bhroka dropped herself onto the couch and sat back with her legs crossed, idly playing with the fringe of her mantle as she watched. Leaysa arched a curious eyebrow at her mistress. Aranthir waited while the coins were counted, thinking also of those he had stolen from the hidden stash in Prince Janndar's bedroom.

"It's all in order," Lutharis announced after a moment. Aranthir allowed himself a slight smile. Between their pay, their thieving, and Krulles' unfortunate death, the two of them were making out very well from this quick job.

"Of course it is," the princess said with an easy smile. "I told you as much."

"I have dealt with kings and queens before," replied Aranthir, "they do not always treat with their lessers in good faith."

Bhroka's eyes danced with amusement. "Is Petarr as much a knave as they say?" she asked, plucking idly at her newly recovered mantle.

"That depends on what they say," Aranthir answered. The princess smiled again.

"You amuse me, half-elf, so I will ignore your evasiveness. You are most fortunate, for I am in a good mood tonight. It is as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders." She wrapped the mantle around herself tighter and idly tapped her chin with the scepter. "I am in the mood for celebration. What do you say?"

Aranthir sighed. "I would say that this is not yet over, and that the safest place for me will soon be out of town."

"Tsk, tsk," the princess replied. "Do you not know it is impolite to decline a royal invitation? Leaysa, bring in the good wine. Let us toast our saviors."

"As you command, Highness." The handmaiden turned and left the room.

"Sit and drink with me," the princess commanded. Aranthir exchanged looks with Lutharis, who sighed. Wordlessly, they set their packs down and obeyed. Leaysa returned with four crystal goblets and a carafe of dark red wine. She closed the door behind her and set the drinks down on the table. Aranthir kept his eyes on the drinks. The proclivities of the nobility for poisoning sat heavy in his mind.

When Leaysa had finished filling the drinks, the princess sat up and snatched a goblet.

"To success, and a new queen!" she cried before downing the dark red wine in a single gulp. "More!"

Leaysa obeyed and filled the goblet again. "Drink!" Bhroka commanded, and Aranthir exchanged another look with Lutharis. Sighing to themselves, they picked up their goblets and joined in. The wine was strong and bitter, it mixed fiercely with the spice Aranthir had taken. He found himself wincing as it went down. But the princess was still not sated, draining her second glass as fast as the first. She set her glass down forcefully enough that Aranthir feared it would shatter and then clapped her hands together.

"How do you men, mercenaries, celebrate a job well done?" she demanded. "Wine and whores, yes? Don't be shy, I've heard the stories."

"Aye," Lutharis agreed. "Wine and whores."

"We are much the same," the princess said in a silky-smooth voice as she leaned in closer. "After a night like this, I need a man. Perhaps two. What do you say?"

Aranthir breathed deep. She had downed the wine without them, she had paid in advance and delivered in full, was she truly dealing in good faith? Her lust seemed sincere, though the wine had not yet had time to sink in. She was comely enough, a pretty princess with red hair, a wide and round face, and eager brown eyes. Yet it all seemed too good to be true.

He looked to Lutharis, who gave him a look that told Aranthir he was thinking the same. How many other chances will I have to fuck a princess? Aranthir thought to himself.

"Alright, princess," he replied at last. She bit her lip and smiled eagerly.

"Alright, half-blood," she replied, her cheeks flushing, though whether from wine or lust, he could not tell. "I've never fucked one of your kind before," the princess went on, "this is will be a night to remember."

Aranthir raised a hand to her face, but she pushed him away.

"Leaysa, get the men ready," Bhroka commanded. The handmaid dutifully obeyed, kneeling before Aranthir and Lutharis in their seats. She placed a hand on each of their cocks, rubbing them through their clothes.