The Duchess of Lust Ch. 05 (Finale)

Just as she started to yank up her dress, a faint clank of metal rasped from outside the tent.

Opening her eyes, she saw that the tent was empty, with only a little moonlight coming through the little slit of the tent's flap.

"Lucan?" she asked, her heart fluttering.

Nothing.

Alarmed that her soft voice had not drawn a reply from the sentries standing guard outside of her tent, Sarya slowly rose. She crept across the tent to the flap, then let out a shocked gasp at the feel of something warm puddling beneath her feet.

Blood. Flowing into her tent from outside.

She flinched back. There came another rustle of movement from outside.

Unleashing a scream, she lurched towards the other side of the tent as a figure dressed like a common farmer rushed into the tent, wielding a long, curved knife. It was far too dark for her to make out his features, but she did not need bright light to guess his intent.

He lunged for her, his hand just barely grasping a hold of her red curls. She twisted away, shrieking in pain as his grasp tore a few strands of hair from her scalp. Someone outside shouted; Sarya stumbled and fell.

A few feet away, resting at the foot of her cot, were her fine leather boots...with Lucan's lucky knife hidden within.

Growling, the assassin rushed her and grasped her leg. She squealed and kicked backwards, her bare foot colliding with his knee. It forced him back just a step, giving her the briefest of opportunities.

She lunged for her boot, tore the knife from its hidden sheath, and spun around as the assassin dove towards her. Rolling to the side just in time to avoid the first slash of that curved blade, her frenzied mind recalled one of Lucan's lessons and she lashed out with the knife, jamming it into the man's thigh.

He howled. Another shout boomed from outside and a black-armored Ravenmark knight burst into the tent.

Still screaming with fear and fury, Sarya twisted the knife and the would-be assassin yowled.

The knight rushed in, sword raised.

"Alive!" Sarya barked.

The assassin tried to slash at Sarya but the knight intervened, using his sword to stop the knife mere inches from Sarya's throat. Snarling, the knight slammed his armored fist into the assassin's face. With a squawk of pain, the assassin crumpled.

Sobbing and sputtering, Sarya rose and flung herself as far as she could from the man who'd nearly killed her.

"My lady," the knight said, kicking the blade away before kneeling to tear off the unconscious man's belt in order to bind his hands. "I am sorry. We had three men posted outside your tent, but there was a massive drunken brawl between the men of Baron Gaspard and Baron Hecforth; two of the sentries were called away to help restore the peace."

Gods. How many spies and assassins had made their way into the camp? And who, precisely, had sent him? Had that brawl been engineered by her would-be killer to draw the sentries away?

After a few deep breaths, she regained her composure and crouched down beside the man. He looked like a southerner: fair skin, blonde hair, unassuming features. There were no scars, tattoos, or anything that might have marked him as a northlander. Were it not for the blade he'd borne, he'd have looked just like any of the merchants or farmers who had come to trade with the army.

Two more knights barged into the tent, weapons drawn.

"Go fetch Ketrik," she ordered. "This man must survive to provide answers as to who sent him."

One ran off and three more men-at-arms soon appeared, standing vigil alongside her. As they waited, Sarya cleaned off her bloody feet and sat down on her cot, staring down at the blade that had nearly claimed her life.

Would Ulrik have stooped that low? It seemed beneath his northern notions of honor to send an assassin against a woman he'd forged a truce with, but others within his army might have taken such action of their own volition.

Her frenzied mind settled on an even uglier possibility.

Thandor.

With Sarya out of the way, the succession of Fellhaven would be in doubt. Two of her cousins were next in line for the title, but both of them were still trapped in the city. If Sarya died and her cousins died in the assault on the city, it would put Thandor in an advantageous position to press the issue of annexation.

Ketrik arrived and rushed across the tent. Heedless of the presence of the knights, he wrapped her into his arms for a firm embrace, then gently cupped her cheeks.

"Were you harmed?"

"No, no. See to him, Ketrik. Please. I need him alive."

After taking a moment to look her up and down, Ketrik knelt beside the captive and withdrew several components from his pouch. Once he'd mixed together several herbs and flowers, he smeared the mixture around the wound, then tore the knife free.

The man's eyes bolted open and he wailed while Ketrik shoved several flower petals and a bright white paste into the wound, sealing it up. The wail turned into a series of soft sobs. After a minute of whimpering, the assassin finally quieted down.

"The choice is simple," Sarya said coldly. "I can have you sent back to Jadewall to face the cruel blades of the duke's torturers. Or you can tell me who sent you and I'll here you a quick, clean death."

She'd made that threat to test his reaction, to assess if Thandor was indeed the one behind it. If the man displayed some sort of relief or amusement at the notion of being sent to Jadewall, it might hint that the duke had indeed hired him.

She saw no relief or mirth in his eyes, only fear and pain.

"You've a reputation for mercy," the assassin muttered. "You wouldn't do that."

"If you have such admiration for her reputation, why try to kill her?" the knight above him snarled.

"Because I don't like redheads."

The knight pummeled the man's face with his fist. Ketrik raised a hand, catching the knight by the wrist before he could strike the prisoner again.

The assassin spat out a broken tooth.

"Do your fucking worst."

"He's not a northlander by the sound of him," Ketrik said with a shake of his head. "And few of my people could feign a southern accent so well."

As the knight pinned him down, Ketrik searched the man's belt-pouches, finding a little vial of black liquid, several little knives, a few gold coins, and several chunks of red-soaked amber.

Ketrik hissed.

"I know who sent him." He took a deep breath. "Hafgrim Night-Chanter. Chieftain of the Stone Serpent tribe."

A storm of fear and revulsion rippled in the assassin's eyes. It seemed they'd identified the culprit after all.

The shaman tossed the pieces of amber back and forth between his hands.

"These are mostly found in the lands of the Stone Serpent tribe, currently ruled by Hafgrim. This amber is fairly common in those lands but rare here in the south. The amber is created by a specific variety of tree and so has immense alchemical powers. These chunks here are worth a small fortune."

"And that was just the down payment," the assassin said with a low growl.

"Hafgrim," Sarya said, frowning. "I do not recognize the name. Is he one of Ulrik's champions?"

"A begrudging one, yes," the shaman said with a nod. "A former rival for the crown, who only reluctantly joined the cause. And you should have seen the way he raged and seethed when Ulrik announced the truce."

He tucked the pieces of amber into his satchel and gave Sarya a long, foreboding look.

"Hafgrim of the most dangerous men in the north. If he was king instead of Ulrik, I suspect that both Fellhaven and Jadewall would have already been reduced to ash. A wild hound of a man. Barely restrained by Ulrik during the march south..."

"It seems the savage king's leash has slipped," the knight standing over the prisoner growled. He nodded at Sarya. "I shall triple your guard, my lady, and will ensure that no knight assigned to your tent ever strays."

"Thank you, Sir."

She reached out and gently placed a hand upon his armored forearm.

"And I shall not forget your swift intervention. Your name, Sir?"

"Lambert, my lady."

"I shall also ensure that your duke hears of your bravery and quick thinking."

"It was merely my duty, my lady."

He bowed his head, then looked to the prisoner.

"What shall we do with this scum for now?"

"Keep him in chains. Considering he shed the blood of one of Duke Lucan's men, I think the duke should pass the sentence."

She sighed and glanced through the tent-flap, watching as other knights loaded the fallen sentry into a cart.

"Ketrik," she said, nodding at the shaman. "If you need some of that amber for a ritual, you may keep it, but I ask that the rest be sold, with the proceeds given to that fallen sentry's family. He died in my defense, doing his duty."

"Of course, of course."

Sir Lambert yanked the prisoner to his feet and dragged him outside.

"I'll move my tent closer to yours, too," Ketrik said, frowning at the bloody grass. "I would offer to share your tent, but-"

"I appreciate the thought, Ketrik," she said warmly, grasping his hand.

A sudden tremor rippled through her, and she sagged back onto the cot.

"Gods, I've never been that close to death before. I've witnessed battles from afar and seen bloody tourneys but..."

The tremors worsened, and she placed her head in her hands and let out a sob, overcome by just how close she'd been to death.

The shaman's rough hands settled on her knees.

"Words will be of little reassurance, Sarya. But I know that you are strong. We wouldn't be here if you weren't."

A minute of slow, deep breaths helped to center her and she wiped a few burgeoning tears from her eyes, then met the shaman's gaze.

"And I wouldn't be here were it not for your strength, either, Ketrik."

Or the strength of Lucan, Neryth, and Rathgar. Her survival and triumphs had only been because of the allies who'd stood at her side. On her own, Sarya was just a terrified, desperate noblewoman trying to save her city. Without her friends and allies, she was nothing.

That thought, however, did not inspired despair. Instead it just served as a reminder of all the struggles she'd endured, of the hardship she'd survived, and the people who had placed their trust in her.

"Damn the potential scandal," she said softly. "Will you stay here? Not to make love, but just to-"

"Of course. Whatever you need, my lady."

She breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that at least the shaman's presence would be enough to allow her to sleep after that jolt of fear and adrenaline.

**

Dreams of that assassin haunted her. The unassuming man chased her through the gardens of her home, into her childhood bedroom, through the halls of Thandor's palace, and even into that convent where she'd spied on Neryth and Velwen. Blood trailed from his blade, a horrific grin danced across his face, and his eyes shifted into bright, glowing amber.

A sudden clatter of metal tore her from those frantic dreams and she awoke to see an armor-clad Lucan standing within her tent. Ketrik, who had been slumbering in his bedroll on the ground, rose with a start, reaching for his knife.

"Lucan?" Sarya sputtered. "What are you-"

"A rider brought news to the scouts' camp of what happened," he said, his voice brimming with anger, though concern glowed in his one good eye.

He rushed across the tent and knelt to caress her cheek.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, thanks to Sir Lambert. I think you should-"

"I'll give him a fucking barony as reward," Lucan said quickly. He then gave a nod to Ketrik. "And thank you, for looking after her."

The shaman sheathed his knife and yawned.

"Gave us quite a fright there, Lucan. I half-thought you were another assassin making a second attempt on her life."

"I won't allow that to happen. I'll station Neryth and a hundred-"

"Lucan," she said softly, her hand gently squeezing his wrist. "I am all right. Sir Lambert has already increased security and is sweeping through the camp to try to track down other spies or infiltrators. Sir Jehan decided to expel the merchants and farmers, relegating them to their own camp outside of ours. So nobody else can sneak into camp disguised as a trader or farmer."

The duke slowly rose, but kept his hand upon her cheek.

"Now that I know you're safe, I can see to the scum who did this." He raised an eyebrow at Ketrik. "Have you any poisons that would give the man a slow, terrible death? A ritual that will shatter his mind and set every nerve ablaze?"

"A fair few but...I don't think he's worth the trouble. Either send him back to the Thandor to face the headsman's axe or claim his head and be done with it."

"He's right, Lucan," Sarya said softly. "He is not worth the effort. If you wish for vengeance, enact it in the name of the sentry he killed."

Lucan frowned, gave a soft nod, then closed his eyes.

"Gods, the things I would have done to that bastard if he'd harmed you, Sarya."

"I know. I know," she said, brushing her fingers over his wrist to provide some reassurance that she was still there, still alive, and stillhis.

**

Knowing that she'd have to bear witness to much greater bloodshed once the armies clashed at Fellhaven, Sarya forced herself to attend the execution.

Sir Lambert and the other guards dragged the assassin out to a clearing at the center of camp, where hundreds of knights, men-at-arms, peasant soldiers, and northern mercenaries had gathered to watch.

They forced the man to his knees in front of the crowd and Lucan strode up to the bound, gagged assassin.

"In the name of Sir Arthor of Ravenmark, whose life you took, I sentence you to die." He reached down and yanked the gag free. "Have you any last words?"

"Oh, plenty," the assassin snarled. "Hafgrim Night-Chanter is going to kill every last one of you stupid bastards. It isn't Ulrik that you need to worry about." He spat at Lucan's feet.

A single swing of Lucan's sword took the impudent smirk off the assassin's face. Sarya flinched as the headless body toppled to the ground. She did not look away, however, forcing herself to watch as the man's body twitched a few times. Revulsion at the grisly sight did not erase her anger at the man for killing that sentry and nearly killing her.

"Night-Chanter," Sarya murmured to Rathgar and Ketrik, who had stood at her side during the execution. "That is an odd epithet. What is the source of it?"

"When Hafgrim was a young raider, he had a feud with a rival warrior," Rathgar said. "But he didn't have enough warriors in his own clan to take the rival down. So he would sneak up on his enemy's camp and shout out strange, otherworldly, incomprehensible chants, and then flee whenever the sentries came for him. He did this for weeks: taunting and stalking his rival, driving him near to madness. The rival warrior's followers began to think they'd been cursed by the gods and started to abandon him, thinning his numbers enough that Hafgrim was able to sneak into the camp and finally put down his foe. That was only the start of his twisted tactics and cruel schemes."

"Gods," Sarya said, nearly more unnerved by that story than by the sight of the headless corpse being dragged away. "Why does Ulrik tolerate such madness within his army? If they were indeed rivals for the kingship, why not just dispose of him?"

"Because Hafgrim is a damned fine killer," Rathgar said, scowling at the pool of blood created by the decapitation. "I've never had the misfortune of fighting against him, but I've been an ally of his in a few wars and feuds. Made my skin crawl every time, but he always won. The fear of his reputation was usually enough to break his enemies. So he's a useful tool for Ulrik. A wild dog to unleash upon his foes."

"If he's so fierce, how did he not claim the kingship himself?"

"Being king of the northlanders isn't just about skill in battle," Ketrik said. "You also need the support and loyalty of the chieftains, shamans, and witches of other tribes and clans. Though quite fierce and skilled, Hafgrim was too mad, too undiplomatic, too wild to ever earn their loyalty. So they sided with the more level-headed, charismatic Ulrik instead."

"At least for now," Rathgar said, still frowning. "There might be challenges to Ulrik's rule, if the other champions and chieftains grow discontented with the truce."

Sarya shivered and nearly gagged at the thought that Hafgrim might have been among the men who had used her during that ritualistic orgy. Could her would-be killer also have been one of those who had fucked her as part of that ceremony?

Given his reputation, Sarya was certain she'd have remembered someone as mad and wild as that.

"What does he look like?" she murmured under her breath.

"Short, wiry, mean," Rathgar said. "He paints the left side of his face red at all times. Has a shield covered in spikes and bones and a battered axe that looks like it's one fierce blow away from shattering."

She breathed a sigh of relief, not recalling any man by that description from that wild night.

If she ever did lay eyes on that foul man, she could only pray the meeting occurred when Hafgrim was a corpse.

Thanking the northlanders for sharing those grim facts about her would-be killer, she walked over to Lucan as he wiped down his blade.

"He deserved worse," Lucan growled. "And so does Ulrik, for breaking the truce."

"I doubt it was Ulrik. Given what I just learned from Rathgar and Ketrik, I am certain the assassin was telling the truth when he told us about Hafgrim," she said. "He's a wild dog, hungering for battle. Perhaps he saw my death as a means to end the truce early and force Ulrik into assaulting the city."

"Whatever the truth may be, both of them will die."

"I long to see Fellhaven safe," she said. "But that may mean reaching an accord with the northlanders. Even if it comes to a battle and we win, I will want to ensure a lasting peace."

"Even though they want to see Fellhaven burn?"

"Men like Ketrik and Rathgar have proven that the northlanders can be allies. There may be others among Ulrik's ranks with whom I can make arrangements or alliances. Perhaps we can even force Ulrik to negotiate, once he sees the strength of our army. We cannot simply put every northlander to the sword; diplomacy can also ensure peace after the battle is over."

She glanced over at Sir Jehan and the knights of Jadewall.

"Besides...Fellhaven may one day need unusual allies to stand against the ambitions of Thandor."

"You'll have me," Lucan said, sheathing his sword.

"You would commit Ravenmark to such an alliance against Jadewall?"

"Of course. Because Fellhaven wouldn't be Thandor's first conquest. If he annexes your duchy, he'd set his hungry gaze on other duchies. Wolfgate would fall and then Ravenmark. So if he moves against Fellhaven once the war is won, he'll have to contend with me, too."

She smiled, quite touched and flattered by that ferocity. Even without a formal alliance or an offer of marriage, the fierce duke had committed himself to Fellhaven's autonomy.

"That offer of aid need not be one-sided, my duke. Given all that you've done so far to help me, Ravenmark will always have an ally in Fellhaven."

He let out a faint, joyless chuckle.

"I do suppose we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren't we? We still have a battle to win, after all."

**

Sarya's horse splashed across the river; for the first time in weeks, she breathed in the air of her homeland. The rolling hills and verdant plains of southern Fellhaven were not really all that different from the northern frontier of Jadewall, but this was herhome.

She dismounted as the army continued its thunderous march past her. With a long sigh, she knelt to brush her fingers through the grass.

"I was expecting Ulrik's forces to meet us at the river," Lucan said, after dismounting to join her. "That would have been the smart plan, to at least delay us even with the truce in effect."