The Iron Prince

The Iron Prince

Aranthir VII

The mingling of gunsmoke and winter's breath clouded Petarr's vision. Five men lay dead or dying in the road, two of them his own. He lowered his bloody sword, his breath coming hard and painfully in the midwinter chill. Six men gone since we left the city, he thought bitterly. At this rate, we'll all be dead before we reach Pegia.

"Paskor," he gasped, and the fur-clad giant turned to meet him, his bardiche dripping fresh blood.

"Aye, My Prince!"

"How many got away?" Petarr wiped his blade clean on the tabard of a dead man and stared at it with rising anger. A red boar's head on green. How apt, the man will fight to the death, no matter the odds against him. He looked up from the corpse and toward the bend in the road where the others had fled. Paskor came sauntering up beside him. His fur coat was stained with blood, and his cheeks shone red beneath his bushy black beard, but the man was smiling. There was nothing he loved better than a fight.

"There were seven to start with," the big Hyrthanian boomed as he clapped Petarr on the shoulder. The prince grimaced, from the impact as much as from his own sudden inability to count. "So that makes four who got away. One was pretty badly hurt, so I wouldn't expect him to make it."

Petarr spat into the snow and sheathed his sword. "Doesn't matter. It only takes one to report our position. Let's get moving."

"These horses are tired," one of the men protested. "We need a rest, your highness."

Petarr thought to whip them into shape, but one look at the lot of them and he knew the man was right. He adjusted his thick winter coat about his shoulders and looked over the fields. Perhaps a mile to the west of the road, he could see thin wisps of smoke rising from a village.

"There, that village will have an inn," he said hopefully. "We'll rest there for a short while, eat, drink, and then sacrifice to Eldrin and get moving again."

"How far behind us is the Lord Protector?" another man asked, and Petarr had no reply. Ten miles, or perhaps half a mile, he could not know. But the scouts's presence boded ill.

"Too close," he answered at last, swinging into his palfrey's saddle. "Dispatch the wounded and mount up."

"What about him?" one of the soldiers pointed to their companion, who was clutching his ruined knee. "He can't ride."

"Well, he knows where we're going know, and we can't take him with us." Petarr nodded to Paskor, who smiled as he drew his dagger.

The inn's door creaked under the blow from Paskor's shoulder, but it was only after a second bodyslam that it flew open. Snow shook loose from the roof and fell atop Petarr's party in flurries, but he pushed past the Hyrthanian mercenary and looked about the common room. There was a fire burning in the hearth, but it was otherwise deserted. At least until a heavyset man came hurrying in from the backroom.

"Oh, beggin' your pardon, sir. Welcome to the Apple. I saw you coming in, but I don't move as fast as I used to. I'd have gotten the door in a moment longer..."

"Never mind that. My men and I need food and drink."

"Oh, aye, sir. Just a moment here. Sit yourselves anywhere you like. Not many travelers on the road in the middle o' winter, ya know..."

"Too many for my liking," Petarr replied tersely. His men filed into the inn, leaving behind a pair of grooms to tend to the horses. The innkeeper went to the counter and began filling a tray with black bread and mugs of stout ale as he babbled.

"Would ye be likin' some hard cider? We make it in the orchard out back. If not, ye're in luck because me brother-in-law just come back from the Gate with ten barrels o' rich red wine."

"Wine," Petarr gasped, collapsing exhausted on a bench. "And cheese."

"O' course, sir. Goat or cow?"

"Either one, whatever's good." He slapped a fistful of coins on the table. "And I'll take the cow too. For Eldrin."

The innkeep stopped and studied his face for a moment before agreeing. "Aye, the cow too. I'll have me girls go and get the priest for ya. Girls! Girls, come on down and help the guests!"

A floor above him, the girls in question were kneeling naked and sweaty atop the bed, their hands braced against the wall. Behind them crouched a man with the pointed ears of the elven kindred and dark brown hair cut short. His green eyes danced with delight as he held the sisters by their waists, thrusting his cock into the wet sex of Meiya, the more forward of the two.

The girls were twins, both equally slim, dark-haired, and small-breasted. Their identical faces were long but comely, their cheeks flushed with exertion and their red lips locked together in passion. As the thrusting into Meiya increased in pace, she broke the kiss to scream a name.

"Aranthir! Oh, Nystra's Tits, Aranthir! Don't stop!"

Her sister Miska craned her head back to watch the cock slamming into her sister's wet sex. "My turn," she insisted, "Fuck me now. Please?"

Her pleading blue eyes were too much to resist, and Aranthir pulled his cock from Meiya and thrust it into the other girl's waiting sex. She moaned a guttural moan of animal pleasure as it went in, and her sister draped an arm over her shoulder. They kissed again as Aranthir fucked them, pressing their faces against the wall with a hand on each of their heads.

They moaned through it, staring into each other's eyes as the bed rattled beneath them. At last, Aranthir could contain himself no more, and he pulled his cock from Miska and unleashed a shower of cum on their tight young asses. The hot, sticky liquid sprayed all up their backsides and one droplet flew into Meiya's open mouth. She smacked her lips as she swept it into her mouth with a practiced tongue.

Turning half around, the sisters embraced each other cheek to cheek, looking at him with satisfied eyes and pouty lips.

Aranthir flopped to the bed between them and they lay down to either side, their soft hands stroking his cock even as the last bits of cum dripped from it.

"You're not the first man we've shared," Meiya said. "But you are the best," Miska added. The sisters leaned in to kiss one cheek each, and Aranthir smiled. Their warm bodies felt good against him, a salve to the bitter cold that had permeated the land since the blizzard two nights prior.

"Tell us more war stories," Meiya said dreamily, drawing idle patterns on Aranthir's scarred chest with her finger.

"How did you get this scar?" Miska asked, running her finger along an old wound on his hip. Aranthir grimaced.

"An old friend gave it to me. I don't relish that memory."

"What about this one?" Meiya touched at his neck.

"Ah," Aranthir smiled, "That one I believe was a griffon. Got me on the wing, as it were. Sad that I had to kill it, they're majestic beasts when they're not trying to tear your head off."

"What..." gasped Miska in disbelief. Her sister agreed. "You're pulling our leg with that one."

"I'm afraid not. Stay out of the high snowfields in the Iron Peaks unless you're well-armed and armored."

"Where are those?" Meiya asked and Aranthir had to remind himself that not everyone was as well traveled as he was.

"To the east, about four hundred miles. I don't think you need to worry much."

There came a sudden pounding on the door, and a woman's voice called from beyond it.

"Elf, I know you're in there!"

"Shit," Meiya whispered, "it's Mother!"

"Send my girls out to do their work, we have guests. Then either pay for another night or get moving, vagabond!"

After a pause, the footsteps receded and he heard the familiar creaking of the stairs.

"Well," Meiya said as her mother went downstairs, "I guess we had better get dressed." Miska nodded and gave Aranthir one last kiss. Meiya did the same, but kissed his cock rather than his cheek. The half-elf smiled and climbed over her to the side of the bed.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself from the bed. The winter chill bit at him, even in this small room with the windows fogged from all the fucking. He hastily pulled on his thick winter trousers as the cold nipped at his sensitive areas. Behind him, the sisters pulled their clothes into the bed with them and began to dress underneath the covers.

He had to concede that they had the better idea. He pulled on his arming doublet and then his woolen socks, then a thick scarf about his neck. next, he shouldered his bow, a compact thing of horn and sinew he had acquired in the cold, arid north, then belted on his sword belt with a longsword and dagger. Lastly, he put on his brigandine coat and tucked his sallet helm under one arm.

Miska and Meiya were now dressed as well, each wearing a simple peasant's dress, Miska's in rich green and Meiya in bright yellow. With giddy smiles, they held out their arms for him to take, like a young man escorting a debutante to the harvest dance.

With the sisters on either arm, Aranthir descended the narrow stair to the first floor. Their mother waited at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed as she fixed him with an evil eye. The three of them stepped gaily off the bottom step and stood unashamed before her. Aranthir met her gaze without flinching and gave a friendly smile. The mother remained unimpressed.

"Meiya, help your father with the guests. Miska, there's firewood to be brought in. Get to it, girls. There'll be no more laying about in bed today."

The sisters obediently went off to their tasks and Aranthir remained standing in front of their ornery mother. She watched her daughters go and turned back to him.

"And you... I'm an innkeep's wife, so I'd never kick a man out, 'specially in this snow, but you had best be moving on. It's been nearly a week now, and even though it's winter, we can't take any more of this. This here is a nice village, with nice people, and people like you are trouble. We've had it good for a long time and don't need any vagabonds floating through, givin' the young 'uns ideas about the world an all, or worse leavin' bastards in the girls. Gods save me, it'll be too soon if I see another mercenary."

"If that's all," Aranthir replied breezily, quite tired of her tone already, "I'd like a bit of wine before I go. For the road, and all."

The woman stared at him darkly for a moment before she pointed jerkily to the common room. "I'll bring it to you in there and have the groom bring your horse round. But I meant it when I said you'd best be going."

With a shrug and a smile, Aranthir passed through the door to the common room and stopped. The smile vanished from his face, for here was a motley assembly of soldiers and one tired looking highborn man. Soldiers in midwinter? This can't be good, he thought. They were equally startled to see him armed and armored. Two of them went quickly for their blades, but Aranthir drew on them faster.

One man, a massive bear of a man clad in a fur coat and a short, conical hat with furry earflaps, hefted a tall poleaxe in his hands.

"You alone?" he growled in a Hyrthanian accent. Aranthir's eyes narrowed; Hyrthanian mercenaries had a brutal reputation.

"I am," Aranthir replied, "but it won't make much difference for you."

"Lower your weapons, Poskar," the highborn man called wearily. "This isn't one of Uhltor's men."

"Aye, he's an elf," one of the others added. "The Old Boar's no elf-friend."

Aranthir lowered his blade as the other men did the same. "It's true," he admitted, "the Lord Protector has made it difficult for one of my blood to find work in the kingdom. I was headed for Asharas when the blizzard struck."

"Sit," the lord commanded, "eat, we must be moving soon. You, half-blood. Sit with me, for I have a proposal for you." He gestured to the bench across from him. Mother appeared again, with Aranthir's wine cup. She looked anxiously at the men still sheathing and stowing their weapons, then handed Aranthir his wine. Once done, she quickly retreated to the back room.

Cup in hand, the half-elf slowly made his way to sit at the lord's table. He raised the cup to his lips and sipped lazily. It was strong and rich, as he expected from the vineyards of Bregan Dor. He took a moment to stare at the dark red liquid in his cup in appreciation, then looked to his prospective employer.

"Well? Speak if you would." The man drummed his fingers on the worn wooden table between them, deep in thought. After an extended pause, he spoke at last.

"Do you know who I am?" His tone was at once both imperious and fearful, as if he were accustomed to being known but also afraid of discovery. Though his youth was evident on his hard face, being no more than perhaps twenty years in age, his eyes were those of someone much older. Aranthir looked from the man to his soldiers, all of whom were watching intently, some with hands on their hilts. He looked back to the man, noticing a white line around his ring finger where most noblemen wore their signet rings.

"Not a clue," Aranthir replied at last.

"Hmph," the man replied, sitting up straighter. "That is for the best. Tell me your name. "

Aranthir disliked the man's tone, but found him intriguing nonetheless. "I am called Aranthir of Ildranon."

"I do not know the name. You are a sellsword?" He was not truly asking a question, but Aranthir answered all the same.

"I carry a sword for money, yes. You look like you have enough men that one more won't make a difference. But it is the winter and I have few other prospects until the spring thaws, so ask away. What do you offer?"

"Thirty gold marks."

Aranthir was an experienced mercenary and trained assassin, but it was only with the benefit of all that experience and training that he avoided choking on his wine in surprise. Playing it calm, he finished his sip and raised a cool eyebrow.

"Thirty gold marks might buy a small army. Why would you spend such a sum on me?"

"I am..." the man searched for the right words. "Desperate. My enemies draw near, and I must get moving. I have a companion I must meet with, but the east roads are closed to me. You do not wear my colors, nor are you known to be in my employ. I need someone like you."

"To deliver your friend to...?" Aranthir supplied. He made a habit of keeping up with rumors from the courts, and had a strong suspicion of who he was really speaking with.

"Aye, to deliver my friend to me, at Pegia, before my enemies catch up to me."

"I see. And where is this friend?"

"I cannot tell you unless you agree to the job."

"For thirty gold marks, I'll take your friend into the king's bath," Aranthir replied, gauging the man's reaction. But it was nothing conclusive. His prospective employer was an experienced haggler.

"Swear an oath," the man pressed. "An oath to serve me, lest your soul wander the earth forever, never to know rest."

Aranthir sat back against the wall, considering the offer. The man's offer and terms were both steep, but he found the allure of it all very enticing, not to mention the intrigue of it all.

"Very well. Have you anything to swear upon?"

"What is sacred to a mercenary?" the man wondered aloud, then he pointed to Aranthir's sword, hanging from his hip. With a fatalistic sigh, Aranthir drew the sword and held it before him, its point resting on the floorboards.

"Then now I, Aranthir of Ildranon, swear in sight of the gods and on this sword, to do as bidden by you. Should I fail, or forsake my oath, may my soul wander restlessly until the end of the world."

"And so witnessed," the watching soldiers intoned. Aranthir cast them a suspicious look, then turned back to his employer.

"What would you have me do?"

"Ride to the Old Stone Bridge over the Balatonn. There you will find a woman and her escort. Bring them north to meet me at Pegia, beneath the willow tree in the center of town, in three days."

"Who is this woman?" Aranthir pressed. When the man was slow to answer, Aranthir added "What name does she go by?"

"Vyna," he replied at last. "She will answer to the name Vyna." He leaned back in his seat and peered out through the frosty window. "I should go. I will ride west, to draw them off, and meet you at Pegia in three days. Apliss guide you, half-blood."

The soldiers broke their short rest and shouldered their things again. With their leader at the head, they filed out the door to the stable. The last to leave was the Hyrthanian giant, Paskor, who stood at the door looking intently at Aranthir. The half-elf drained his wine cup and set it aside.

"Still looking for that fight, mountain man?" he asked. From outside, someone called the giant's name.

"Some other time," the big man replied, his yellow teeth bared behind his beard. "You've a woman to find. Perhaps we'll cross blades at Pegia."

"Perhaps," Aranthir replied, and the man went out the door without another word.

The man and his soldiers rode off to the west, as promised, while Aranthir saddled his horse. Miska was gathering firewood behind the stable and stole a last kiss before he mounted and rode off. Aranthir could feel Mother's stare on his back as he made his way toward the main rode, but his mind was on his mysterious new employer. Court intrigues had a way of snaring up even humble mercenaries like himself, often to fatal results. But the price of thirty gold marks was too much to refuse. As with most mercenaries, my greed will be the death of me someday.

He rode over snowbound roads, winding his way northeast toward the Balatonn River. The cold seeped through the thick cloak he had donned and he could see his breath in the air ahead of him as well as that of his horse. When he breathed in, he felt winter's icy grasp in his lungs, sharp and cruel. To either side of the road were lines of trees along the main road, bare and snow-covered in the grip of midwinter. He rode for some time along the road, encountering no other travelers except a band of hardy merchants and their mule train making south for the king's city and its wealthy markets.

Perhaps a mile beyond the mule train, Aranthir spied a company of mounted men approaching from the south. They were wrapped in thick winter cloaks, but beneath it he could see they were armed and armored. They rode at a canter, heads sweeping the road in every direction. When they spied Aranthir, they spurred their horses faster. Half hung back, watching from a distance with crossbows in their hands, while the rest drew close but not their blades.

"Hold there, traveler," called the leader in his dark blue jack. "Whence do you come?"

Aranthir looked at the road behind him, then back to the man. "West," he answered matter-of-factly. The soldier was unamused.

"Where did you lay your head last night?" As he talked, two of his companions guided their horses out to the sides, to envelop Aranthir if it came to blows or to cut off his escape if he decided to flee.

"Last night," Aranthir repeated, rubbing his chin with one hand as he stared skyward in a feigned reverie. "Last night I lay my head on the breasts of a nubile maiden, and my hand on that of her twin sister. I would recount the tale of it if you and your men have the ears."

"Never mind that," the man snapped, two of his men near green with envy. "Where do you ride to?"

Aranthir looked behind himself again, then to the road ahead. "East," he replied. The man remained unamused.

"Fuck it, Yarok, let's hack his pointed ears off and be on our way." Aranthir turned his gaze on the speaker, a small and wiry man with missing teeth and a receding hairline.

"Draw your blade," Aranthir challenged, "and I'll cut your hands off before I deal with the others."

"There's ten of us," another man laughed.

"Aye," Aranthir conceded quietly. "Hardly seems fair to you, does it? How many more men can you muster before midday? I've places to be."