The Tattooed Woman Pt. 33

Ashunara chuckled, "I think her pride's been injured more than her body. What of Quintus?"

"He'll live. His mail stopped the missiles from piercing him right through, but the barbs of the arrows were coated in some foul Drow concoction. Thankfully Lashelle had a suitable panacea for the venom among her bag of tricks and managed to apply it quick enough. But he'll be weak as a babe for a day or two. If we are to travel, he'll have to be carried in a litter, for now at least."

"Cassie?"

Nyx snorted, "I have no idea how, but she's alive. The girl should have been smashed to gruel, but she got off with a few broken ribs, a busted head, a broken arm and enough bruising and scratches to make you think she's been in a fight with a werewolf."

The Captain frowned, "Still sounds bad enough. Can she travel?"

Nyx shook her head with a helpless shrug, "That's just the thing, Captain. I've no idea what that tattooed madwoman did, but the girls' injuries are all but healed. She still looks like she's been beaten by an angry mob, but the broken bones are mended well enough. Still sore, I'd warrant, but Lashelle says she'll be fit to travel by morning."

"Well, if it's good news, I'll take it. And where is our resident supernatural entity?"

Nyx laughed, "Which one? We seem to be gathering so many I'm having difficulty keeping track."

"Adair?"

"Oh, after she got Cassie settled, she headed out in search of the Dragon. Want me to send someone after her?"

The Captain shook her head, "No, she can look after herself. What of the enemy?"

"Routed. There was a coven of Troll witches I thought would be trouble, but the Dragon incinerated them before it took flight. From the flashes of Dragonfire, we saw in the distance it harried the survivors. I've got scouts out just in case, though."

"Well enough. Anything else?"

The old soldier scratched behind her ear, "Just the usual. The Orcs are scavenging scales and the like from that downed beastie as well as looting the dead for useful gear. Any orders in the meantime?"

The Captain grunted, "I'm not sure staying here overlong is wise, but we'll take a day at least to treat our hurts and catch our breath. Let them have their fun," she grinned, "in fact, if you'd oblige, I think I fancy a tooth for myself, and I know that foreign doxy that Gorsini cavorts with has a thing for such beasties."

The veteran Dark Elf chuckled wryly, "Are you still pissed at him for taking up with that blonde tart?"

"No! Why should I care what the ginger bastard gets up to, or who with?"

Nyx laughed, "Methinks the lady doth protest too..."

"Oh, shut up!"

Still laughing, the sellsword made a casual, offhand salute and wandered off on her rounds.

...

Back among the spires of the Dark Elven city of Emain, the House of Varro stirred. Servant, slave and Mistress alike were up with the dawn, making ready for the day's business and toil. The night guardians were relieved to go to their breakfast or bed, the wardings reinforced, and the main gates laid open for petitions, guests and callers.

Garrow heard the scurrying of servants moving about the passageway outside her locked room and the murmured conversation of the wardens at her door as they were relieved. She rose from her bed and stretched, and for all her height and size, those long weeks of her imprisonment in the harsh and brutal environment of the arena had stripped away all excess meat from her bones, leaving her a gaunt creature, all whipcord muscle and harsh features.

Still, despite that, she at least felt rested. For the first time in months, she was clean and fed; she had spent the night in an actual bed, in a room warmed by fire no less, instead of chained to a filthy pallet of straw in a rat-infested dungeon, being forced to let some lecherous swine of a jailor paw at her in exchange for a crust of weevil-riddled bread.

Two of those jailors had been careless enough to think her starved condition had robbed her completely of all strength and spirit, and they had become careless in their crude fumbling. Both would bear her marks for the rest of their days, for she had gouged the eye from one and bitten away an ear and much of the jowls from the other. Had her hands not been chained, she would have killed them both.

She had been viciously and thoroughly beaten with cudgel and whip and then further starved in payment for her recalcitrance, but even so, she was a Half-Orc, and the sounds of their whimpering screams had been worth the price.

She heard the guards fumbling with the keys outside her room, and with a sigh, she donned the plain tunic and trous that had been left for her. She sniffed; they were simple garments but well enough made from good wool and warm linen. Yesterday was the carrot, no doubt today will be the stick."

With an audible "click", the door to her room was unlocked, but strangely instead of entering, there came a knock upon the door, and she stared at it in confusion for a moment before memory poked her, "Um, hello?"

"Are ye decent lass? 'Tis near enough time to break our fast."

"Am I decent? What the fuck... Wait, did he say breakfast?"

Shaking her head, she heard herself answer, "I'm, ah, dressed?"

"Good enough."

The door opened to reveal the two guards she remembered from yesterday. The older cast his eye over her and grinned, "Well, you look better than you did the other day, I'll give ye that. You hungry?"

She nodded, and seeing the manacles held by the younger man, she held out her hands with only a slight grimace of resignation, "Hey, it's breakfast. Stop yer whining."

The younger guard made to move forward, but the older man raised a hand to bar his way, and he eyed her intently for a long moment before tilting his head thoughtfully, "Give me yer word."

"Huh?"

"Give me yer word ye'll not be causing me trouble, and we'll give this a try without the irons. You up for it?"

She snorted, "You know I'm a killer, yes?"

The man shrugged, "Who isn't?"

"Then why take the chance? I'm an arena slave, not to be trusted."

She could see from the look on his face that the younger guard was fully in agreement with her, and she grinned, but the older one merely scratched his close-cropped beard and pondered the question, "Hmm, well now, I might be daft, but ye don't strike me as a liar, and more importantly as the type who'll be forsworn. And I've dealt with Orcs afore, a proud bunch."

She sniffed, "I'm only half-Orc."

The man laughed, "Well, in that case, maybe you'll only half-kill me if I'm wrong. Now will you give your word or no? The bacon's getting cold."

"I get fed either way?"

He smiled, "You get fed either way."

"Then you have my word; I'll not cause trouble as long as no one takes liberties."

The man nodded, "Good enough, but you know I cannae promise that. For if I heard right yesterday, Lady Hildegard is looking for you to be a bodyguard, and Master Gauge won't be handing you a weapon until he's seen for himself that you can use one, and the man is a hard teacher, I tell ye."

"Whips?"

The guard laughed, "No, just bruises, and plenty of them if you don't fight hard. But he's no brute. Just a hard man in a hard business. And he's skilled enough, I can tell ye that."

"You've fought him?"

The guard laughed, "God's no! I'm fair with a blade, but the man would split my skull in a heartbeat if it came to real blows. No, he trains the guards, and I've sparred with him often enough. He's a dour fucker, but fair. I've not seen him abuse anyone on a whim, but he'll fetch you a right clout if you give him lip, and Hell mend ye if he catches you with rust on yer blade."

She snorted, "He sounds a prick."

"Oh, he's a darling; I can already see from the look in your eyes that you two are going to get along fucking famously."

"We'll see."

He led her back to the small scullery where she had eaten her supper, and the marvellous aroma of frying bacon that assailed her nostrils as she entered the room was truly simply wondrous.

The woman she had met yesterday, the one the guard had called Lady Hildegard, was there, but her appearance was markedly different from the confident, poised creature of yestereve.

This woman looked like she had been dragged through a brush backwards, and she was slumped over the table, with her head resting on the wooden surface. The stink of brandy came off her like a miasma, and Garrow could hear her snoring from across the room.

The cook looked round with a grin and loudly rattled his pan on the hob.

Hildegard started with a groan, "Whatfu...Oh, Gods, my head. Stop that din, you evil bastard."

She looked up blearily, and her bloodshot eyes came to rest somewhat unsteadily on the Half-Ord, "Oh, it's you... Stop looking at me so loudly."

The guard pointed at a space on the bench opposite the drunk woman and shook his head with a chuckle as he fetched a tankard of watered wine and set it down before Garrow. She eyed it suspiciously until the man poured himself a cupful from the same jug and took a swallow.

A moment later, the Half-Orc stared in absolute wonderment as the cook placed a platter of bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and fried bread before her, and she looked up at him.

He chuckled, "Ye seemed like ye were hungry the other day. There's more if ye want it."

Hildegard looked at the plate and visibly paled, "Oh, fuck..."

Diving for the door, she dashed from the room, and moments later, Garrow heard retching noises.

The older guard casually wandered to the door and looked out.

The cook chuckled, "She make it?"

"Nope."

"Told ye, pay up."

Tossing the man a silver, the guard grumbled, "Putting that plate right in front of her was sort of cheating, you know."

"A bet's a bet. You and the lad fancy a bacon sandwich?"

With a grin, the guard nodded, "Och, go on then."

A moment later, Hildegard all but staggered back into the room. She sniffed and looked about blearily, "Mop, bucket..."

The cook pointed towards a corner, "You know, the servants will sort that out for ye."

"They've enough to do without cleaning up my puke."

The younger guard reached out, "I'll do it for you, lady."

Hildegard shook her head with a groan, "No, 'tis a lesson is what it is."

Garrow looked up, "A lesson?"

"Aye, don't go drinking with fucking Dwarves."

The cook laughed, and with a wry shake of his head, he placed a small steaming pot on the table in front of the stricken woman, "Here, lass, drink this. 'Tis an old remedy I learned from a gypsy woman back in my younger days when I was somewhat less of a temperate soul and a wee bit overly fond of the drink. It'll set ye right as rain."

"What's in it?"

He grinned, "Don't ask."

"Fuck it; if it kills me, it'll be a relief."

By the time she had returned from her chore Garrow had cleared her plate and was happily devouring a second portion, much to the cook's delight.

The older guard looked on and grinned, "You know, I can see another bet in the offing."

The cook nodded in agreement.

Staggering back to the table, Hildegard sat with a sigh, "Oh Gods..."

Peering across the table at the Half-Orc, the Human woman made a visible effort to gather her wits, "So, uh, Garrow. Have you had a chance to think on my proposal?"

The gladiator pointed half a sausage at the woman, "What exactly is it you see me doing?"

"You'll be my bodyguard, look out for me, keep me safe, and... and most especially... I want you to club me senseless and carry me home if it looks like I'm ever going to get this drunk again."

"That all?"

"No... You'll train, and... oh fuck... train hard. Cause no trouble in this household, and just..." she groaned, "look, just don't be a prick to folk, especially the servants."

Garrow tilted her head, "Why do you care about the servants?"

The woman looked up, "I just do. Let's just say I've cleaned up after enough pricks to know what it's like and leave it at that."

"What do I get out of it?"

"You get treated like... well, I was going to say a Human being, but that's hardly an endorsement. Still, you know what I mean. No starving, no beatings, a good bed, good food and some coin, I guess," she frowned, "I won't lie, I've been all but told there are those who'll be trying to kill me, and your job is to not just stop them but to send a message in doing so. Also, my, um, "Mistress" tells me that it takes the ruling of a Grand Matriarch to pardon a death sentence, so I cannot promise you freedom. I can keep you as a house slave and treat you decent, but I don't have the power to let you go."

"Would you?"

"Huh?"

Garrow sniffed, "If you had that power, would you set me free?"

"I already said. You stand by me, and I'll stand by you. If you do that, then if I ever get the chance, yes, I'll free you if that's what you want."

"Do I have to service you or fuck anyone?"

Hildegard snorted, "I'm my state I'd just puke on you, and I don't care who you sleep with as long as it doesn't interfere with your work. I'm no slaver, Garrow, despite your collar, as far as I'm concerned, you're as free as I am, which, come to think on is actually a wee bit unclear, but never mind. I'm not going to command you to do anything except your job. You don't have to clean up after me, pander to my lustful ways or any other petty, stupid nonsense," she grunted, "mind you, I'm told you have to call me "Lady Hildegard," which sounds fucking ridiculous, or at least "Milady" when we're out and about, but otherwise "Hilde" is fine by me."

The Half-Orc grinned, "But I get fed either way?"

With a smile, Hildegard nodded, "You get fed either way."

"Then you have a deal."

"Thank fuck, now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to my chamber and quietly die. Try and stay out of trouble. I'll see you at supper," she grimaced at the thought, "probably."

...

The meadows before Miosgan Meadhba were a no-man's land of buttresses and siegeworks, clogged by stinking corpses and other wreckage.

Despite bitter struggles, the defenders still held the walls, and they stared out in defiance at the sullen ranks of the enemy arrayed before them, for now, the full strength of their foe had finally been arrayed upon the field.

Legions of wild Firbolg milled about in gigantic packs, seemingly countless and savage, while the serried ranks of dark-armoured Drow stood in silent, disciplined companies. To either flank, innumerable festering draugr shambled and moaned, held in check by dark necromancy. Behind the van was row upon row of fearsome ogres, clad in their heavy armour of thick scale and carrying frightful halberds. It was a horde, an army without number, bred for war and blood.

And then there were the Dragons.

Fully a dozen of the frightful beasts had been seen, either flying overhead or lumbering behind the enemy lines. Their impenetrable scales and glowing eyes gleaming in the firelight, and the defenders knew they were doomed.

But despite the odds, the besieged manned their posts and spat back defiance. For these were Dark Elves and Orcs. The weak had already run or been culled in battle, and there was no give at all in those that remained. And if the enemy had Dragons, the Dark Elves had Battlemages.

There were six in the city now, with more on the way, fearsome, ancient, deadly and cunning. Each a Mistress of destructive magick, trained and experienced in war. Normally one was enough to turn an engagement from a hard-fought battle into an utterly ruinous rout, and even Drow sorcerers tread lightly at the mere rumour of the presence of even one upon the field.

Each of the thirteen Great Houses had but one such Magi, and for centuries that had been more than enough. But a Dragon was no mundane foe, and against such a terrible enemy, there was the fear that even a Battlemage might be overmatched.

Standing upon the battlements of her citadel, Vulgara-Bal, Grand Matriatch of that doomed city, looked out upon the endless ranks of besiegers and swore, "What are they waiting for? They outnumber us by more than fifty to one! With those fucking Dragons, they could like as not scorch us from the map in a day."

By her side, the old Swordmistress Kallis-Mal spat, "They're drawing us in. Whoever leads them is a canny one. They know that the defences of Emain, particularly the magical defences are not insignificant. They have been built up, not over centuries, but millennia and they might give pause to any attacker, even one with Dragons in their vanguard. By drawing strength here, where we can be crushed in isolation, they hope to weaken the Capital."

The Grand matriarch turned and gestured beyond the window, "We know there is a relief column on its way, but those bastard monstrosities could burn it from the earth in an afternoon. What's stopping them?"

"No fucking idea Vulgara. Maybe the pricks just want all their eggs in one basket; maybe they have difficulty coordinating a multi-pronged campaign. Who knows?"

The Grand Matriarch sighed, "The lads are fighting hard; it just irks that we are so overmatched," she turned to the hardened curmudgeon she had found so strangely likeable and tried hard to hide the desperation in her voice, "Is there any chance at all that we can hold?"

The Swordmistress rose and moved to the window to stand by the Grand Matriarch. Her armour was battered, her face scarred, and she knew the truth, but she lied just the same, "Well now, Dragons are hellaciously tough, but the fuckers are not indestructible. A survivor from the Broch of Kouni came in this morning with an Orc at her side, telling a story that they had flattened one of the bastards."

"They didn't kill it, though."

The Swordmistress grinned, "It's odd you should say that because that's exactly what one of my Commanders said when she was told the tale, and the Orc near punched her right into the middle of next week. I thought it pretty funny, but of course, one of the little Matriarchs started whining about it, demanding the thing be put to death for striking a superior officer."

"What happened?"

"You ever see a hundred Orcs slowly turn and just fucking glower at you? Well, neither had she. She shut her pie-hole pretty quick."

"You going to do anything about that?"

The old Swordmistress snorted, "Fuck no! As far as I'm concerned, anyone who can go toe to toe with a Dragon and walk away gets a free pass. If the little bitch feels strongly about it, she can challenge the Orc's commander to a duel once the siege is over; I'll even hold her coat."

Vulgara shook her head with a wry chuckle and poured a significant measure of hard liquor into a couple of goblets. Passing one to the Swordmistress, she raised her glass, "Here's to duels once the fight is done."

"I'll drink to that."

Far out across the battlefield, beyond the endless rows of enemies, both living and undead, Demeritus was staring at a map of the city defences when the flaps of his tent were hurled back, and a terrifying dark figure strode in.

The monster blinked, "Master, I... urk..."

The creature took him by the throat, snatching the Dragon from his feet like a helpless child, and a voice like the grinding of stone rumbled, "One of your bastard kind has betrayed me!"

Smoke and a stink like the stench of burning metal came from the creature's grip as its incendiary fury singed the Dragon's hide. The air quivered, and the ground shook around them.

Demeritus clutched desperately at the creature's grip as his tormented body was wracked by indescribable pain and breathlessness, and he wheezed, "T-that's... Imposs-ible."

The creature hoisted the Dragon higher, and his voice crackled like thunder, "I'm lying? I'm wrong? Which is it?"

Eyes bulging desperately, Demeritus struggled feebly, "M-Master... p-please... Shal-Shalidar..."