The road to Nassir was hot and annoying. She clung sleepily to her saddle as she rode, her small army trailing behind her on the long, dusty road to the holy city. The front of Neila’s dark blue tunic had turned black from sweat, the sticky wetness making her pull at the cloth incessantly to keep the fabric from clinging to her breasts. The tunic barely fit her as it was. It once belonged to the former Weapon Master of Lavignal Fortress. The man had been small and wiry, but on her it was loose in all the wrong places and too tight in others. The moisture and unbearably heat only added to an already darkening mood.
They had left the fortress that morning, leaving Persha as the new Lady of Lavignal. The girl had stood at the gates of the fortress with the other remaining servants to see them off. She had been dressed in a gold embroidered gown as befit a proper Lady, holding the hand of her new Lord, formerly the fortress’s stable boy. The young man looked bewildered, not believing his good fortune, but Persha stood confident and tall.
Neila gave a strict lecture to the others to follow Persha’s lead, warning that she would take their heads if the girl was not in charge when she returned. To Persha, however, she said nothing. Neila hoped the girl found the strength to hold onto the gift she had been given. But that was up to Persha and her alone. So Neila exchanged a polite nod to the new Lady and turned her horse toward the open road.
Considering the ragtag army that followed in a meandering column behind her, Neila admitted a tinge of doubt that she could do the same. Leaving behind the wounded, what remained were some two hundred mercenaries as well as conscripts hailing from half a dozen lands around the Empire. They frequently fought among themselves, and often refused to take orders from anyone but her. From her view they were not an army but a mob.
They did not follow her orders out of respect, either. Like a brothel owner who held the key to the stable, they needed her. Whether they had come to her out of greed or force, they all followed for one reason – a ravenous desire for her blood. A single taste had irrevocably bound them to her, and so worried were they that they could be denied more, they obeyed even when they did not like what they heard. She just hoped her word was enough to keep them from killing each other.
They wound their way down the road, heading east with a motley tail of supply wagons and mules trailing behind. The path dodged around hills and through soggy marshes, occasionally intersecting with the Uphret River where waves lapped mere feet from the hard packed dirt.
Whenever they encountered the river, Neila wondered how far the Lord Defender had traveled before coming ashore. Was it nearby, or had he kept to the water? Could he be on the road ahead, just around the next bend? Or had he made it all the way to Nassir and was even now praying to Kurn for the strength to face her?
The thought of seeing him again made her shiver with anticipatory delight. She longed to feel the pain radiating from Tristan de’Dassir like she would the sun on a frigid day. All she wanted was to bask in the warmth of its glow. She knew that Gregor did not approve and would scold her for flirting with danger. Yet she could not turn away. Like her followers to her, she was bound to the Lord Defender. While few things in this world left her feeling satisfied, what Tristan de’Dassir offered was a feast without end.
As if called to her, Gregor trotted up on his dappled mare. His horse was so dwarfed by her gelding, he had to look up to speak to with her.
"My Lady," he said, bowing his head in greeting. “There is a matter we should discuss. When reach Nassir, we should tread carefully. It is a holy city, and we dare not offend the gods who live there."
She looked at him questioningly. Neila knew his people were fiercely spiritual, but his words came as a surprise. Rarely did he care about anything that lay within the Empire’s borders.
"What you want me to do, Gregor?”
"Even the children of Elah consider the city of Nassir a sacred place,” he said, referring to his own people. “The gods will be watching us there. We must not spill the blood of their priests. Even the first Emperor dared not do so when he took the city a thousand summers past." His voice was matter of fact and condescending. He was like a teacher speaking to a pupil too slow to realize the obviousness of his words.
"Then what you think I should be doing, spit at them? It’s a city of priests. What I be telling my men? Don’t go killing the ones in robes?" She took a deep breath to tamp down her annoyance.
“Once they see what you are, what you can do, they will see you for a living god and lay down their arms willingly. We can take the city without bloodshed. Beyond your own, of course.”
Mention of her blood turned her annoyance to anger. ”You be expecting me to stand there like a seamstress’s pin cushion and bleed for them? No.”
His eyes narrowed in confusion. “No? But it must be done as I say. Issir would have agreed with me.”
"No be no, Gregor. And Issir is dead. He has nothing more to say on it. I’ll be doing what I wish. We be taking the city, and if that means poking holes in every robe I see then that’s what I’ll be doing, gods be damned.”
"By the blood of Yu, you foolish girl. You do not know what you are talking about. To claim your place we must have the gods on our side. We must not offend them. You must listen and do as I say…”
Neila backhanded Gregor, the force of her knuckles against his jaw knocking him from his mount. He tumbled into the path of another horse, forcing its rider to pull hard on its reins to avoid trampling him. In turn that caused the entire column of men behind to jerk to a halt to keep from piling into one another.
Blood cascaded down Gregor’s chin, staining his pale surcoat to crimson. He thrashed to avoid the hooves surrounding him before looking up balefully at her. Neila smiled gleefully in return.
"Stupid bitch! What do you think you are doing?" He spat out the words with his blood. “You dumb, ignorant girl. You are nothing without me. How dare you strike me!”
Neila looked calmly down at him, her grin never leaving her face. When he tried to regain his footing, she nicked her horse forward, shoving Gregor’s mare out of the way. She brought her gelding’s hooves near to his head, its mincing hooves threatening to crush his skull. Gregor tried to shuffle back to safety, but Neila wagged a finger in warning.
"Move and I’ll be killing you and leaving your body for the birds." She tingled with pleasure to see his startled look as he froze on the ground below her. The others around them, wary of her mood, moved their horses away to give them space.
"Be knowing this, Gregor. I’ll take Nissir as I will. If I be a god, then I be saying what can or can’t be happening in my own bloody city. If the gods say otherwise, then they’ll need to be saying it to me, face to face.”
She let her anger pour out as she continued. “You and Issir helped me find my way, is true, but that time be gone. I won’t be taking orders from you or anyone else again. You be here for as long as you’re still useful and no more. And don’t you be thinking anyone else would lift a finger to save you. They’ll care only enough to keep the hooves of their horses clean when they step over your body. I be making my own way now, and everyone will follow sure enough if they want what I have to give.”
“Issir and I knew the bargain,” she went on, remembering her conversations with the deceased Elahner when he and Gregor had found her in the streets of Orphir. “I be the avatar of your precious Mother, he said, so helping me be akin to helping your god and her people against the Empire. And if you ever want me to be putting in a good word with your precious Mother for an invitation to her cave on top of that sacred mountain of yours, then you better be thinking long and well on what you have to say to me before opening your mouth.”
Gregor lay in the dust a moment, dumbfounded. Then his expression shifted from stubbornness to calculation as he considered her words. He had the look of a wolf then, eyeing the sheep even as he avoided the shepherd. It made her wonder if she had made a mistake.
Before she could say more, he spoke, his tone conciliatory. "Forgive me, my Lady. I’ve been foolish.” Gregor shifted to sit on his knees and bowed, forehead against the dirt of the road. “I only wish to serve. That is my only desire.”
He sat up, using his right hand to touch the ground, then his heart, then his forehead. Then he clasped his hands together before bowing again. He repeated the movements twice more. When he was done, he looked up at her, the blood on his face now caked with dust.
Despite the hint of condescension still written in the furrows of that dust, she decided to let it go. She still needed him.
"I be wishing you to live, at least for now. Get up. But if you ever be speaking to me again without my say, I’ll have your head atop a pike before you finish. And your horse stays with me. Find another.”
Rage flashed across his face once more, but Neila just glared at him challengingly. A part of her hoped he would dare to speak again, but was relieved when Gregor relented, taking control of his anger. He rose from the ground, brushed himself off, and bowed deeply before turning to walk back down the line of men and horses.
Watching him go, Neila motioned to one of the men nearby. "I be wanting the prisoner. The man, not the woman. Take Gregor’s horse and bring him. And let him ride." Waving him away, she turned her own horse about and continued down the road.
A short time later her man returned with the mare and prisoner in tow. He was no longer naked, wearing an old imperial uniform she had provided back at the fortress, and despite hands tied behind his back, he sat upright and confident in the saddle. With his face free of bruises from having tasted her blood, he appeared in charge of his fate rather than a victim of it.
Through the poise she could see a glint of anger, yet his eyes betrayed a widening of the pupils which Neila found all too familiar. She remembered escorting nobles into the presence of her mother as a child. The moment they laid eyes upon her mother’s beauty, the color of their eyes would grow black with desire.
She suppressed a smile as she slowed her horse and turned to the soldier who guided him. "Untie his hands. Keep hold of the reins and be staying near. I don’t want our bird to fly if we can help it.”
The prisoner looked Neila over as the her man worked at the restraints. Even after the rope fell away he continued to stare. He rubbed at his wrists without looking, eyes never leaving her face.
Amused, Neila kicked her horse back into motion, starting the line forward again.
They rode side by side in silence for a time. Seeing his gaze locked on her all the while, she eventually laughed. "Like what you be seeing?”
Neila was amused by the sudden redness in his cheeks as he forced his gaze away to look down the road ahead. The man holding the reins smirked, but a sharp look from Neila quickly had him looking elsewhere.
"I was not meaning for you to turn away," she said, smiling at her prisoner reassuringly. "It’s been a time since a man looked at me as a proper woman. At least none among those who follow me, sad enough." She motioned to the caravan behind her. The prisoner slowly returned his gaze to her, but it was not just lust in his eyes now, but a hunger for something more. She knew the look of blood hunger, but it still made her uncomfortable. Now it was her turn to look away, feeling angry at herself for caring what he thought.
As a distraction, she asked ”What be your name then? Doesn’t seem right to be riding besides you and not have your name.”
"Stevan e’Brolon," he spoke without hesitation or embellishment. He did not mention a title. Having stood besides the Lord Defender at the fortress, she was surprised by his humility. Most men took extraordinary pride in their titles, even those paid for with gold. This one did not look a dandy, however. She had no doubt he had earned his place with sweat and blood.
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"Stevan, then. Your family name be a northern one. You’re a long way from home. What be making you serve the south?"
"My father was a Lord," he said, his voice a rich, pleasant baritone. "But I was the last child of eight. My choices were a soldier or priest. Couldn’t see myself as a priest, so I joined the Emperor’s army and was stationed in the south." He looked at her suspiciously. "My father’s long dead now, so don’t expect to get a ransom for me if that’s what you’re looking for."
Neila laughed. "Hadn’t thought of that at all. For now it’s enough to know who you be. Tell me, what was your place beside his Lordship? What were you to him?" She looked at him sidelong to see his reaction to the question.
Stevan looked forward again, studying the road ahead. His hands lay on the pommel with nothing else to do. "I was his second, my Lady.”
“Feel free to be calling me by my name. We both know I’m no Lady, and I’m thinking we’ve shared enough to say more than niceties, good as they are. Just Neila will do for now."
He frowned, saying nothing. Instead he looked way, returning his gaze to the road once more.
She was irritated by his silence. “A quiet one I see. If that’s the way with you, then I’ll be saying my piece and have done with it. I want to know about Tristan de’Dassir. Tell me what you can, and maybe I’ll be keeping you here with me a while longer. I might even be giving you something else. Something you be wanting, if you’re quick about it.”
Now she had his attention. Despite himself, his eyes went to where her hands held the reins, lingering longingly over her wrists. But just as quickly his face turned from hunger to shame. He lifted his gaze back to her her face. “The boy died. I’ll not tell you a thing.”
She shrugged apologetically, though the memory of last night brought a savory taste to her mouth. "Sorry about that, my sweet. He was too far gone. Nothing I could do. But I understand why you be angry. I didn’t keep my word.”
She thought a moment and added. “I can’t take it back, but I can give you something else. Ask me anything and I’ll answer true. If you like my words, then you can tell me what you know. If you don’t, say nothing and I won’t be punishing you for it. On this I promise.”
He looked dubious as he thought her proposition over. A brief look over at the man holding his reins, however, seemed to make the decision clear for him. "Alright then, tell me. What are you?"
The question caught her off guard, but it made her chuckle. "Oh, that’s a good one, to be sure." She was liking this man more and more. "I don’t know, and that be the truth. Gregor thinks I be a god, and while I hope that is so, I cannot be sure. My mother was a whore and my father one of her customers, or so I think. I have my doubts that a god can be born of whores. What do you think?”
She was hoping for some reaction, but he stared at her for a time with a blank expression, seeming to weigh the answer in his mind. The longer the silence stretched the more she wanted to know his thoughts. Instead of an answer, though, he asked another question. “You appear… young,” he said hesitantly, careful with his words. “How old are you really?”
The surprises continued. Not even Issir had thought to ask that question. “I cannot be sure. I was a child when my mother died after the plague took Orphir, about ten summers old. After that I lost count. The brothel cared nothing for birthdays, but they liked their whores young and I was slow to grow. Only when I got tired of being hit by customers and started returning the favor did they throw me into the street. That’s where I stayed before Gregor and Issir found me in the gutter. I’m thinking I be at least thirty, maybe more. I may look a child, but I am not.”
“The plague was twenty five springs ago,” Stevan said thoughtfully. He looked to either side of the road as if checking for ambushes. "I had known Lord de’Dassir for ten springs. I heard he served in the High Lord’s army for ten before that. The High Lord was so impressed with his swordsmanship he made Tristan the Lord Defender though he looked barely more than twenty. He hadn’t aged a day in all the time I’d known him. You look younger still, but your eyes remind me of his. Older. Harder.”
"Thank you, Stevan.”
This was what she had wanted to hear, confirmation that she and the Lord Defender were alike. Hearing the story, it was like discovering she had an older brother. They may not have shared a mother, but now she had family.
She doubted Tristan de’Dassir would feel any affection for his long lost sister, but no matter. They did not have to like each other. It was enough to know he was out there. She looked forward to the day they would meet again. Knowing they both aged slowly, it seemed they like had all the time they needed to find each other once more.
Satisfied, she allowed Stevan to continue riding beside her. They spoke little as the leagues passed, each content in keeping their thoughts to themselves as they watched the countryside pass.
As evening approached, Gregor gathered his courage enough to come forward, riding nearby until she asked what was on his mind.
“Forgive me, my Lady, but the men need their rest. May we stop and pitch camp?” It was said with such temerity that she felt compelled to agree out of pity.
She sent Gregor back down the line to pass the word. As the sun fell over the westward hills from which they came, a small city of tents and wagons took shape in a nearby clearing.
Neila’s own tent was the first to rise in the evening shadows, the normally cream colored cloth tinted red from dust and wear. It was sizable enough for herself and several others to stand inside, though she insisted on being alone. She filled the space with rugs to keep her feet off the hard ground, a small travel desk and chair, pillows, and a large bed carried there in a wagon barely large enough to bear the weight. If it had not been for the sounds of the camp outside, the space could have been mistaken for a room back at the fortress.
Waving away the guards, she beckoning for her prisoner to followed her inside. Stevan looked askance at that, but seeing there was a wall of armed men surrounding the tent, he knew he was as tightly bound in her presence as the knots of a rope.
"Take a seat. You be my guest this evening." She pointed to a stack of blue silk pillows on the floor she used in lieu of a divan. He remained standing, however. He looked like a man prepared for battle. She grudgingly admitted that perhaps he had a point. Giggling at the thought she added "Really, I not be biting unless you wish it." A pitcher of wine had been set for her on the desk. She poured two cups, taking one over to Stevan.
She held out the cup for him, but instead of taking it, he slapped the cup out of her hand. She was not surprised by that, but was by the speed at which he yanked the dagger from her belt. A quick shove tipped her backwards onto the pillows, her own wine flying across the tent. He was on top of her before she could take another breath, blade to her throat, his weight pinning her to the floor.
"One sound and I’ll cut your head off, bitch. I doubt you’ll heal so quickly from that,” he whispered.
Enjoying the turn of events, Neila relaxed against him, choosing not to struggle. "No one has ever tried that. Might be fun," she whispered back. Looking into his deep brown eyes, she could see flecks of gold glittering in his irises. They made his gaze like that of a wild cat ready to strike. She found his intense ferocity refreshing. So much better than the fear or feigned adoration she was used to getting. With the light of the tent’s lanterns filtering through his halo of greying, sun bleached hair, she could imagine him a lion looking down at his next meal. She wanted to be that meal, to be devoured just as she wanted to devour him.
Not expecting her reaction, Stevan pulled back. The fire in his eyes flicker, an expression of shame threatening to be replace it. His grip on the dagger loosened as well, becoming hesitant and unsure.
“Don’t you dare stop,” Neila growled. “There’s no need to be feeling guilt here.” She put a hand on his, forcing the dagger back into her throat. Blood trickled down her neck, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.
“You want to try and kill me, do so. I won’t be blaming you. But I’ve seen how you look at me. Maybe you like your women young, gods know I look it. Maybe it’s your anger, maybe it’s something else. But I want it. I’m tired of being untouchable or ignored. I want whatever it is you see in me. Hate me or love me, but I’m no defenseless child to be dismissed. And if hate is all you have, fine. I’ll be taking it. But I do think there are better things we can be doing.”
Ignoring the dagger, she leaning in and kissed him. The blade sliced into her as she did, blood gushing onto the pillows.
At first he held back, startled by the blood. Then she felt his reluctance give way. He returned the kiss, at first tentatively, and then with force. The dagger dug deeper as he did, but it only increased her pleasure as the blade’s tip moved in rhythm with his lips and tongue. She moaned as waves of sensation swept over her, her free hand coming up to cup his head from behind, holding him to her for more.
When Stevan leaned back for a breath, he gasped at the cascade of blood that now covered them both. Yet instead of alarm, desire overtook him, compelling him to lick ravenously at the wound he had made. He sucked at her neck hungrily.
His hold on her forgotten, she wiggled her hands free of his grasp and shoved him away from her. His anger flared, but with a gentle touch she calmed him. She took his blade hand once more and guided it down to cut away her shirt. The blade parted skin as well, leaving a solid line of crimson in its wake. Stevan leaned down to kiss her again, then his mouth moved on, following the cut down her neck and between her breasts to lap at the blood dripping from the quickly healing gash.
Stevan was not shy about using the dagger. His anger and desire became one and the same. Neila let him take her as he used his body and the blade to bed her. First with his tongue and then his manhood he thrust into her as he continued to slice, dagger grasped between clenched fingers. At one point he flexed his body while plunging the blade between her ribs, causing her to convulse in wave after wave of breathless orgasm. He was savage in his intensity, either knowing the pain did not hurt her or not caring in his desire to inflict it.
After groaning in climax himself, Stevan collapsed on top of her. His chest heaved to take in air. Though her wounds had already closed, she was so slick with blood he slipped off, coming to rest beside her.
“See,” she said breathlessly. “I told you there be better things to do.” She was tired, but felt satisfied and content.
Stevan turned on his side to study her. Sweat still glistened on his brow.
“Yes, much better.” He studied her, his eyes soft but lips pinched together in an expression somewhere between tenderness and concern.
“You don’t have a mark on you,” he continued, studying where he had cut her.
She laughed. “Of course. As I be telling you, you’ll not be rid of me so easily.”
Stevan sighed. He looked at the blade in his hand. It still glistened with Neila’s blood. Any one of her followers would have killed to get a hold of the weapon to lick it clean. Instead, Stevan tossed it across the tent.
“Had your fill?” she asked.
“More than enough.”
Bloodings always left her exhausted. This time she had been pushed beyond her limits. “You can stay,” she said. “But don’t be thinking of running away.”
“I won’t,” he said in a whisper.
Her eyelids heavy, she turned away onto her side. When Stevan put his arms around her and pulled her in against himself, she did not have the energy to struggle. Her momentary annoyance gave way to comfortable warmth, allowing her to drift quickly into sleep.
When she woke, the sun was filtering in through the canvas walls of the tent. Stevan was no longer beside her. She briefly thought he had taken advantage and escaped, but a quick look about showed his muscular back on the other side of the tent. He was peering intently down into a wash basin her servants must have brought in as they slept. He gripped the lip of the bowl firmly on either side, knuckles white.
"Morning," she said. It came out as a sigh as she stretched her arms to work out stiffness from the evening’s activities. She let the covers fall to her waist as she did. Dried blood flaked from her breasts as she moved. Her stomach growled with hunger, and her mouth felt as dry as a desert.
He turned on hearing her voice. Her first sight of him confused her. He did not appear to be the same man she had bed. There was no gray in his short cropped beard, his hair a golden auburn with skin smooth and unbothered by sun or time. He was a younger, more attractive man than Stevan. Yet it was Stevan’s eyes that glowered at her, the same burning hunger and simmering anger beneath the surface.
"What have you done to me?" he growled.
Neila laughed in glee. She leapt from the bed and threw herself at him. Though not overly tall, he was still large enough to tower over her as she hugged his waist.
"What…" he started, but his voice caught, coming out a hoarse cough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What is this? What did you do to me?" His tone had become more pleading than angry. He pulled her off of him, holding her at arms length. Even so she bounded up and down in his grip, filled with joy.
"Don’t you see, my sweet?" she said cheerily. "It be a gift. My gift to you! You’ve had so much of me, my blood, it’s made you young!" She wiggled out of his hold and hugged him again.
All he could do was stammer. Her enthusiasm had shattered his anger. With the tension slipping away, he allowed himself to tentatively hug her back.
Neila was incredibly pleased with herself. She had always limited herself in the bloodings. They always left her hungry and exhausted, so she resisted giving more than a trickle. When Issir and Gregor had convinced her seasons before to give up her blood for the Elahner ritual, only a drop had been needed to convince them of her divinity. After that she discovered that only a few more were needed to heal, perhaps a splash for all her men after a battle. Anything else seemed unnecessarily excessive. Now it was clear that all that needed to turn back the seasons was more. Issir and Gregor had told her she was a god. Perhaps they were right.
“Where are you?” came Gregor’s voice as he barged into the tent, catching Neila and Stevan in their embrace. His entry brought in the sounds of men packing and horses nickering, her army breaking camp.
Gregor stopped mid step on seeing them, his fury forgotten. Normally he would berate her for laziness, but his words had left him. Little did he know that his shock had saved his life. He had apparently forgotten about yesterday, and she was still in no mood for his attempts to control her.
"By the children of Yush…" He gasped, staring dumbfounded at Steven. "How is this possible?"
Pulling away from her lover, she turned to Gregor, her face growing stern. "It be me that did this, Gregor. It’s the blooding. Isn’t that right, my sweet?" She stood in front of Gregor dressed in nothing but her smile, nipples rising in the cold morning air.
She pointed at the tent entrance. "Tell them, Gregor. Go be telling them it’s a miracle. My miracle. I’ve chosen this man for my blessings, and I have given his youth back to him. Go. tell them."
Gregor’s eyes narrowed, but one look at Stevan reminded him it was a miracle too great to ignore. Instead he nodded and turned to leave. Despite Gregor’s restraint, Neila could see the rage in his eyes as he ducked beneath the tent flap
Yes, Gregor, she thought. I chose him, not you. She sniggered to herself in secret delight at his discomfort. Putting Gregor out of her mind, she turned to Stevan.
"Come, dress. You’ll be riding with me. And no guards if you be promising to behave."
Instead of his usual anger, he nodded. "Of course, Neila,” he said softly before turning away to hide his shame.
