Earls of Iron: Part 3 of 6

Fables of Blood and Fate
Book One
Earls of Iron


A Fantasy Novel
by
Jason Norman Thompson
Part 3: 30,456-44,503 words
 
Part Two
The Wrack
Marital Customs of Western Thule

“The Nabbing Rite is an unseemly remnant of the uncivilized past, when a man of a particular clan had to seize his bride from a rival tribe, rather than risk inbreeding through familial marriage. Time and expedience caused the custom to develop into an unsavoury practice.
Many an impoverished Nobleman chose to target the eligible daughter of a wealthy Peer, abduct the lady in question, and persuade her to marry him without her parents’ consent. These unsanctioned ceremonies, typically performed for monetary gain by unscrupulous aldermen, often scandalized and shamed the bride’s family.
The bride, enchanted by the romantic exhilaration of the moment when she was inveigled into marriage, often came to regret her decision to wed without the benefit of an engagement, whereby her family could have investigated her husband’s background for any secret iniquities, and probed his character for pernicious flaws.
The desperate young men who perpetrated these kidnappings became known as Nabbers. Generally, little more than rogues, most possessed some insalubrious character trait that prohibited them from obtaining a bride through respectable, traditional methods. Inveterate gamblers, wastrels, lechers, braggarts, brutes and fools; such were those for whom the Nabbing Rite represented an attractive proposition.
By the year, 1447 M.A. Nabbings had become so endemic among the Western Realms, to the detriment of the Nobility and society as a whole, that they were outlawed. A short time after that, it became fashionable among Noble Clans to stage a fake Nabbing prior to nuptials.
In accordance with tradition, all the customary features of a wedding are observed: chaperoned courtship, betrothal, nuptial celebrations, marriage service, and honeymoon. However, rather than have family members escort the bride-to-be to the matrimonial ceremony; the groom instead abducts her en route.
With attendant relatives and friends acting as the groom’s Nabbing Gang, they stage a mock battle with the Honour Guard escorting the Bridal Party.
Blunted tourney weapons are used to reduce the risk of injury, although accidental wounds inflicted by exuberant youths are not uncommon. Nevertheless, participants seldom suffer any serious harm, and the custom has become very popular with young Noble couples and the general populace.”

Origins of Tradition
(1452 M.A.)
Loremaster Acuitas Consors
(1408-1458 M.A.)

The Chaperone

The wooden coach creaks and sways as it trundles along the rutted road. The motion reminds Prudefemme Sec Haridelle of her favourite old rocking chair at home. She feels lulled towards slumber, blinks and regards her wards. The five girls huddle together in a giggly gaggle on the opposite seat. Thirteen-year-old Gensor Sanglys sits at the centre of the little group. Her younger sister Pite and her maid-of-honour Pupilla sit to her right, her bridesmaids Soubrette and Jonquette on her left.
Plump blonde Jonquette notices the stern Prudefemme’s attention. The girls fall silent, sit back in the seat and feign innocent interest in the trappings of the coach, the hilly terrain beyond the windows, the wooden floor, their painted fingernails; anything but the placid scrutiny of their elderly chaperone.
Prudefemme Haridelle considers the imminent Nabbing Rite. She does not want to participate in the idiotic expedition. She would rather be rocking in her chair, at home. She believes that Nobles bear a responsibility to set an example for the commoners beneath them. Those who demean themselves with undignified pagan rites bring their entire class into disrepute. The Prudefemme would happily denounce the entire rambunctious affair as a grand nonsense. Her disapproval is irrelevant. Her Liege, Sieur Cointe Sanglys, fourth Baronet of Percale, commanded her to accompany his daughters. She is duty-bound to obey.
The Prudefemme turns in her seat. She gazes out the window, a sour expression on her face. The carriage rumbles on along the road.

The Innocent

INSERT: told from the perspective of 12-year-old Parere Ferrumanus, 4th child and 2nd daughter of Earl Suavis Ferrumanus. Earl and guests enter Earlshome’s Great Hall and take their appointed places.

NOTE: Rewrite the following from Parere’s perspective, as the others take their places; more logical, as she would know them all.
Siorai regards the nine people seated on the thrones beside the Earl. During the brief periods in their hectic ride when they had stopped for food and rest and to allow the Huntlady to replenish their energies by drawing upon Earth power, Calma had described the Earl’s family to her. Siorai feels confident that she can identify the others on the platform.
Four men sit to the Earl’s left, five women on his right. A poised woman in her forties sits next to the Earl. She has fiery red hair. She wears a turquoise velvet gown. She must be his wife, Countess Satureia Ferrumanus. A younger redhead sits beside her. She wears cerulean silk and grey lace. Siorai guesses she is their elder married daughter, Racemes Prudpan, Countess of Estanche. A blonde girl sits next to Racemes. She has blue-grey eyes. She wears a ruffled yellow silk frock. She kicks the heels of her teal satin slippers against the base of her seat. She has a bored expression on her small pretty face. She must be Racemes’s little sister, Lady Parere Ferrumanus. The two women confer with a bald heavyset man in dark plain attire. He stands between them in a composed attitude of attentive reserve and forbearance. Siorai reckons him as Stellaris Status, Master of Ceremonies at Earlshome. His function, despite his grandiose title, is to serve as the Earl’s seneschal and manage the Noble household.
A handsome-redheaded man in silver-and-black sits to the Earl’s left. He regards the Huntlady with an intent expression. He is Viscount Perspicax Ferrumanus, eldest of the Earl’s four children. A dark-haired youth sits next to him. He has a cheerful mien. He wears cyan-and-grey. He must be the soon-to-be-wed Baron Castus Ferrumanus. Beside him sits a stern blonde-haired man. He is in his twenties. He is dressed in magenta-and-cream leather. Siorai places him as Estalon Prudpan, the Count of Estanche and Raceme’s Reaumish husband. To the far left sits an unkempt older man. He wears rumpled black linen. He has thinning brown hair. He has dark impatient eyes. He quaffs from a golden goblet. He is the Earl’s brother, Feroxos Ferrumanus, Viscount of Farina. A liveried manservant stands by his side, ready to refill Feroxos’s cup from a large jug.
A gorgeous demure woman sits next to little Parere. She has black hair. She has exquisite apple green eyes. She wears a sky blue silk dress. She can only be Perspicax’s Durian wife, Morum. A curly-haired redhead sits beside her. She wears a gold satin gown. There is a bored petulant cast to her lovely features. She is Feroxos’s young wife, Lascivia.
The Earl’s three grandchildren are not present. Siorai assumes that they must be elsewhere in the palace. Doubtless, sequestered with nursemaids, that they not disrupt proceedings. Perspicax and Morum’s son, Jubilare, is seven years old. Their daughter, Pica, is just five. Estalon and Raceme’s little girl, Douxjoel, is only two. Siorai notices another group. They sit in tall chairs to the rear of the dais. She supposes that they are members of the Earl’s extended family. She counts eleven people.

‘Entertainers’, ‘servants’ and Guardsmen are already present. The doors are locked once everyone is inside. The festivities commence with jugglers tossing weapons about.
NB: SEE NOTES ABOUT THIS.
WRITE – IF IT WORKS, SHOEHORNED IN, OR NOT.
IF NECESSARY, EXCISE.
SUFFICIENT REFERENCE AND DETAIL LATER TO COVER WHAT OCCURS.

The Nabbers

Siorai Coillseilg picks her way through the tumbled ruins of the watchtower in a low crouch. A balmy Vernalis breeze gusts along the hilltop. It ruffles the young woman’s short dark hair. She reaches the remains of the westwards wall. She scans the landscape below, through a gap in the weathered grey stones. The panorama enthrals her.
Siorai can see clear to the seaport of Farina twenty miles to the west. She glimpses the waters of Lake Solala, beyond. Mountains loom, some five miles to the north, a little further to the south.
The countryside ahead of her is verdant and wild. The meandering trade road dips and rises as it follows the lay of the land through a broad range of low hills into the green expanse of Gentiana Wood. A colourful medley of flowers blankets the slopes in so many different shades that Siorai could spend near half the day in their naming: sun-yellow, snow-white, sky-blue, dawn-pink, dusk-purple, flame-orange, blood-red... She could never get them all.
Small copses of alder, birch and larch fill the shallow bowls of vales; their fresh vibrant coats of foliage boast a dozen lush shades of green. Streams and ponds glint bright in the mid-morning sunlight: diamonds strewn by a generous hand. The sky is crisp clear and blue. Siorai breathes deep then soughs a soft sigh of wistful delight.
Hunkered out of sight behind the wall she spins in a slow circle to take in the whole view. The broad sweep of the Fluere River flows north-westwards in graceful loops through sleepy mist-shrouded meadows and restful leas. The road she travelled this morning winds eastwards to the village of Flumen. An ancient stone bridge spans the Fluere River there. Cottages, farmsteads and freeholdings with whitewashed stone walls and thatched straw roofs dot the swathe of flat open pastureland and tilled earthy fields that stretches northwards over twenty miles to the grey granite walls of the Capital, Aesfortis. The river runs south-eastwards through trackless foothills; beyond lies Rubidus Wood before the craggy heights of the Cuspis Peaks.
Siorai’s keen eyes pick out an eagle in flight and she feels a rare twinge of envy, for the raptor’s view of fair Tellus Isle must be even more spectacular than hers.
A bright happy smile lights up her face. She climbed the hill on a whim and feels glad that she did. Halfway through her fourth Echelon of study at Seilgscoil, School of Hunting, Siorai will learn to control beasts from afar and perceive with their senses during her sixth. In a few short years she can soar with the eagles, run with the wolves. After that comes Graduation when she will become Huntlady Siorai Coillseilg. The young woman shivers with anticipated pleasure then returns her attention to the road below.
Siorai spies a flurry of motion. A murder of crows takes wing, from the depths of Gentiana Wood. She hears raucous cries of outrage, made faint by distance. Something has disturbed the birds. Siorai cannot see the road for the trees. She suspects the Bridal Party has spooked the corvids and decides to report this to her Mistress.
Siorai doubts the riders will spot her as they pass through the woods dressed as she is in a green-and-brown linen shirt and leggings under her distinctive Hunter’s greatcoat. The rustic garb helps her blend in with the terrain. With the same slow care employed in her approach, she moves back through the ruins, to the crest of the hill. Such perpetual caution is in accordance with her training. Siorai has no room for complacency, haste or haphazardness. Not in her heart, not in her head.
She reaches the slope and takes advantage of the natural cover to angle between boulders and thickets of gorse. As she approaches the camp at the base of the hill, she picks up the pace and spots Sieur Silex Tersus, Warden of Tellus Isle, sat with his back to an elm.
Fifteen-year-old Silex is tall. He is lean. His hair is the red of Autumnus leaves. He is dressed in leather from top to toe. Shirt, coat, trews, even his riding boots, are the same shade of ivy-green as his eyes. He looks up. He sees her.
‘Scout Siorai Coillseilg, what news?’ he says.
Silex rises. Siorai crosses the space between them. She moves in close. She stands before him. Her pale blue eyes gaze up into his. He does not step back, disconcerted, as most young men would. Silex seems amused by her boldness.
‘Just now, some crows croaked tidings of those we seek,’ says Siorai. ‘Did you not hear?’
‘Alas,’ Silex grins, ‘I know neither crowspeak, raventalk, nor rooktongue.’
‘Nor do I. At least, not yet. Come, then, if you would learn the news I bear.’
She steps past him. She walks down, into the clearing. It is surrounded on three sides, by stands of oak, elm and beech. Silex follows behind. The Nabbing Gang numbers twenty-three people: Siorai and her Mistress, nine young noblemen and their servants and a squad of the Earl’s Guardsmen. Some stand near the horses, tethered to a picket line, close to the road. Others sit, or lounge, on the grass. A few pace about, in restless impatience.
The nobles perch on a rough ring of rocks in the middle of the glade around Huntlady Calma Taiscealai stood at their centre. These young men form the core of the Nabbing Gang. The fifteen-year-old groom, Castus Ferrumanus, Baron of Copia and his thirteen-year-old blood-cousin Vivus Ferrumanus, Baronet of Tesellare converse with the Huntlady. Castus’s two cousins by marriage Beatus Novumnavis, Baronet of Rexhortus and Liun Prudpan, Viscount of Colhault sit to his right. His closest friends Sedulus Prospectus, Merus Fides, Virtus Pugnare and Passer Vantare sit on his left.
Calma’s back is to Siorai. She consults a large parchment map in her hands. A barren patch of blackened Earth, at her feet, marks the site of many campfires past. Calma furls the map. She tucks it into her belt. She turns, as Siorai and Silex approach.
Siorai moves her hands in Wildsign. She describes the terrain, all she has seen. Her Mistress nods. She closes her eyes. Siorai knows that Calma is projecting her consciousness, towards Gentiana Wood, to fix the precise location of their quarry. Calma’s eyes flare open. Her features twist into a hollow expression of shock and fear.
‘To horse,’ cries the Huntlady.
She spins on the balls of her feet. She dashes across the clearing, to the picket line. She springs up onto the back of her bay gelding, Tempest. Some of the companions shout questions. Those nearest their steeds mount up, but await further commands. Calma gives a yell. She rams her heels into Tempest’s flanks. The gelding lunges forwards.
‘Treachery. Assassins. Five miles west. Beyond the woods,’ Huntlady Taiscealai shouts over her shoulder.
Tempest speeds out of the hollow, onto the trade road. He gallops off westwards. Calma is gone, out of sight, behind the hill Siorai climbed.
Siorai turns to Silex. She registers the shock in his eyes, as it dawns on him who the assassins’ intended victims must be. She grabs his arm, spurs him into action. They run across the grass together. Those of the party already ahorse gather the other mounts. They lead them towards the middle of the glade. Within heartbeats, everyone is ready to ride.
‘To arms,’ says Castus. ‘They are after Gensor.’
He draws the blunted longsword from the scabbard at his waist and tosses it onto the ground then delves into the blanket roll tied behind his saddle to pull out a sabre, which he flourishes above his head. The others follow his example, cast aside the useless practice weapons they have to hand and replace them with real ones carried in their gear.
‘Ride, my friends, ride,’ Castus hollers. ‘Ride as never before.’
He leads the charge to the road. He turns west. The company thunders behind. They pursue the tiny figure of Huntlady Taiscealai, far ahead.
Siorai’s thoughts race swift as Prudence’s hooves. The maelstrom that whirls through her mind vanishes as if dashed against an obdurate wall of ice. Her Mistress is drawing upon the power of Earth to make her horse gallop faster and riding ahead into danger, possible death. Siorai feels cruel talons of despair clutch at her heart. She unleashes a frustrated wrathful yell and spurs Prudence in a desperate attempt to catch up with the Huntlady.
Her efforts bring Siorai level with Castus, at the head of the troop. She glances across. She watches his broad face contort into an awful mask of anguish. Tears stream from the corners of his eyes. They streak back along his cheeks.
Castus turns his head towards her and Siorai is transfixed by awesome lunatic fury, ablaze in his brilliant blue eyes. The moment seems interminable. Castus swings his gaze back to the road ahead. Siorai feels relief, freed from that terrible glare. In the face of the fearsome emotional inferno that rages within Castus, her own inner turmoil diminishes. Siorai’s soul aches at his torment.
She shouts. He roars. Together, they urge their labouring mounts, to still greater efforts and speed. Siorai hears bellowed exhortations, from the rest of the company behind.
Siorai watches her Mistress ride into the woods. Her mind fills with grim resolve. She hardens her heart. She fixes her eyes upon the dark-boled trees ahead. She swears a silent steely oath of vengeance.
‘I swear. If Calma dies, I’ll hunt her killers down. I’ll annihilate them. Whatever it takes. No matter what. I swear, on my heart, to the absent gods. The sacred, and the profane.’

The Massacre

INSERT: DETAIL GREAT HALL MASSACRE: Recount from perspective of Parere Ferrumanus: Castus’s 12-year-old younger sister, so make her among last to die – when killing starts, she dives under table but is dragged out and killed.
Jugglers juggle weapons. When first guest starts choking from poisoned wine, that’s cue for assassins and treacherous Guardsmen to attack. Jugglers and other assassins hurl pointed weapons – many guests killed instantly, others convulse and die from poisoned wine. The Lightsword hangs on the back of the Earl’s chair: Feroxos grabs it and kills his brother Suavis with it as the ‘mummers’ and ‘musicians’ attack the Earl’s family from the flanks. Clan Ferrumanus being the primary targets – those not already killed by jugglers’ initial attack. Everything happens very fast.
Feroxos goes berserk: after killing the Earl, kills his son, Perspicax and his 2 young children and then he hacks the corpses to pieces. The slaughter is swift and brutal and the Nobles are lightly armed– apart from the Earl, no one bears more than a belt knife or dagger, so only a few of the killers suffer any wounds and those are minor.
END OF SECTION

The Slaughter

The coach stops with a sudden lurch. The abrupt halt almost throws Prudefemme Haridelle from her seat. A young man on horseback appears at the window. She scowls at Dars Bacheler, Lieutenant of Gensor’s Honour Guard, who responds with a grin. He dismounts. He wedges wooden chocks under the wheels. He opens the carriage door.
‘Ladies,’ says Dars, ‘Baron Castus Ferrumanus approaches. You may wish to come outside, that you might bear witness to the coming battle.’
The maidens chatter and titter. The Lieutenant helps them to disembark. The Prudefemme peers at him, disapproval plain on her face. She ignores his proffered hand. She steps down onto the road. She joins her wards.
The sun shines bright, in a clear cloudless sky. Prudefemme Haridelle squints. Her eyes adjust from the coach’s dim interior. Some two-hundred paces away, the road ahead runs into a forest. Around twenty armoured riders sit their chargers at the treeline. They wear the black-and-silver livery of Earl’s Guardsmen, with Familia Ferrumanus’s stylized silver foxhead insignia, the Signum Vulpus, emblazoned on their black tabards. They wear full helmets. A visor covers every face. The long line of horses moves forwards at a hack.
The girls shriek laughter. They clutch at one another. They point at the Nabbing Gang. The Prudefemme shakes her head at the Nabbers’ dramatics, her wards’ reactions. Gensor’s sixteen-year-old brother, Espeer, hops down, from the driver’s box of the carriage. He moves over. He stands beside Dars and the girls. The two young men draw their blunted training swords. They are joined by Dallier Gale the Bard. He smiles at the maidens. He plucks a merry refrain, on his three-stringed lute.
Last night, the Bridal Party stopped in Vallis town. They lodged at The Brindled Hound inn. The Bard had been entertaining the patrons there, with popular ballads, lively reels. Dallier heard of their role in the coming nuptials. He had asks to accompany the Bridal Party. Gensor consented. Dallier joined them, as they set out, just after dawn. He rode beside Espeer, and the driver, atop the wagon and amused the company with bawdy songs, lewd jests, jolly tunes, as they travelled.
Prudefemme Haridelle has observed the lustful glances the handsome young troubadour casts at her wards, the sparkle in their eyes, whenever Dallier comes close. Especially that shameless little hussy, Jonquette. The Prudefemme regards the Bard, with a beady distrustful eye. She interposes herself between Dallier and the girls.
Sieur Volter Adober, Knight of Percale, Captain of the Honour Guard, sits his rouncey, a short distance ahead. Eight mounted soldiers flank him, four-to-a-side.
‘To arms, men,’ he shouts.
He draws the dulled longsword from his scabbard. He swings his round wooden shield into place. The others do likewise. A swift glance behind assures him that the two young men stationed beside the girls are also ready for battle.
Sieur Adober turns to the man on his left. Sergeant Cooin Ortolan rumbles, deep in his throat.
Cooin says, ‘I thought they weren’t meant to come at us till the bridge, near Flumen.’
‘Yes,’ Sieur Adober says. ‘Perhaps the young Baron grew tired of waiting for us. And his lovely bride.’
‘True enough. Can’t say as I blame him. I’ve seen snails move faster than that bloody wagon.’
‘Aye, Cooin,’ says another soldier. ‘Especially when you’ve got the poor wee buggers on your plate.’
The men chortle. They return their attention to the riders. Sieur Adober watches the Nabbers approach. He feels grateful that the fight will just be a sham. The Nabbing Gang outnumbers the Bridal party three-to-one. Were the battle a real one, his small force would be decimated in heartbeats. A thought niggles at him. Something feels awry. He frowns. He tries to figure out what that might be.
The Nabbing Gang heel their mounts into a trot. They close the distance between the two groups, to just one hundred paces. Their horses break into a gallop. They surge forwards.
The charge is just fifty paces away. Sieur Adober’s heart leaps in his chest. Helmets hide the riders’ faces. He recalls both briefings, given by Sieur Custos Pedester, Guard-Captain of the Earlsguard, about the planned Nabbing. The first, a month ago, the second, just four days past. Helmets were never mentioned.
Twenty paces separate the ambushers from Gensor’s Honour Guard. Throwing axes appear in the Nabbers’ hands. They fly through the air. Sieur Adober watches in horror. He swings his heavy oaken shield up, in front of his face. Two axes thunk into the wood. He feels the jarring impacts. Sharp blades slam into flesh. Chaos erupts all around. Men cry out. Horses scream and rear. Soldiers fall from the saddle. Sieur Adober glances around. Only he and Ortolan remain mounted. The enemy smashes into them.
Sieur Adober thrusts his sword at an armoured assailant. The Nabber makes no attempt to block the blow. The dulled weapon rebounds from the Nabber’s breastplate. The Nabber’s sabre slashes Sieur Adober’s throat. He tumbles to the ground. He gurgles. He twists his head to the side. Ortolan’s lifeless eyes stare at him. Sieur Volter Adober dies.
Prudefemme Haridelle sees that Espeer and Dars stand frozen in disbelief, useless swords slack in their hands. The girls scream. They huddle together. She watches Dallier Gale’s fingers move on the neck of his lute. The instrument drops to the ground. The Bard bears a long thin-bladed dagger in each hand. The old woman does not think. She steps forwards. She slaps him hard in the face. Dallier grins, a gleeful twinkle in his eyes. He tips her a salacious wink. He slips around her. He glides towards the others, with a dancer’s smooth grace.
Espeer turns towards the Bard, a look of confusion on his face. Espeer seems about to speak. Dallier’s hand lashes out. Espeer’s eyes widen in shock as the blade slits his throat. Blood sprays from the wound. He stumbles back. His knees buckle. He crumples to the ground.
The murderous Bard moves on Lieutenant Dars, who lashes out with his blunted sword. Dallier ducks under the clumsy swipe then steps in close to ram the blood-stained dagger into Dars’s left eyeball and he collapses.
Gensor Sanglys runs over to her brother. She cradles Espeer’s head in her arms. His life’s blood gouts from the deep gash in his neck. His legs kick out. His boot heels gouge dirt. Espeer sputters. He dies.
Prudefemme Haridelle moves over. The other girls trail her. With great tenderness, Gensor lowers her brother’s head to the ground. She looks up. Her eyes meet the Prudefemme’s. The old woman flinches at the awful bewildered pain that she sees. She reaches out. She takes Gensor’s hands. She helps the young lady to her feet. The other girls sob and weep.
The Prudefemme watches, dry-eyed. Dallier Gale pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes the dagger blade clean. He drops the bloodied linen. Snatched by the breeze, it flutters away, a red-and-white butterfly.
Dallier strolls across the grass, towards the false Nabbers. They sit their mounts in silence. The Bard waves his hand. The killers draw bright sabres. They heel their horses forwards. They form a circle of steel around the ladies.
Jonquette hitches her skirts. She dashes for a gap between two riders. A blade flashes down. She is spun around by the force of the blow. She falls to her knees. Her features a mask of red, Jonquette wails. She clutches at her torn face. She crawls, back towards her friends. The other girls stand. They watch, quiet and still and numb with shock.
‘Mendax,’ says Dallier Gale.
One of the riders turns his head.
‘Yes, Deathmaster?’ the deep voice sounds cold, metallic, inhuman, behind the helmet.
‘No raping. Just kill them. Quick and clean. Our work is far from done, this bloody day.’
Mendax nods. He dismounts. The other riders follow suit. With casual disdain, an armoured killer thrusts his sabre into Jonquette’s back. She arches up in agony. The sharp steel point bursts through her chest in a bloody spray. Her body slides from the blade. She falls, facedown, onto the ground. She does not move.
Prudefemme Haridelle turns to her wards. She reaches out. She clasps hands with Gensor, and her little sister, Pite. Pupilla and Soubrette join them. They stand in a circle, their backs to the killers. The ring of death tightens around them.
‘Close your eyes, my dears,’ the Prudefemme says. ‘This is but a bad dream. You all shall wake soon, in your beds. Safe and warm. At home. Trust me. My darlings. My dearhearts. Naught, but a bad dream.’
While she speaks, Prudefemme Haridelle looks at each girl in turn. They do as she bids. They close their eyes. Then she shuts hers.
The Vernalis air smells crisp and fresh and vibrant with life. Prudefemme Haridelle breathes deep. She fills herself with its exquisite sweetness. She holds the air inside her for several heartbeats. she exhales. A long sigh, laden with deepest regret. She allows her tears to flow.
The Croft

Less than a mile from the eastern edge of Gentiana Wood, Huntlady Calma Taiscealai uses her powers, to touch her horse’s mind. Tempest slows from a headlong gallop, to a lope, then a slow hack. Calma’s training, and her many years as a Huntlady, have attuned her to the land. She can sense the girls’ terrified dismay. Sadness softens the stern lines of her face. Then she feels the outraged distress of the eternal spirit of Earth, as the blood of blameless innocents spills upon the ground. Her expression hardens. Gensor Sanglys, and the rest of the Bridal Party, are beyond her help. She must now turn her attentions towards the living.
She spots a narrow overgrown trail, to her right, a little further along the road. Calma rides there. Snarled brambles choke the entrance to the path. It runs northwards, for some eighty paces. It slopes down, into a broad clearing. A stone cottage stands at the far end. Calma nudges Tempest. She rides down the lane. A thorny hedge borders the trail. The Huntlady surmises that the cottage’s tenants planted the tangled barrier, to discourage wild animals from approaching their home. The ground is soft and loamy. She savours the rich fertile aroma of the forest.
Calma crosses the clearing. She rides down the gentle incline. She regards the cottage. The croft is long and low. It has been built from natural stone. A chimney juts from the roof, at the right end. A wooden veranda runs the length of the front wall. Wooden slates, coated with pitch, cover the slanted roof. There are shuttered windows, on either side of the oaken door. There is a rusty iron ring, set into the centre of the door. It bears neither latch, nor lock. Thick cobwebs festoon the lintel and frame. A wooden outhouse stands off to the right. Piles of split logs have been stacked along the side walls of the cottage: the fuel supply for the previous Autumnus and Vertere. The Huntlady surmises that the building has lain empty for at least half-a-year, because the firewood remains unused.
Calma dismounts. She rubs Tempest’s neck. She touches his mind with hers. She instructs the gelding to go around to the rear of the croft, and wait there. Her horse moves off. She walks over to the right-hand window. She pulls open its shutters. The hinges groan. She sees a window, made of twelve small squares of thick glass, held in place by strips of lead. Calma cups both hands around her face. She peers through one of the panes. The interior is dim. She sees furnishings, in the croft’s single room. This surprises her.
The Huntlady goes to the door. She shoves it open. She stands on the threshold. The air inside smells of dust and neglect. An underlying reek of spoiled meat confirms her suspicion about the cottage having lain vacant for some time. The interior has a tiled floor. Plaster, yellowed and cracked in many places, lines the walls and ceiling.
She sees furniture; functional, but well-crafted. Two padded leather armchairs sit before the cold hearth. There are wooden shelves, fixed to the wall, on either side of the fireplace. A square table, and four chairs, stand near the centre of the room. A low double bed rests against the left wall, with a small cabinet to the side, a heavy wooden chest at its foot. In the far corner, near the window, two spades, a rake and a hoe stand against the wall. Trowels, and other gardening implements, lie on the floor beside them. A long workbench runs almost the full length of the rear wall. Several skinning knives and pelts lie upon its surface. These tell Calma that the croft’s inhabitant must have been a trapper.
She sees pots and pans, hung from hooks embedded in the chimney breast. Wooden dishes, flagons, small earthen jars and pouches fill the shelves. Cooking utensils, and hemp sacks of dried goods, sit upon the end of the workbench, near the fireplace. It strikes her that one day, whoever lived here decided to just pick up and leave, empty-handed, and never return. This mystifies her.
The Huntlady leaves the cottage. She walks back down the trail. She reaches the road. She sits on the ground. She crosses her legs. She closes her eyes. She opens her senses to her surroundings. Calma hears the distant drumming of hooves, as Castus and his companions ride towards her. She knows she has a few minutes, before they reach her.
She takes seven deep long breaths to focus her mind then draws upon the elemental power of Earth to reinvigorate herself after her strenuous ride. Vitality surges from the ground below and floods the Huntlady’s being, filling her with raw vitality. She shudders and smiles in satisfaction.
The woods teem with life. Calma revels in the pure burgeoning energy, generated by the animals and growing things that thrive all around her. The Huntlady sends her will questing outwards among the trees. A wood pigeon roosts nearby. Calma hones her concentration. She reaches out, with a strand of her psyche. She takes control of the bird’s simple mind. She directs the pigeon up through the forest’s canopy of branches, out into open sky. The pigeon flies westwards. The bird’s eyes are weak, yet Calma delights in the heightened awareness and breadth of vision, the phenomenal rush of liberation.
The bird soon leaves the woods behind. Calma espies a four-horse carriage, on the road below. She sees an armed band of people, grouped nearby. The Huntlady lands the pigeon in a rowan tree, atop a rise. This affords her a good view of the road. She counts thirty killers. Their horses form a ring, around the carriage. Their victims sprawl, in the grotesque postures of death. Gensor, and the other butchered maidens, lie at the heart of the circle. The Honour Guard lie near the head of the carriage. Two of the victims’ horses lie dead. Another has an axe sunk in its haunch. Six more stand unharmed. A horse stands beside the team-of-four hitched to the carriage. A handsome palomino is hitched to the rear of the vehicle. The coach driver’s corpse lies slumped on the box. The haft of a throwing axe juts from his chest.
The Huntlady assumes that the assassins’ next move will be to eliminate Castus, and his Nabbing Gang. She resolves to do all in her power to thwart their plans.
Calma touches the mind of a grey mare. The Huntlady can control any beast, because all are driven by their primal urges of hunger, thirst, instinct. Their nervous dispositions make horses easy to compel. Predators are harder to influence, simians the most difficult of all.
Proud, fierce and strong, in the wild, the mare would have been a herd leader. Her actions will influence the other horses. Calma takes control of her mind in an instant. She convinces the grey that the forest is on fire. The mare sees leaping flames. The acrid stink of smoke fills her nostrils. The inferno’s roar fills her ears. Undiluted panic fills her mind.
The mare whinnies. She rears. She gallops away, westwards. Calma shifts her consciousness to the right. She moves her awareness around the ring of horses. She strikes fear into every mind, with the threat of fire. The trained chargers become a bucking, rearing, neighing, stamping riot of terrified beasts. Shouts go up from the assassins. Helpless, they watch their stampeding mounts rush off, in pursuit of the mare.
The Huntlady returns to the grey’s mind. She urges the mare on. The other horses follow, close behind. She withdraws from the mare. The horses gallop on.

Calma opens her eyes. She tilts her head back. She arches her spine. She heaves a sigh. She shuts her eyes again. The Huntlady projects her awareness. She takes command of a magpie. She directs the bird into the sky, above Gentiana Wood. She recalls an eagle, which she had spotted earlier,, flying far to the southeast in the direction of the Cuspis Peaks. Swifter than any wind, her consciousness shifts, from one bird to the other. The eagle banks in the air. It flies towards Aesfortis.
Calma soars on high. She exults. The land slips by, far below. The eagle possesses superior vision. Ten miles from the Capital, Calma spots a lone rider, on a piebald horse, near the city’s southern gates.
The Huntlady relinquishes her hold on the eagle. She feels a twinge of momentary regret. Her awareness darts into the horse’s timid mind. She hears barking, in the distance. She switches to a big aggressive mongrel, chained to a post, in a filthy yard. Calma detects a malignant tumour, in the mutt’s belly. She takes a few moments to channel Earth power into the dog. This alleviates the dying animal’s suffering. The vile growth has progressed too far for the Huntlady to heal it. She then takes control of a succession of mice, until she commands a sleek rat. It scurries along a roof timber, in Earlshome. With the rodent’s acute hearing, Calma hears voices. The Huntlady looks down through its eyes.
Three long feasting tables have been set in place, in Earlshome’s Great Hall. They form an open-ended square. A raised dais stands, at the head of the capacious chamber. The Earl’s high table at the centre of the platform. Rich tapestries and colourful banners adorn the walls. Bright sunlight streams in, at either end of the Great Hall, through tall mullioned windows.
What should be a scene of joyous festivity is instead a horrendous charnel house. Dark pools and splashes of blood paint the chamber. Bodies lie slumped, in the seats around the tables. More lie on the pale marble floor, their limbs splayed in the broken ugly disarray of the dead. The dismembered corpses of Earl Suavis Ferrumanus and his oldest son, Perspicax, have been strewn about the dais. The body of Baronet Cointe Sanglys lies across the Earl’s table, a short sword buried in its chest.
Men and women move among the fallen. Some wear the plain white tunics of servants, others, the black-and-silver livery of Earl’s Guardsmen. Each bears a knife, sword or spear. They despatch the wounded survivors of the massacre, with ruthless efficiency. Many laugh and jest, while they perform their bloody work. A few killers wear the elaborate costumes of mummers. Fanciful masks hide their faces. Others wear the colourful garments favoured by minstrels, jugglers, tumblers and fools.
Calma surmises that professional assassins infiltrated the Great Hall, disguised as retainers and entertainers, and some of the Guardsmen betrayed their Liegelord. Both groups fell upon the defenceless guests. She counts thirty traitorous Guardsmen, and sixty-one masquerading murderers. She estimates around two hundred victims of the massacre.
A group of Nobles stands behind the Earl’s high table. Calma recognizes the Earl’s younger brother, Feroxos, Viscount of Farina. Beside Feroxos stand his young wife, Lascivia, and his four children to his first spouse, Jynx.
Huntlady Taiscealai feels dismay. The suspicions that led her to Earlshome’s Great Hall are true. The murders of Gensor Sanglys and her Bridal Party are but part of a wider conspiracy. The rightful rulers of Tellus Isle, Familia Ferrumanus, have been slaughtered, in a merciless coup d’état. She pulls free of the rat’s mind.

Calma opens her eyes. She stands. She fixes her gaze on a bend in the road, some fifty paces eastwards. A few moments pass. Siorai Coillseilg’s horse gallops into sight. Castus Ferrumanus rides beside her. A double column of riders follows behind. They spot the Huntlady, in the middle of the road before them. They rein in their mounts.
Siorai sees her Mistress, alive and unharmed. She gives a joyful cry. Castus reads the sorrowful expression on the Huntlady’s face. A question, which he fears to ask, shines clear in his eyes. He edges his horse closer. He dismounts. The others do likewise.
Calma knows that how Castus and his friends act in the immediate future will be crucial to their survival. Even though it feels callous, to the point of cruelty, she hopes that she can make them more biddable, by revealing what she has learned.
‘She’s gone, Castus,’ the Huntlady says. ‘Gensor’s entire Bridal Party was murdered by a band of assassins.’
The young man barks a harsh sob of tormented loss.
‘I am sorry,’ says Calma. ‘I could do nothing. I came too late. But, Castus, there are worse tidings than these.’
He blinks back tears. Calma sees a spark of ferocity kindle in his eyes. Castus glares at her. His face twists into an ugly grimace.
The Huntlady says, ‘A monstrous evil has taken place this day. In Earlshome’s Great Hall. Castus, your whole family has been murdered. Along with all the guests at the Wedding Feast. No one survived the carnage. You are now heir apparent to the Earldom of Tellus Isle.’
Calma’s words are met with vehement yells of disbelief. The youths shout questions. They demand to know if their loved ones, and their friends, have truly been killed. Everyone’s fixed upon the Huntlady. She feels the force of their anguished dismay, like a physical blow. She clenches her fists. She hardens her resolve.
‘No one survived,’ Calma says.’ I am sorry. Now, you must all follow me, if you wish to see the end of this frightful day. Every last one of you is in terrible danger.’
Huntlady Taiscealai turns from the road. Without a backwards glance, she walks down the trail, towards the cottage. With each step that she takes away from the group, her heart pounds. She reaches the centre of the clearing. She hears the others move onto the path behind. She turns. She sits down on the grass. She vents a soft sigh of relief. The erstwhile Nabbing Gang rides towards her position.
Calma closes her eyes. She breathes deep, to focus her powers. The tangled snarls of brambles, at the entrance to the trail, writhe and twist. The Huntlady accelerates the plants’ growth. Within moments, thorny briars block the mouth of the path, to obscure its existence from all but the most intense scrutiny.
A horse whickers. The Huntlady opens her eyes. The others move into the clearing. They dismount. She rises. She walks over to them. Castus opens his mouth to speak. Calma raises a hand, to signal silence. She addresses the burly bearded leader of the company’s Guardsmen, Sieur Omnis Ducere. He stands beside Castus.
‘Captain, can you have your men take the horses around to the rear? Picket them, but leave them saddled and unhobbled. We may have cause to ride from here unhindered. There is no need to tether my gelding. Or Siorai’s mare. Then, have your soldiers guard this area. And join the rest of us, in the cottage.’
‘My apologies, Huntlady,’ says Sieur Ducere. ‘But if what you’ve told us is true, then Castus Ferrumanus is now the Earl. And my Liegelord. I can obey only his commands. And none other.’
‘Omnis,’ Castus says, ‘for your loyalty, you have my love. But I am not yet Earl. You know, as well as I, that the sponsorship of three Nobles, or a Monarch, is required for my investiture.
‘This morning, I was sixth in line to the Earldom, but now that my brother, Perspicax Ferrumanus, and his two children, Jubilare and Pica Ferrumanus, have been most foully murdered, as well as my sister, Racemes Prudpan, nee Ferrumanus, and her daughter, Douxjoel Prudpan, I find that I stand as the rightful heir.
‘Therefore, I, Castus Ferrumanus, Baron of Copia, third child and second son of Suavis Ferrumanus, now deceased, do hereby lay claim to his titles, Earl of Tellus Isle, Guardian of the People, Keeper of the Regalia Lucidus, the rank of Lord Brigadier of Aesfortis, and all attendant holdings and obligations.
‘I further name my blood-cousin, Vivus Ferrumanus, Baronet of Tesellare, first child and son of Pallidus Ferrumanus, now deceased, who was fourteenth, but now stands sixth in line to the Earldom, as Viscount of Aesfortis, with all attendant holdings and obligations.
‘My blood-cousin, Silex Tersus, Warden of Tellus Isle, first child of Apis Ferrumanus, now deceased, who was fifteenth, but now stands seventh in line to the Earldom, I now name as Viscount of Farina, with all attendant holdings and obligations, until such time as our claims can be authenticated and acknowledged.
‘I hereby appoint Huntlady Calma Taiscealai as my Mistress of the Hunt. Henceforth, unless I state otherwise, she speaks for me. Please, Omnis, do as she commands.’
‘Aye, my Liege.’
A tall thin man steps forwards from the group. Castus’s cousin through marriage. He has long black hair and a neat beard.
‘Yesterday, I, Liun Prudpan, Viscount of Colhault, second child and son of Avis Prudpan, Marquess of Estanche, now deceased, stood third in line to my father’s title, and twenty-eighth to that of Earl of Tellus Isle.
‘This terrible day, now that my father, my brother, Estalon Prudpan, Count of Estanche, and his first child and daughter, Douxjoel Prudpan, Viscountess of Estanche, all lie dead at the hands of villainous assassins, I stand as heir apparent, and do hereby lay claim to the title, Marquess of Estanche, the rank of Commander, and all associated inheritances and responsibilities.
‘I tender this claim as an interim measure, until such time as my Rightful Sovereign and Liegelord, Crecerelle Mareschal the First, King of Reaumverd, might validate my claim.
‘Furthermore, I no longer stand twenty-eighth in line to the title, Earl of Tellus Isle, but, through the unsanctioned deaths of many innocent claimants, find myself eleventh in line to that title.’
A husky young man joins Liun. Another cousin, with dark tousled hair, sea-green eyes.
‘I, Beatus Novumnavis, Baronet of Rexhortus, third child and first son to Dativus Novumnavis, Baron of Rexhortus, now deceased, stood fifth in line to his title.
‘Now that my sister, Morum Ferrumanus, nee Novumnavis, Viscountess of Aesfortis, her first child and son, Jubilare Ferrumanus, Baron of Aesfortis, her second child and first daughter, Pica Ferrumanus, a Lady of Aesfortis, and my sister, Pretiosus Novumnavis, a Lady of Rexhortus, all now lie dead at the hands of my enemies, I swear an oath of vengeance and, as a Durian Nobleman, whose hereditary position is automatic upon the demise of more senior claimants, as the natural inheritor, I lay claim to the title, Baron of Rexhortus, with its lands and duties, and the rank of Knight-General.
‘Any claim I tender shall remain invalid, until such time as I have in my possession signed testimonies from three independent witnesses, attesting to the demise of the previous Baron of Rexhortus, my father, Dativus Novumnavis, and the aforementioned senior claimants to his title. Nevertheless, I state my position now, before witnesses of Noble rank, in expectation of the eventual drafting of said testimonies.’
‘I can put my hand to such a document now,’ says Calma.
‘My Lady, although I am grateful for your offer, that shall not be necessary at this juncture. I may, however, approach you at a later date.’
‘Yes,’ says Castus. ‘We are obliged to make our claims now, before witnesses, so that we can sue our Sovereigns to resolve the issue, should others attempt to seize our positions.’
‘Provided we live long enough to petition anyone,’ says Liun.
‘Too true, cousin,’ Beatus says. ‘I further state that, through untimely deaths too numerous to detail at this juncture, I no longer stand twenty-sixth in line to the title, Earl of Tellus Isle, but name myself as the tenth hereditary claimant, in accordance with Tellian law.’
‘My Lords, ‘says Sieur Omnis Ducere. ‘Pardon my intrusion. Mistress Taiscealai, do you want me to post a lookout on the road?’
‘That shall not be necessary.’
‘As you will, my Lady.’
The Captain nods. He directs the seven soldiers under his command to carry out the Huntlady’s orders. They lead the party’s mounts around the side of the croft.
Castus’s cousin, Vivus, steps forwards. He states his new position and rank, as decreed by Castus. Silex Tersus then does likewise.
‘Now that the necessary formalities have been dispensed with,’ Calma says. ‘Have your menservants assist the soldiers with the horses, then join me inside. Siorai, come.’
The Huntlady turns. She marches into the cottage. Siorai comes forwards, from the rear. She glances at Castus. She raises her eyes. She shrugs. She follows her Mistress inside. Castus directs his retainers, as Calma suggested. He leads his eight comrades, and the Captain, into the croft.
Calma sits at the square table in the centre of the room. She fixes her eyes upon Castus. Siorai stands behind her Mistress. Castus walks over. He takes the seat opposite the Huntlady. His young blood-cousin, Vivus, sits to his right. His orphaned cousin, foster-brother and closest friend, Silex, takes the chair on his left. The others crowd in. They stand around the room.
‘Castus, who stands to profit most from your death? And your family’s?’ Calma asks.
Since the moment he learned of the twin massacres,
Castus has considered little, other than who might be responsible.
‘My uncle, Feroxos. He, and the rest of that nest of vipers in Foedus Verargent, the Truesilver League.’
‘Castus, it does seem that Feroxos orchestrated the slaughter at your Wedding Feast. All the guests died. Save your uncle. And his wife. And his children.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘My training allows me to discern remote events. I saw the victims’ bodies in the Great Hall. I watched their killers murder the wounded. I saw your father, and your brother, lying dead. I saw your uncle and his kin. They stood unharmed. I can offer no proofs of these tidings. Save my word.’
‘Although you only came here, to Tellus Isle, because of the death of your predecessor, Seasta Doighsuil, and just swore allegiance to my father yesterday,’ says Castus, ‘I believe that you are honourable, and your heart is true. So, I see no reason to doubt your word.’
‘Good,’ Calma nods. ‘Now, Gensor’s killers are just a few miles away. A band of thirty assassins. I believe they shall be coming to kill you, and your companions, next. So, I stampeded their horses, and they are now afoot. I shall use my powers to learn what they plan to do. Then, we can consider our options.’
Liun stalks over to the table, from the hearth, his narrow features white with rage
‘Options? What options? They are all dead. Our families. Our loved ones. Vengeance is the only option.’
Most of the others shout agreement. The Huntlady’s gaze remains on Castus.
‘The blood of our kin cries out, for justice,’ says Beatus. ‘We cannot just sit here, and do nothing.’
‘Hiding like cowards,’ says Passer Vantare. ‘Huntlady, if what you’ve told us is true, and you somehow managed to scare off these filthy assassins’ horses, why, then, we’ve got mounts, while they’ve none. I say we fall on these vile murderers, and put them all to the sword.’
Calma looks at Castus’s short chubby fourteen-year-old friend.
‘How many men lie dead by your hand, young man?’ she asks.
Passer’s plump face flushes with indignation. He opens his mouth to speak. Sieur Silex Tersus stands. He whips his sabre from its scabbard. He points the tip at the Huntlady.
‘Two in duels,’ he says, ‘another four in skirmishes. Killers, fools and thieves.’
Castus storms to his feet. His chair clatters to the floor. He glares at his friend, the Warden.
‘Silex. Sheathe that blade. Save your steel for our enemies. All of you. Remember that you are gentlemen. Not curs. Be silent. Until we have heard what the Mistress of the Hunt has to say.’
The two young men stare at one another. Tension is thick in the room. Then the duellist shrugs. He slips his sword back into its sheath.
‘Yes, my Liege. My hand, as ever, is yours to command. As is my tongue.’
Castus nods. Silex moves over. He rights the tumbled chair. Castus sits. The Warden does likewise.
‘To exact vengeance,’ the Huntlady says, ‘you must first survive. All of you are hunted. I can help you escape, to a place of safety. But that requires trust.’
Calma rises. She places both hands over her heart.
‘I am Huntlady Calma Taiscealai,’ her voice rings out. ‘Trained at Seilgscoil, School of Hunting, in the seven Disciplines of Wildskills. I am a Graduate, possessed of Rank and Title. I have been, these past thirty-five years. I hold power over Earth, Beasts, Ways and, above all, Self.
‘I swear, I shall do all in my power to see you safe, from those who have slain your kin, and seek to murder you. Whatever that takes. No matter how long, or hard, the road. I swear a sevenfold oath to this. On my honour. My name. My title. My skills. My eyes. My blood. On my heart.’
For a few moments, utter silence reigns in the cottage. Calma sits again.
‘Thank you, my Lady,’ says Castus. ‘You honour us. And I am humbled by your pledge.’
The others echo his words. The Huntlady smiles.
‘Evil must always be countered,’ she says. ‘I could not abandon you to your enemies. Now. I must put words into action, and see what our adversaries plan next.’
She lays her hands flat on the table. She shuts her eyes.
‘What is she doing?’ asks Vivus.
‘Using her talents, to help us,’ says Siorai.
Sieur Ducere says, ‘I’ve heard it told that Huntlords... and Ladies... can see over great distances. And control animals.’
‘I can’t speak for my Mistress,’ says Siorai. ‘Because I’m just but her Apprentice. A Scout. In my eighth year of training. But I do know I’ll learn how to influence the minds of beasts, and have them do my bidding. Though that won’t be till my eleventh year.’
‘Is it magic?’ Vivus asks.
‘Some might call it that. Really, it’s achieved through harmony with the land, and discipline over oneself. I can draw upon the Earth’s potency, to sustain myself. This allows me to manage, for days on end, without food. Or rest, or sleep, if necessary. I can do this for others too. Come on outside, and I’ll show you all what I mean.’
Siorai takes young Vivus by the hand. She leads him from the cottage. The others follow. Siorai sits on the grass. She crosses her legs. She motions for Vivus to sit opposite. He does. She takes both his hands. She closes her eyes. The companions cluster, behind Vivus, eager to see what might happen.
A few moments pass. Vivus begins to get restless. Then he feels heat seep up his legs, through his trunk, to his head. The warmth banishes his doubts and fears, along with his physical tiredness. He feels refreshed and alert, dauntless and strong. Siorai opens her eyes. She smiles. She lets go his hands. Vivus gives a joyous whoop. He leaps to his feet. He punches his arm up into the air. A grin of pure delight spreads across his face.
‘I feel so... alive,’ he cries. ‘It’s fantastic. Really incredible. Try it, cousin.’
Castus hesitates. Siorai meets his eyes. She holds out her hands.
‘Come,’ she says. ‘Let me ease your troubles.’
‘I do not want to tire you.’
‘The energy comes from Earth. I only channel it.’
Vivus hops up and down on his toes. He seems to be bursting with vitality.
‘Go on, Castus,’ he says.’ I promise, you shall not regret it.’
Castus sits. Siorai takes his hands. Her skin is soft and warm. He feels calluses on her palms. He supposes they are from regular practice sessions with weapons, just like the hardened skin on his own hands. Then his thoughts melt away. A tingling sensation of liquid heat pulses through his body. This soothes tired muscles. It eases tension. It charges his being with vigour. The grief and hatred that rage in him diminish, to low-burning embers. His mind becomes clear and cool. The feeling is delightful. Comforting as a mother’s hug, energising as a night of restful slumber.
Siorai’s eyes open. Castus feels a wave of gratitude, and affection, wash over him. She smiles. His emotional response deepens into attraction. Castus feels surprise. He experiences no shame about these stirrings, despite the recent terrible loss of his beloved Gensor. He realizes that life, as a force, celebrates itself for itself. Life is certain of its own worth. Life wastes no time on guilt-ridden self-recrimination. Only those who take life deserve such condemnation.
Siorai blushes. She lets go his hands. Castus blinks. He shakes his head. He gives a nervous laugh.
‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘That was just so... unbelievably wonderful. I fear I got... a little carried away. And you says you knew no magic. If that is not magical, then I do not know what is.’
Siorai’s cheeks redden again. Castus is struck by how the blush contrasts with her creamy skin, her black hair, her blue bright eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Now. Who’s next?’
Castus jumps up. He moves to the side. Silex takes his place. Siorai clasps his friend’s hands. She closes her eyes. Castus finds that he cannot tear his gaze away from her freckled cheeks and her pink lips and her long lashes. He wishes she still held his hands, not Silex’s.
‘Was it not marvellous?’ asks Vivus.
Castus turns. He smiles. He throws an arm around Vivus’s slender shoulder.
‘Yes, little cousin. Yes. It was.’
The Usurper

At the site of the Bridal Party’s massacre, Huntlady Taiscealai looks down, from on high. She watches the band of assassins, through the dark beady eyes of a raven.
She notices the absence of the coach’s team of four horses, and the erstwhile mounts of the Honour Guard. Calma guesses that riders have been sent after the coursers she stampeded.
Two men stand beside the carriage. One is a handsome young dandy. He sports the garish attire of a Bard. His stocky hard-faced companion wears armour. He carries a steel helmet, tucked under his arm.
The other assassins loiter, in small groups. Some clean weapons and gear. A few stand, talking. Others practise their fighting skills. Or eat. Or drink. Or piss.
Three armoured figures crouch beside the corpses of Gensor and Pite, and the Sanglys sisters’ murdered companions.
A youth with short black hair. A bald ugly older man. A thin blonde woman. The trio strip the girls’ remains of valuables.
Carrion birds strut and caw, near the corpses of the murdered maidens. Heedless scavengers, eager for the feast to come. Calma’s raven swoops down, out of the sky. The bird joins its fellows on the ground. The Huntlady eavesdrops on the three looters.
‘Caro, you fool,’ the bald one says. ‘Stop yanking at that ring. Just snip her bleeding fingers off.’
‘Aye, Venter,’ says the black-haired youth. ‘It just seems a shame. Them being such pretty ladies, and all.’
‘They ain’t pretty nothing no more,’ the woman says. ‘Dead meat’s all. Crowfood.’
The bald man chuckles, ‘You tell him, Febris. The boy’s soft. He needs some toughening up.’
Febris jerks her head towards Calma’s raven, ‘That one’ll be having her eyeballs out, soon enough.’
‘Watch a Butcher at work, Caro, lad,’ bald Venter says. ‘Easy as filching one of your mama’s pies. Oh. Sorry. Forgot you’re an orphan. Never mind. Just do it like this.’
He grabs Gensor’s dainty wrist. He stretches her arm out, flat on the ground. He chops down with a cleaver. Venter the Butcher picks up a dismembered finger. He yanks a golden ring off. He throws the severed digit at Caro. The young man flinches away. Venter guffaws. Febris sniggers.
Disgusted by their antics, Calma dismisses the looters. She focuses on the Bard’s conversation.
‘Relax, Mendax, will you? Rapere and the others will be back, soon enough. With our horses. Then, we can hunt the pup down, at our leisure.’
‘They won’t get ’em all back,’ says Mendax.
‘Rapere’s good with horses. He will catch most of them. And then, with the guards’ mounts, and this,’ the Bard raps knuckles on the side of the coach, ‘we can go after little Castus.’
‘I still say we’re wasting time here. You command two Deathsquads. Lemme lead one of ’em through the woods. To catch the Nabbers off guard. Then, we can get back to the city. Instead of hanging about here Like damn idiots.’
‘Always so eager to get the job over and done with. If you went ahead, on foot, we would simply catch up with you, once Rapere returns with the horses. Then you would look stupid... correction. More stupid than usual,’ the Bard laughs. ‘Why not just savour the moment? Besides, it does no harm, to let the others have their little bit of fun.’
The Bard turns. He regard the looters.
‘Look at them,’ he says. ‘Like children at play.’
Mendax snorts, ‘Fools. You might outrank me, Serpere. But I think you’re wrong.’
‘Please. I am in character here. Call me Dallier Gale. Troubadour extraordinaire. At your service, your Lordshipness.’
Serpere bows low. He executes an elaborate flourish.
‘Serpere. Why’re we letting our prey slip from our grasp? While we linger here, to no purpose?’
‘Quit with your fretting. Worse than an old woman.’
Serpere points at Prudefemme Haridelle’s corpse. It lies nearby, arms wrapped around the body of little Pite Sanglys.
Serpere says, ‘Perhaps I should have made that old biddy my second. And stabbed you through the heart, instead. She at least had some spirit.’
A surge of pity swells in Huntlady Taiscealai. She sees how, in the face of certain death, the elderly Prudefemme sought to protect the girl from her murderers.
‘On your own head be it, Serpere,’ Mendax says.
‘Listen, Deathdancer. The young fool is hiding in the hills, near the bridge. Waiting for this lot to come prancing along. So that they can have their little play fight. Then skip off merrily, to the Wedding Feast. The idiots will get tired of waiting. Then, they will come to us. And we will kill them. Simple as that.’
‘Don’t try and feed me that loada kack, Serpere. You know we went and underestimated that damned Huntress. Why else did our bloody horses run off? There ain’t nobody else, among the Nabbers, with the skills for that kinda mischief. She’s bound to’ve told Castus what happened. You can bet your bag on it. They’re likely running for the hills. As we speak.’
‘Relax, I told you. Let them run. Our little Lordling is trapped. We have every assassin in Fraternity Obitus to call upon. Not to mention the new Earl’s forces. Castus, and his lot, are a bunch of spoiled brat Nobles, stuck on an island. Huntwhore or no, they cannot escape.’
Mendax turns on his heel. He stalks off. Serpere’s eyes harden. He glares at his second’s back for a moment. Serpere turns. He saunters towards the looters.
‘Hey. Caro, my lad,’ he calls. ‘Have you checked inside of them yet? For swallowed family heirlooms. And the like?’
A slim dagger appears in Serpere’s hand. He waves it about in the air. Caro’s eyes widen.
‘Try not to look so frightened, boy. Uncle Serpere is here, to show you how it’s done.’
Venter and Febris chortle. The Bard cavorts closer. Calma has heard, and seen, enough. She withdraws her awareness from the raven. Her psyche speeds back to her body.

The Huntlady opens her eyes. She frowns. She decides to revisit Earlshome’s Great Hall. To learn what transpires there. Voices, from outside, intrude upon her thoughts. She gets up. She moves to the window. She watches, unobserved. Beatus sits. Siorai takes his hands. A small smile brightens Calma’s face. Then, she sighs. She returns to her seat. Once more, she closes her eyes.

Viscount Feroxos Ferrumanus stands behind the Earl’s high table. He surveys the scene of carnage, in his brother’s Great Hall. Feroxos’s beautiful twenty-three-year-old wife stands by his side. He grasps a golden goblet of fine wine in his hand. His dark eyes gleam with gratification.
The assassins of Fraternity Obitus have despatched the last survivors. Feroxos watches them arrange the corpses, to give the impression that the guests died in combat, not in their seats around the tables. Feroxos empties the wine down his throat. He sways on his feet. He turns to his eldest son, Valencia.
‘Make yourself halfway useful, boy,’ says Feroxos. ‘Go, get me another.’
The twenty-five-year-old nods. He snatches up a golden jug, filled with red wine. Valentia turns to his father. He fills his goblet. He sets the jug back down on the table.
‘Good dog,’ says Feroxos.
Deathlord Mancus Lineamentum steps up onto the dais. He throws back the cowl of his voluminous black robe. He wears a thin wooden mask, painted with a stylized skull, to represent Death. Mancus pulls it off. He reveals his face.
Sallow features. Hairless head. Skin black as pitch. This is not his natural skin tone. Every inch of his head and his face and his neck has been tattooed. His hands have also been inked, even the palms. The leader of the assassins grimaces. This exposes his teeth and gums. They too have been stained black.
Mancus’s fierce green eyes glare out of his dark face. They burn with cruel humour. The whites shine with feverish intensity. A pale jagged scar mars the flesh of his throat.
‘Hail, Feroxos Ferrumanus, Earl of Tellus Isle,’ the Deathlord’s voice grates. A whetstone’s rasp, on a dull blade. ‘Me Lord, all your foes, and rivals, are now dead.’
‘All?’ says Feroxos. ‘What of the Nabbers? Has my dear, departed brother’s youngest cur been dealt with? As instructed?’
‘One moment, me Lord,’ says Mancus. ‘I’ll consult with my associate. Though I can’t see no reason why not. Serpere Sinuosus’s most capable. I assure you.’
‘I shall feel greater assurance,’ says Feroxos, ‘when I am certain that Castus is dead. Contact this Serpere, now.’
‘As you command, me Lord.’
Mancus reaches into a padded pouch at his side. He pulls out a thimble, made of blue crystal, and a speculum. A disc of solid verargent. Broad as a hand, a finger’s width thick. Mancus slips the crystal thimble over his thumb. He taps it against the truesilver Artefact. He presses the speculum flat against his black forehead. He shuts his demented eyes.
No one notices the motionless little mouse. It crouches behind a window-drape, near the Earl’s table. The Huntlady relinquishes her control over its tiny mind.

Serpere registers a tiny vibration, from the truesilver ring, on the forefinger of his right hand. He removes a speculum from a pouch on his belt. One side glows, with a pearly luminescence. He holds the radiant metal to his brow. He closes his eyes. He establishes a psychic link with Deathlord Mancus Lineamentum. A clear image of the Deathlord’s dark face appears in Serpere’s mind. Mancus’s harsh voice echoes in his head.
How goes the contract?
Gensor Sanglys and entourage eliminated. Slight delay in execution of second phase. Nothing critical. Huntress spooked horses.
Open your mind.
Serpere relaxes his mental defences. He allows Mancus to survey his memories of recent events, and gauge his emotions. Controlled rage. Grim humour. Cruel anticipation. Overwhelming ennui. No trace of self-doubt, or fear. Mancus terminates the intimate communion. He resumes their psychic conversation.
Plans awry. Targets alerted. Irrelevant. Find them. Kill them all. Sending another Deathsquad. To assist.
Not necessary, Deathlord.
No. Simply expedient. Death awaits all.
Death awaits all.
Mancus breaks off contact. Serpere opens his eyes. He returns his speculum to its pouch. A headache throbs at his temples. He ignored the pain. He notices something strange. A weasel crouches in the grass, at the side of the road. It watches him, with steady unblinking intent. Serpere looks up at the sky. He slips a small knife, from his sleeve into his palm. His eyes drop. His wrist flicks. The thrown knife flashes down. The blade impales the weasel.

Calma’s eyes spring open. She gasps. Through her psychic connection, she would have suffered the weasel’s death, had she not fled its mind, when Serpere first glanced at the animal. That could have left her weakened, or even unconscious, for days.
The Huntlady curses her carelessness. Nocturnal predators, weasels seldom venture from their burrows by day. The scavenger birds had all been busy gorging on corpses. Any that moved away from the grisly banquet would have attracted Serpere’s attention quicker than the unfortunate weasel did. The only other animals near Serpere had been rabbits. Calma had feared that the assassins would have killed any that came close, out of hand, for their meat.
She realizes that she will have to be very cautious, when she next spies on Serpere. Nevertheless, she feels pleased about what she just learned. The tattooed man at Earlshome appears to be Serpere’s superior. Both men own specula. The creation, or possession, of these Artefacts is forbidden, on pain of death. This makes specula prohibitively expensive. Which, in turn, means that the assassins must be members of a wealthy powerful Guild.
She shuts her eyes. Having already linked with its mind, Calma can project her consciousness back into the mouse at Earlshome’s Great Hall. She does so.

Mancus the Deathlord replaces his speculum in its pouch. His hand moves to his belt. A swift twist of wrist. A knife streaks through the air. The blade plunges into Feroxos’s throat. The golden goblet tumbles from his grasp. It clangs on the floor.
Feroxos reaches up. His fingertips touch the hilt of the knife. He wears a comical bug-eyed look of astonishment on his florid face. His mouth drops open. He gasps. A landed fish. He falls to his knees.
Mancus stepped forwards. He grabs the weapon’s handle. He pushes Feroxos’s head back. He yanks the blade clear. Blood gouts from the wound. Feroxos gurgles. He clutches at his murderer’s robes. The Deathlord gives his head a shove. The dying man keels over. Mancus turns to Feroxos’s eldest son. He hands Valentia the bloody knife. His victim splutters. Feroxos kicks his last moments of life away, on the floor.
‘Hail, Valentia Ferrumanus, Earl of Tellus Isle,’ says Mancus. ‘Me Lord, all your foes, and rivals, are now dead.’
‘Not quite, my friend,’ says Valentia.
The slim dark young man smiles. He crouches, beside his father. With exquisite slowness, Valentia slides the tip of the blade into Feroxos’s left eyeball. His father screams. A lamb in the slaughterhouse.
‘For my mother. You bastard,’ says Valentia. ‘I want you blind. When you serve her shade, in the Abyss.’
Valentia slips the knife clear. He rams it into his father’s other eye. Feroxos writhes on the cold hard marble floor. Blood sprays from his mouth. Valentia wrenches the weapon from the skull of his father’s corpse. He rises. He turns to face the others. He holds the knife close to his face. He watches blood ooze along the blade. It drips to the floor.
‘You mind if I keep this?’ he asks.
‘Me pleasure, Principalis,’ says Mancus. ‘I’ve got plenty more, where that come from.’
‘You have my gratitude.’
Valentia lays the knife on the altar. He reaches into his shirt. He produces a pair of sealed scrolls.
‘As agreed, Deathlord. These Deeds of Covenant grant Fraternity Obitus all future yields, for the next four years, from two verargent mines in the Spina Mountains. A full twelfth of my holdings as Earl. Conditional to my investiture, of course. As I shall be raised to the Earldom anon, I claim the title, from this moment forth. Deathlord, I am sure that you shall find my payment for services rendered much more agreeable than the paltry twentieth my fool of a father offered.’
‘Assuredly, Principalis. Most satisfactory.’
‘I always knew his greed would be his undoing,’ says Valentia. ‘That, and his drunken stupidity. Forty-six years, with the wits of an idiot child. Should I ever become so thick a sot, I can only pray that some kindly soul shall do for me, as I did for him. His insobriety was matched only by his inanity. A fitting epitaph for the tomb of a buffoon. But enough of this. I take it, Deathlord, that the primary stage of our contract has now been executed?’
‘Our business, Principalis, is near concluded,’ Mancus says. ‘Everything’s proceeding as planned.’
Valentia passes him the scrolls. They vanish inside the black silk shirt the assassin wears under his woollen robe.
‘One small detail, Principalis,’ Mancus says. ‘Your cousin, Castus Ferrumanus, and his companions. They haven’t been eliminated, yet. What’s your instructions?’
‘Kill them,’ Valentia waves his hand in the air. ‘I shall not have those little turds popping up, in ten years’ time. With their heads full of rancour, and their hearts bent on vengeance. We all know how those old stories end. Badly, for me, I would think. Kill them all. The Huntlady’s death might upset her School. But, she deserves no less, for her unwarranted interference. I am sure you agree? A hundredweight, or so, of verargent shall silence any complaints. Truesilver is a most miraculous salve for injured pride.’
‘Very well,’ says Mancus. ‘Rest assured, me colleague’s most vexed with her meddling. Serpere’ll derive great satisfaction from expressing his displeasure. In the most personal manner. I’ll send another squad, to assist him. Just to be sure. And now, Principalis, with your permission, I must get back to me duties. But I’ll return, anon.’
‘Very good.’
The assassin moves away. He joins his comrades. Valentia steps across to his father’s widow, Viscountess Lascivia Ferrumanus. He curls an arm around her waist. He pulls her close. Lascivia smiled up at him. She runs a hand through her curly red hair.
‘Hello, lover,’ she says. ‘I would hope that you are not too exhausted? From this day’s exertions?’
Valentia laughs, ‘Far from it, woman of mine. You shall look back on this conversation, later. And regret your impetuosity. As you beg me to stop. Then implore me not to.’
Lascivia gives a low throaty chuckle. She lays her hand on his hip.
‘Bold words, my Liege,’ she says. ‘Not too much later? I implore you?’
‘Soon,’ Valentia turns to his three siblings. ‘Sister. Brothers. Justice is ours, this day. Our poor mother is avenged. And we are well-rid of that foul fiend we called, ‘Father’. Are you not glad, blood of my blood?’
‘Overjoyed,’ says Validus.
Short. Stocky. Receding red hair. Dark angry eyes. Two years Valentia’s junior.
‘Yes, Valentia,’ Fornax says. ‘Yet my joy lies shrouded in sorrow. It saddens my heart, how justice demands bloodshed. I can hear our dear Mother’s spirit. She weeps for us.’
Blonde. Blue-eyed. Bright. Earnest. The youngest brother. So unlike his darker siblings, they believe their mother must have taken a secret lover.
‘Jynx is dead, Fornax,’ says Alma. ‘She knows neither shame nor sorrow. Or anything else, for that matter. And, yes, Valentia, I am overwhelmed with ecstasy.’
The young woman’s expression belies her words. Alma’s dark eyes glitter. Lips set in a petulant pout. Her countenance accentuates the seething sensuality of her curvaceous body. A lustrous wealth of black hair tumbles down her back. Her every languid motion murmurs promises of indolent sin.
‘Now. Can we depart this vile slaughterhouse?’ Alma asks. ‘Pernicious treachery and wanton butchery have a most unsavoury reek. They have left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth.’
‘Then shut it, sister,’ says Valentia, ‘Now that I am your Liegelord, and Earl, we shall have to see about getting you married off. Then, you might put that wicked tongue of yours to better use. What say you to that?’
‘You would not dare.’
‘No. I but jest, sweetest sister,’ Valentia grins. ‘A great many serving-maids have slipped whispers into my ears. And I know precisely how you like to employ that tongue of yours. Among other things.’
‘Oh, really? I am curious, brother. What could have loosened those girls’ tongues so dramatically, that sworn secrets spilled from lips supposedly sealed? Do you not find your interests piqued by this mystery, my dear Lascivia?’
‘Ah. But I already know the secret. We tortured them. Your brother is exquisitely skilled. They could not resist the sweet torments, to which we subjected them. In his bedchamber.’
‘You are not without a certain talent for inquisition yourself, sweetling,’ Valentia says.
‘Hmm. I suppose that is true,’ says Lascivia. ‘Perhaps your dear, delectable sister’s curiosity might be sated? By observing our techniques, first-hand, my love?’
Alma gasps. Valentia chortles. Validus guffaws. Young Fornax looks shocked.
‘This is unseemly,’ he says.
His siblings regard him with bemusement, as if he were a unicorn, or some other fabulous creature, oft heard of but never seen. Validus curls an arm around Fornax’s shoulders.
‘Come, little brother,’ he says. ‘Let us leave our kin to their games. We shall pay our respects to the dead.’
Validus glances back over his shoulder. He tips the others a sly wink. He herds his sibling down from the dais, towards the killing floor. Valentia bows at their departing backs. He performs a flourish.
Mancus the Deathlord climbs the dais. A young woman accompanies him. Raven-haired. Dressed in a drab robe. They come over. They stand before Valentia.
‘I’ve arranged a Deathsquad,’ Mancus says, in his rasp of a voice. ‘Under me colleague here, Deathlady Nuntius Mors. To assist Serpere Sinuosus, in the capture of your cousin. Castus won’t elude ’em for long, Principalis.’
Mancus turns. He walks away. Beyond him, Valentia watches some twenty female assassins. They wear various guises. They leave the Great Hall, through the door to an antechamber. He nods at the woman. He feels surprise. She appears much younger than he first thought. Perhaps twenty. Astonishingly beautiful. Tall, long-limbed, lithe. Her features possess the delicate translucence of the finest porcelain. Luminous sky-blue eyes. A warm easy smile. Nuntius somehow contrives to look good, in the shapeless homespun robe that she wears. The garment’s ugliness complements her loveliness.
‘Forgive me, my Lady,’ says Valentia. ‘But, did I hear your title correctly? Deathlady? A slip of the tongue, surely? Such cannot be possible. Not in one so young.’
‘You heard aright,’ says Nuntius. ‘At twenty-two, I am the youngest Deathlady in Fraternity Obitus’s history. Which is almost as long and intriguing as that of Familia Ferrumanus. Perhaps, fate might afford us the opportunity to discuss such matters. Somehow, somewhere, sometime. And believe me, my Lord. My tongue slips only where, and when, and how I want it to.’
Her deep voice holds a seductive husky undertone. Her gaze, calm and level. Valentia glimpses a merry mischievous twinkle. Devilry dances, in her captivating eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a petulant pout on Lascivia’s face. He ignores her. She can huff all she likes. He is Earl, now. He can do as he damn-well pleases. With whomever he bloody well wants. Valentia shifts his feet. He moves a little closer to the delectable Nuntius Mors. He shows his sulky lover his back.
‘My apologies, Deathlady,’ he says.
‘My Lord. Call me Nuntius. Please.’
‘Yes. Very good. Nuntius it is. If my words have offended you, I am truly sorry. Forgive my initial disbelief. You must encounter that often? Among those you meet? Surely?’
‘Disbelief?’ she smiles. ‘Yes, my Lord. Certainly. Most of the time, there is that. And not much else, besides.’
Nuntius arches a mocking eyebrow. Laughter bursts from Valentia’s lips.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘How remiss of me. To so neglect the obvious, given your profession. I feel such a fool.’
‘Think nothing of it, my Lord. Alas, I must now take my leave of you. Duty calls, and I wish to ride within the hour. Until next we meet, my Lord. I shall hold the pleasures of your company, and your conversation, close to my beating heart.’
The Deathlady fetches a graceful curtsy. She slips across the room. She opens the door to the antechamber, which the group of female assassins left through. Then, she is gone.
Valentia turns. He gazes into Lascivia’s green eyes.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘where were we? Ah, yes. My darling, while Alma would be perfectly happy to tumble into bed with you, my sweet sister might be somewhat less eager to sample my loving charms. Besides, incest is just so passé. I would be forced to observe. And I do so prefer active participation.’
‘Well, I have the perfect solution,’ Lascivia says. ‘Come and watch us at work, Alma, dear. Or, should I say, at play? I always find it delightful, when Valentia forces a serving-maid to answer our questions. With her mouth full. Such simple pleasures are enriching. Are they not?’
‘Indeed,’ says Alma. ‘However, for the sake of parity, we ought to take it in turns to observe. Who knows what we might then learn, about one another. And, of course, ourselves? Is it not a marvel? That mere servants can reveal so much about the very nature of things? Oh, quiddity. Sweet quiddity.’
Valentia watches Mancus, and his band of killers, move into position, around a set of doors. These access another antechamber of the Great Hall. The murdered Earl’s turncoat Guardsmen join the assassins.
‘A capitol suggestion,’ says Valentia. ‘And, speaking of servants, you might wish to leave now, Alma. The next act of this day’s bloody little drama is about to commence.’
‘Pray, do not concern yourself with me, brother, dear. I find that our discourse has left my mouth much sweeter than earlier. Besides, we might take this opportunity, to select a few participants. For our little games, later.’
Alma moves closer. She presses against Lascivia’s back. Alma traps her stepmother between her and Valentia. She rests her chin on Lascivia’s shoulder. Alma murmurs into her ear.
‘I too share my brother’s penchant for redheads. I find the pale perfection of their skin so appealing. And I do so adore freckles.’
Alma steps back. Trails fingernails down Lascivia’s back. Rests her hand at the base of her stepmother’s spine. Lascivia shudders. Looks over her shoulder. Fixes Alma with her dazzling green eyes. Alma adopts a wide-eyed guileless expression. She slides her hand down. Squeezes. Hard. Palpable lust passes between the two young women. Valentia clears his throat. Gains their attention.
‘Much as it saddens me, to deny either of you enchanting ladies a pleasure,’ he says, ‘I fear that these ones have been selected for a particular purpose. And it would be remiss of me, to interfere with our allies’ carefully structured plans.’
The double doors open wide. A crowd of servants stands there. Naked men and women. Guardsmen bunch behind. With spears, they force the servants into the Great Hall. The servants huddle. Pathetic bewilderment. Try to cover private parts, with hands. The assassins and Guardsmen fall upon them. Bestial ferocity. Blades hack unprotected flesh. Blood gushes. Terrible wounds. The hapless servants screech and howl and weep and beg. They receive no mercy.
Alma wraps her arms around Lascivia. Pushes close against her back. Squirms. Squeezes her stepmother’s breasts.
‘Peace, now, dearheart,’ says Lascivia. ‘Let me soothe your woe.’
Her hand reaches down. Between Alma’s legs. Alma gasps, at the touch of Lascivia’s fingertips. Valentia’s hand clamps over his lover’s. His sister groans. The deviant Nobles slake their perverted lust. The servants’ shrieks of terror and pain go on and on and on.
Once more, Huntlady Taiscealai withdraws her consciousness from the mouse.

Calma gets up. She goes to the door. She calls the others back into the cottage. She returns to her chair.
Castus comes in. He sits facing her. The others follow. Siorai resumes her position, behind her Mistress. Vivus and Silex flank Castus again.
‘Castus,’ the Huntlady says. ‘Your cousin, Valentia, has slain your uncle, and taken his place as Earl. It seems he planned to betray his father for some time. Valentia now commands the guild of assassins hunting us. They are called Fraternity Obitus, and have dispatched another Deathsquad from Aesfortis, to assist those who murdered Gensor. Valentia has demanded the deaths of everyone here. We have much to decide. And little time, in which to do so. Our immediate enemies shall soon be ahorse once more. So, let us discuss our options.’
‘There is but one course open to us, Mistress,’ Castus says.
He stands. He grips the hilt of the sabre, sheathed at his side.
‘The path of vengeance.’
The eight other youths of the Nabbing Gang grasp their weapons. They echo his words.
‘Vengeance.’