Mud & Magic
Chapter I: The Village

Copyright© 2019 by Blind_Justice

Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter I: The Village - Abused for most of his life, farm boy Rhys can only helplessly watch when the local lord's henchman abducts his sister. But then, a mysterious power awakens within.

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Mult   Consensual   BiSexual   Hermaphrodite   Fiction   High Fantasy   Magic   Demons   Group Sex   First   Oral Sex   Voyeurism   Revenge   Slow   Violence  

The huge bonfire bathed the village green in a demonic glare. In front of it, flanked by Carver’s banners depicting the snarling goat’s head over crossed axes, his herald waited. The tall, wizened man stood behind a low table roughly cobbled together from three barrels and some boards Dara had been forced to provide. To the side, where the horses and carts waited, Carver’s men had erected some tents, their black pennants fluttering and cracking under the low-hanging, leaden clouds.

Moving around the green, like armored herding dogs, was a dozen black-and-bronze clad footmen, their serrated axes and spiked maces at the ready to punish and brutalize. They made sure the villagers stood, sorted by families, in a neat queue.

Rhys looked around, uneasy. Apart from the very young and very old, the whole populace of the village was present and the look of barely concealed terror was everywhere. Mirrin, his youngest sister, clutched his hand, her bright blue eyes darting this way and that, curiously taking in the armed men. She, along with the other younglings, seemed untouched by the cloud of gloom hanging over the village green. She had turned twelve yesterday and it was her first Tithing. Rhys dearly wished she would have stayed home with Gran like the previous years.

The Tithing, according to Gran’s stories, once was cause for celebration, a revel when the lord came to visit. Bards would sing, there were games of skill and chance and even festive food like pies and honeycombs. But that was when Gran herself had been young. Ever since Rhys could remember Carver ruled over these lands and there was little in the way of merriment. Everyone had to work, blisteringly so, to pay the tithes Carver demanded. He took so much, on some days there wasn’t enough food for everyone. His father Padec and his four older brothers would eat first, then his mother and two older sisters, then Mirrin and finally Rhys, strictly in order of usefulness. He couldn’t do the hard farm work, he couldn’t be married off like his beautiful sisters so he got the scraps.

“Stop gawping already and take this,” his father snarled, slapping the leashes for the two calves into his hands. They were well fed and strong, in contrast to Rhys. He was a lanky, stick-thin young man. Pale skin, neck-length hair of indeterminate color and slender, almost girlish hands. In comparison to Delf, Rowlf, Ulf and Gorf, he seemed like an alien. They were as pale as he was but they boasted broad shoulders and a surprising amount of mass. But then they didn’t become ill as often as he did. Gran and Ilva, the former village cleric, had tended to him. That somehow had soured his father on him and he only trusted Rhys to herd the chickens and muck out the stables. He spent most time with his old, feeble Gran, listening to her stories until his father would inevitably barge in, complain that Gran would put foolishness into Rhys’ head and drag him off to another menial task none of his brothers bothered to do.

A soft nudge tore Rhys from his thoughts. Celeste, the current village cleric, smiled at him. Rhys cast down his eyes respectfully.

“Hello, Mother. How are you this fine day?”

Mirrin didn’t bother with that much formality and hugged the cleric exuberantly. “Hey Aunt Celeste! Have you seen all the knights? I wonder if I can hold one of their swords!”

“Shh, just look, little minx.” Celeste cast a gaze to the closest pack of three. They nudged each other and leered. “How are you, Rhys?” She was a tall, young woman, maybe twenty-five. Rhys tried not to stare as he raised his gaze. Under her simple white robes, the curves of her breasts beckoned. Her eyes, like those of a doe, suited her long, brunette mane perfectly. Her hair was kept away from her face by a simple leather band with a copper crest. The only thing flashy about her was the feathered holy symbol of Mercy, the village’s patron deity. It was made from solid gold and caught the flickering light of the fire.

“I wish they would leave a little more food for everyone,” Rhys muttered, so that only Mirrin and Celeste could hear over the booming voice of the herald enumerating Jesper Billings’ tithe contribution. “Don’t they realize they are slowly starving us to death? The harvest was bad enough this year and they are still taking three quarters of everything!”

Padec’s hand scuffed the back of Rhys’ head. “Shut up boy. That kind of talk only gets you hurt.” Rhys recoiled from the barely controlled fury in his old man’s eyes.

A few spots behind them, a heated argument erupted. A moment later, there was the wet, horrible sound of a mace hitting flesh. Celeste paled, squeezed Rhys’ shoulder and darted away. He could hear her stern voice cut into the moans and laughter.

“That foolish gal will get herself killed sooner than later,” Padec growled.

“She’s the only one in this village to dare stand up to Carver’s brutes,” Rhys hissed back. “We all could use her as an example. Instead we grovel and-”

The fist came without warning. Padec had been called into Carver’s pikemen regiment twice, the last time ten years ago, and ceaseless work on the farm meant that he still was as strong at fifty as some lesser men twenty years younger. Rhys folded double, clutching his stomach, retching. Padec grabbed his son’s hair, cranked his head upwards and snarled, “If I hear any words from you until we are back home on the farm, I swear I’ll grab an axe and kill you myself. Do you understand?”

Rhys could only grunt.

“Your foolish talk will get all of us killed. It’s bad enough that Gran’s sister Ursa got burned as a witch for hexing Carver’s old herald. They have their eyes on us!”

Rhys coughed helplessly, clutching at his stomach. “By Desire’s shrunken tits! Pull yourself together boy!” Padec hauled Rhys upright and shoved him. He stumbled past his snickering brothers. Mirrin shot him a look of sympathy.

There now was a commotion in front of them too. Rhys saw Old Man Harrol arguing with the herald. Carver’s man wore a black robe with bronze seams and a wide collar, like some ceremonial armor adorning his chest. A long, tapering beard was tucked into his belt and several daggers and wands hung at his waist. They both pointed at two sacks on the table. The herald was nearing the end of his patience. He cut off Harrol’s tirade with a harsh gesture then called for a footman. Harrol paled and stepped away from the table. Suddenly it was deathly quiet, save for the occasional cawing of a crow and the roar of the bonfire.

“We demanded only two sacks of grain from you this year, on account of your failing health. These are not sacks of grain,” the herald proclaimed angrily. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slashed at the first sack. The seam opened, revealing a small trickle of grain.

“I told ye, I pay me dues!” Harrol protested.

“Do you think us fools?” the herald snarled. He dug his hand into the sack and yanked. A rush of stone fillings rattled onto the table. “The sacks were too heavy to begin with, the texture was all wrong and this proves beyond a doubt that you tried to weasel your way out of your duty to your rightful lord.”

The footman stepped behind him. Harrol opened his mouth to protest. Instead of words, a horrible jet of blood erupted from his lips at the same time as a gleaming wedge of steel burst from his ribs. The footman grunted, placed his boot on Harrol’s lower back and withdrew his sword. Gurgling helplessly, the old man sagged to the floor like a wet sack in a terrible, widening pool of blood. The footman changed the grip on his sword and rammed the blood-smeared blade into Harrol’s eye, ending his feeble struggle.

Celeste knelt down next to the crumpled, discarded body. She fixed the herald with a grim stare.

“You know the rules, cleric,” the herald boomed. “‘Those who deceive His Lordship, betray His Lordship or work with the enemies of His Lordship shall not be left alive.’” He motioned for another guard. “Burn the wretch.”

“You even deny him a proper burial?” Celeste rose, now openly challenging the robed man.

“We shall not poison this earth with a deceiver’s corpse,” he snarled. “Spare your pity for the living.”

With balled fists and murder in her eyes, Celeste rushed past the second footman. Together, the black-armored men hauled Harrol’s body to the bonfire and unceremoniously dumped him into the flames. A moment later, the stench of burning flesh wafted from the blaze. Rhys, who had Mirrin pressed against his body, fought to keep his stomach down.

“Farmer Padec! You are next!”

Padec righted his faded tabard, awarded for his service as a pikeman, brushed his hair out of his face and strutted forward, his wife Mara on his arm. The four bigger brothers, hauling sacks of grain and packs of cured meat, came next. His older sisters Missy and Lissy, wearing their best dresses, guided two pristine, white sheep. Rhys couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances they cast around as they marched towards the table. Mirrin had claimed the leashes for the calves during his spat with Padec and he took them from her.

“Stay behind me, you hear?” he whispered. Mirrin, wide-eyed, nodded. Her eyes went to the large, wet bloodstain where Harrol had been slaughtered.

They lined up in front of the herald. A huge book, filled with neat rows of runes and numbers, was on the table and a stylus hovered over it.

The herald quickly counted. “One more than last year. Who is she?”

Padec made a deep bow, almost slamming his nose into the table. “Me youngest lass, milord. Mirrin, milord. Just turned twelve.”

“Old enough to be registered. Very well.” The herald made a gesture and the stylus moved, scratching along the parchment.

Rhys saw Mara clutch Padec’s arm in a death grip, pale under her patched-up bonnet.

“Now, for the tithe,” the herald began.

Padec’s gaze flicked to the bloodstain and he paled. “There will be no issues, milord. Twelve sacks of grain, eight packs of cured meat, two sheep and two calves, milord. Just like milord has asked us to bring last year.”

The herald fingered the sacks and inspected the packs, sniffing, probing with his beringed fingers. Only then did the stylus move, adding more runes to the page. He then moved around the table, with quick and deft motions he checked the calves and the sheep. The herald seemed pleased.

“This will do. Now that you have another pair of able hands, let us increase the tithe to fifteen sacks of grain and nine packs of cured meat, along with two more calves and sheep next year.”

The warrior who had killed Old Man Harrol joined the herald. His armor showed more bronze than the others and his helmet was a snarling demon face. His right hand never strayed far from the hilt of his blade. He looked over Padec’s family then removed his helmet. His narrow, angular face, bisected by a hawkish nose, was framed by limp strands of long, blond hair. Rhys recoiled from his stare. Eyes like twin pools of darkness flicked his way, causing a dismissive snarl before settling on Mirrin.

“Herald. I think we will invite this beautiful dove to the castle for a day or two,” the blond man said, his voice an oily drawl. “Make it happen.”

“Of course, Commander Faedal.” The herald reached out a hand. Mirrin recoiled.

Padec’s face fell. For a heartbeat, Rhys thought he saw a spark of revolt but it vanished before he was certain he’d actually seen it.

“I don’t want to,” Mirrin said, ducking behind Rhys.

“You have been chosen to visit Lord Carver’s keep. You will come,” the herald said.

Mirrin looked around. The Commander’s hand had closed around the hilt of his sword. “Your behavior will reflect upon your family,” the blonde man said sternly. “Come quietly and no one has to get hurt.” He gestured with his left hand. His black gauntlet had long, vicious spikes on the knuckles. Blood had spattered onto the metal, up to the elbow.

Her eyes darted towards Harrol’s bloodstain again. Slowly, hesitantly, she released Rhys’ hand. Head held high, she took a few tentative steps towards the commander, who smiled beatifically. He extended his bloodied gauntlet. Shivering, Mirrin placed her hand in his.

Behind him, Rhys heard a screeching, inhuman sound. He turned to watch, only to find his mother, clawing at her face and howling like a banshee. Her mouth moved, releasing that haunting, eerie cry. His sisters crossed their hands over their breasts, invoking Mercy’s guarding wings, their faces expressionless masks.

They’ve been there before, Rhys realized. Mirrin, her hand a tiny fleck of white in the commander’s grasp, craned her neck to see what was happening, a look of concern on her face.

You should worry more about yourself, little one, Rhys thought, balling his fists. The nails broke the skin, drawing blood.

“Innkeep Dara! You are next!”

A horse-drawn ladder wagon, filled with six large casks of ale and barrels of wine, rolled forward, nearly bowling over Rhys. When he managed to run around it, Mirrin and the commander were gone.


The women huddled in a corner, hugging each other, sobbing. Padec pulled a dented stein off a wall hook and poured himself ale from a long-necked, swan-like pitcher. Elven-made, his father had boasted. Taken off some bandits in Carver’s service. Rhys fought to keep the bile from his mouth as he watched his father flop down in his usual place at the head of the rough-hewn wooden table.

Disgusted at the old man’s inaction, Rhys left the room, going into the small chamber he shared with his brothers. To his surprise, only Delf was there, trying to put a new leather strap onto his work shoe. The others probably were at the inn, trying to get under Dara’s skirts. He slammed the door.

“Fine brothers you are,” Rhys snapped, falling onto the stinking straw pellet in the room’s corner. “No one even barked when that Faedal dragged away Mirrin. She is your fucking sister too!”

“Shut up,” Delf grumbled. “At least she makes herself useful now, amusing the lordships.”

“She is too young!”

Delf shrugged. “Old enough to get fucked, I reckon. And it’s not like you started a fight either.”

Rhys thumped the naked earth which made up the floor of the room. “As if I had a chance against an armored fighter. But you are four, and you are tough-”

“Shut your bloody hole!” Delf snapped, tossing the heavy wooden sole Rhys’ way. “Don’t ya think we aren’t sick about how them black ones stomp around, being all high and mighty?” The missile missed Rhys’ head, hitting his shoulder with a vicious crack and bounced off the wall behind him.

“Now that we’ve given them most of our grain, we barely have anything left for the next seeding, let alone making bread,” Rhys said.

“I bloody well ken,” Delf growled. “That’s why you will get Mirrin when she gets back and look around for wild rye and wheat like always. Maybe Mis and Lis can earn some coin for when the trader come through but by now no one wants their rancid snatches no more.” Delf scratched his balls.

“By now the whole village sends the little ones to forage. How are we to find anything?”

“Not my fucking problem. Get the stuff somehow.”

Rhys gently fingered his shoulder. Where the heavy piece of wood had struck him, the skin was bruised an angry purple and moving the arm hurt. “Not with one arm I don’t,” he growled, tossing the sole back at his brother. Fuming, Rhys left the room and climbed into what once was a hay loft. Now Gran lived here. The old woman sat in a creaking rocking chair, swathed in a thick coat of blankets. She smoked a disgusting, blackened bone pipe and looked up when he slumped onto the floor next to her.

“Tithing didn’t go well,” she said around the stem, puffing a stinking smoke ring.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Rhys, I’m almost blind but deaf I ain’t. I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth up here.” She coughed amicably. Her hand snaked out from under the blankets and patted Rhys’ head. “I wanted to warn little Mirrin but my daughter thought she could get her past that lecher Faedal.”

“That’s why you argued so badly last week,” Rhys muttered.

“Mara can be as stubborn as I am,” Gran said, softly. “I hope Mirrin is as tough as well.”

“I wish I could have done something,” Rhys said. “The whole village simply gawped as Faedal dragged her away. I wish I had muscles like Delf.”

“And Faedal would have cut you down like the beautiful reed you are,” Gran said. “Muscles are not always the solution.”

Rhys snorted bitterly. “What else could I have done? We are not allowed to have bows and it’s a wonder they let us keep the pitchforks and ploughs.”

“Maybe you have our family’s witch blood, Rhys,” Gran muttered. “I know Ursa had it.”

“And what good is that to us now? She’s long dead and she had no children.”

“The witch blood is much older than me or Ursa. It runs through our family since the old times, when Orran the Giant-Killer was beguiled by Hilgrun, giant witch of the Frostspires, and sired her daughters.” She fell silent. “Your breathing is strained. Are you hurt?”

Rhys gnashed his teeth. “Delf threw a shoe at me. Landed a decent hit. I was hoping you had some of that salve Celeste gave you.”

Gran snickered. “Still afraid to see our noble cleric, are you?”

No reply came. Gran smiled, a shockingly lewd grin, displaying her few remaining good teeth. “Oh, now I understand. She must be quite a sight if you lose your voice like that. Upper drawer, the eight-sided tin.”

Rhys fetched the tin and unscrewed the lid. The strong smell of herbs even managed to make a dent in Gran’s perpetual smoke cloud.

“Let Gran help you.” Her hand, quick like a snake, snatched the tin out of his palm.

“Thank you.” Rhys gingerly shrugged out of his threadbare shirt, wincing at the lance of pain his shoulder produced.

“Let’s see,” Gran muttered. Her fingertips moved along the shoulder. Rhys hissed softly as she brushed the bruise.

“Tell him to play nicer next time,” Gran said, dipping her fingers into the fragrant salve. “You’re too delicate to be treated like that.”

“Gran, I’m eighteen. Not eight anymore,” Rhys complained.

“Still too fragile.” Her fingers were soft flutters, spreading the salve over the bruise. “How’s that?”

His skin tingled. A sensation like cool steel being pressed against the skin came next, taking much of the pain with it. Rhys sighed. “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best.”

Gran wiped her fingers on one of the blankets, resealed the tin and handed it to Rhys. “Now you pay me,” she said brightly. “Put the tin back where you found it and get the book please.”

“Aw, Gran, do I have to?”

“Of course you do. I can’t any more.” She pointed at her grey, overcast eyes.

“I’m sure Celeste could-,” Rhys began, storing the tin.

“Oh, she probably can. But she shouldn’t waste her arts on a soon-to-be corpse like me.”

“Gran!” Rhys knelt down in front of the armchair and dislodged a certain floor board. Underneath, in a hollow space, he found the book next to Gran’s stash of smoking herbs and her bottle of spirits. Only he and Mirrin knew about the loose floor board.

“It’s true. I’m not long for this world, my boy. But don’t fret. Once you marry Celeste and make lots of babies, I can leave and sleep peacefully at Mercy’s shapely bosom.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Rhys protested.

Gran tousled his hair. “Got the book yet?”

The book was large and heavy. To protect it from vermin, it was wrapped in another blanket and a certain, unpleasant smell exuded from it. Dead bugs and other critters rustled off the book. He shoved them into the hollow and replaced the floor board.

Off the cloth came and Rhys looked at the cover, awestruck like every time he held the tome in his hands. It was old, no doubt, going by the faded runes on the cover, yet years of delicate handling and the protective sheath had kept some of the luster intact. The golden corners glinted with a warm radiance in the light of Gran’s sputtering oil lamp.

The Tales Of Orran was written on the cover. He knew the runes by heart now.

“All right, Gran. What do you want me to read?”

“I think we all need a bit of cheer right now. How about ‘Orran In The Mead Hall?’”

Rhys blushed. “The one where... ?”

“Yes, the one where Froki the Rogue spikes the elven mead with a love potion and all the elven maids rush to bed them,” Gran said, a wistful smile on her lips.

Rhys gently paged through the book. The thick parchment rustled under his fingers. Every page was a work of art, the margins done to fit the location of a particular incident and a wondrous, colorful picture at the beginning of each chapter. He finally arrived at his destination, shaking his head. On a table, mounted by not one but two lithe elven maids, their auburn tresses like banners in a breeze, was Orran the Warrior. Naked, immensely muscular and on his back, he still held one mead horn in one hand, his famous axe Boneshatter in the other while one of the elves straddled his face, the other his lap. Around them, scattered like leaves in the wind were the other elves, long, slender limbs entangled in twos, threes and fours. Men and women, men and men or women and women, in intricate knots on the floor or wound around marble pillars. Almost invisible in all the naked skin, the curves of breasts and asses and poking cocks was Orran’s friend and nemesis, the wiry rogue Froki, digging under the Elf Queen’s throne for her treasure.

“Cat got your tongue, Rhys?” Gran asked.

“I’m not sure if this is the right chapter, Gran. Not after Mirrin-”

“Hogwash. It’s the right thing. Maybe it will help you sleep better tonight. So... ‘When Orran-’”

Rhys turned the page and placed his finger under the first line, clearing his throat. Slowly, haltingly, he went along the runes. This was the book Gran had used to teach him but he sorely lacked practice. And to add insult to injury, he had never read this far. Some of the runes were new to him.

“When Orran and Froki arrived in Sun-and-Leaf, the Lady of the Court – the Queen? - awaited them. Clad in leaves and gold, her breasts like freshly sprouted buds and her smile like the rising-of-the-sun.”

“It’s ‘dawn,’” Gran helpfully added. “Don’t read it too literally.”

“Gran. You know the story by heart, word for word. Why-?”

“Please, Rhys. Humor your Gran, all right?”

“Oh well,” Rhys sighed. “Orran said ‘Have your bowmen lower their weapons, for we humans bear you no ill will... ‘“


At least for the night, his mind was occupied. The raunchy tale, filled with heaving breasts, sucking mouths and warm, willing holes aching to be stuffed had him think about Celeste. In his dreams, he was Orran and she was one of the elven maids, doing all the things the author of old had put to the page. But as it always does, the next morning came and Rhys, along with his brothers, rose as soon as the first cockerel began to screech. Out in the yard, Padec took Rhys aside. Thanks to the salve, the bruise had receded somewhat but the rough yank hurt nonetheless.

“The lads are taking the animals out to graze. You know what to do,” he snapped, tossing the old, bent pitchfork his way. “And Mercy preserve you if the stable isn’t spotless when you’re done.”

“Yes, father,” Rhys grumbled, trotting into the drafty, narrow stable. The all too familiar stench of warm manure awaited him. Carefully, he poked the butt end of the pitchfork into the corner where the other utensils normally were. There had been too many instances of muck-filled traps ready for him to trip. His poking soon revealed that the spade was gone, as was the large bucket he used to haul the manure to the dung hill across the yard. Rhys sighed. Probably Delf’s idea of a practical joke. He left the stable and scoured the yard, under the hen house and inside the barn but the missing tools remained elusive.

“I can’t believe he makes me shovel shit with my bare hands,” Rhys growled, returning to the stable. He stabbed at the soiled straw, pushing it into a pile with the pitchfork. “I can’t believe we just sit on our hands and bow our heads while Carver’s dogs slowly kill us.” Another stab. Hot anger flared inside him. “I can’t believe no one even raised a finger to save Mirrin!” Stab. “Not even a word of protest!” Stab. “And all I can do is stand here and shovel shit with a ruddy, fucking pitchfork!”

The anger coiled in his gut, turning into a rock-hard knot. Disgusted, Rhys threw the pitchfork. The smell of manure was replaced with the acrid stench of a thunderstorm. Instead of tumbling from his hand and clattering against the rickety wood partition used to shelter the sheep from the cows, the pitchfork flew from his hand like a spear, punching a smoking, head-sized hole into the back of the stable. Rhys stood there, aghast.

“What the-”

Realization set in. Snarling, he waded through the muck and had a look. No doubt. The hole was real. He could feel heat radiate off the jagged edges where the pitchfork had torn through the old, rotten wood like Orran’s fist through a goblin’s face. And looking through it, he could see what remained of the fork, twenty feet away near the radishes. Only about half the shaft remained, a scorched, smoking ruin.

Rhys stumbled from the stable, clutching his shoulder. He must have sprained it when he threw the pitchfork because it throbbed and thumped worse than even after Delf’s shoe had hit him. He looked around frantically. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed the thunderous impact. But now what? He didn’t have any tools left now and the stable wall had a huge hole. This early, Padec would stalk the farm, whipping everyone into a working frenzy. His mother and sisters would spin wool into yarn for sale or weave fabric while his brothers had to do the heavy lifting, ploughing the three fields or tending to the animals. If Padec saw that he loitered around, no tools and with a huge hole in the stable, there would be hell to pay. Rhys cursed. How could that have happened in the first place? The pitchfork wasn’t balanced for throwing at all.

“No time for that,” he muttered to himself. He needed wooden boards, nails, a hammer or mallet and new tools to muck out the goddamn stable – and he needed them before Padec returned. Agitated, Rhys looked around, hoping against hope he could find the missing tools by a sheer stroke of luck. A huge pillar of smoke caught his eye. Of course! The bonfire! If he was lucky, the makeshift table would still be there – unless the guards had already thrown it into the fire. He then could ask Dara for a hammer and a few nails – the inn was close to the village green.

Rhys sprinted from the yard, nearly losing one of his shoes in a pothole. They had been Lissy’s once, the only ones who would fit his slender feet. She had passed them on to him when the heel broke and Delf’s repair with a crudely wedged-in replacement made them hellish to walk in. But given the sorry state of the roads in the village, he’d limp in the shoes rather than not have them at all. Within ten minutes, he arrived at the village green. The bonfire had burned itself out, leaving only a pile of smoldering embers. The tents and banners were gone but the table was still there, kicked over and not close enough to the embers to catch fire. Rhys rejoiced. The boards had only been loosely hammered in place, it took barely any force at all to pull them from the barrels. Most of the nails were also in good shape. He pocketed them, wedged the boards under one arm and made his way to the inn. Even this early, close to sunrise, Dara and her brother Daffyd were busy cleaning up from the day before. Going by the amount of debris Daffyd was chucking out the door, last night’s guests had been especially rowdy.

“Daffyd,” Rhys called. Dara’s brother was a huge, burly redhead, his shaggy hair reaching the midst of his back and his beard was bushy but well-kempt. He tossed two more broken stools onto a sizable pile of debris.

“What’s up, Rhys?”

“It looks like you had a pretty wild night,” Rhys said, nodding towards the pile.

“You know how it is. People are unhappy about the tithes and Carver’s dogs drinking what little we have left didn’t go down too well either. Things went a little crazy. What’s that you got there?”

“The planks from the table. I wondered if I could have them. There’s been a little mishap at our stable.”

“They didn’t burn them this time? What a surprise. Sure, take ‘em. Did one of your cows kick down a rotten board again?”

“Yeah ... something like that. Thank you. You don’t have a hammer to spare, do you?”

“Don’t you have tools?”

Rhys sighed. “I don’t want Padec to notice. He always finds out when someone takes from his toolbox.” He rubbed his lower back.

“Sorry, no can do. As you can see, I have half of the taproom to repair. But maybe you can find something at Old Harrol’s. He’s not gonna use it anymore.” Daffyd looked grim. “A shame. Now I need to find someone else to buy Moonshine from.”

“Not even a warning. Damn savages,” Rhys snarled, earning a cautionary glare from Daffyd. The big man grunted and returned to the inside of the inn. Groaning as his shoulder acted up, Rhys picked up the boards and trotted back to the farm. He hid the wood behind the stable. Since there was no one screaming at him, it seemed Padec either hadn’t returned yet or hadn’t noticed the hole in the wall.

Old Man Harrol’s farm was only across the empty, as of yet unplowed rye field. When he reached the crumbling fieldstone wall bordering his farm, Rhys saw a quartet of black riders arrive from the village. Carver’s men. He hid behind the empty doghouse.

“You really think we’ll find anything of use in this rat hole?” one of the men asked. “Instead of dragging us out here, we should drawn lots for one of the girls. There was this little redhead-”

“Shove it,” another said, eyeing the door. He grunted, raised his boot and kicked down the old wood. “Anyone got a lightstone? I don’t want to risk an open flame, smells like he doused the whole fucking place in spirits.”

“Aah, now I understand. Instead of burying your cock in some nice, young farm wench, you’d rather drink their swill?”

“Do you have any idea how expensive that Storm Harbor liquor is? Not with our pay. I’ll take free piss booze over no booze at all. You, keep an eye out. I’m sure they’ll soon come to ‘share’ the dead guy’s stuff amongst themselves. Fucking vultures.”

Raucous laughter erupted. Three of the four riders went into Harrol’s small hovel. Soon there were noises of upturned furniture and breaking crockery. A few moments later, they returned. The leader carried a box from which several metal tubes protruded. The sound of tinkling glass came every time he shifted its weight. The others looked none too happy. One of them jingled a small coin purse, the other had a beautiful, slightly bent rapier in his hand.

“I should have stayed behind and hoped for luck with the wenches,” the man holding the rapier muttered. He slid the weapon into a loop at his horse’s saddle then produced a tinderbox and a torch.

“Stop complaining and get the torch going already,” the leader grumbled. “Apart from this still, there’s hardly anything worth salvaging.” He claimed the lit torch from his companion and tossed it into the hovel. “Let’s go already. Maybe the herald has a book somewhere on how to make booze.”

Laughing, they mounted and rode off. Rhys, who had held his breath, exhaled slowly. “Fucking vultures, huh? If you left us a bit more of what we work so hard for, we wouldn’t have to scavenge from the dead to begin with,” he whispered. The first flames licked from the front window.

Thankfully, Harrol had his tools stashed in a shed between the apple trees behind the house – along with several earthen kegs which smelled very strong of herbs, fruit and alcohol. Had the black riders bothered to properly search, they would have found them. The shed was full of tools, all slightly rusty from long disuse but in much better shape than anything Padec had. With his lucrative side business, Harrol had coin to spare for good tools. A real shame he had been too frail to use them.

Rhys muttered a quick prayer for Harrol, asking Mercy to care for the old man’s soul, before collecting a hammer, spade, pitchfork and bucket. A second quick prayer, this time asking Harrol for forgiveness, then he quickly made his way back to the farm. The sun had fully crept over the horizon and the clear sky promised one of the last warm days of autumn. Rhys couldn’t help but smile, his luck so far had been nothing short of extraordinary. Still no sign of Padec, so he went to work behind the stable, boarding up the hole as best he could. It would have gone much smoother with another pair of hands but by now Rhys was so used to punishing tasks, he persevered. He hid the hammer under the hen house then went to work mucking out the stable. With the new and much sturdier tools, he was done before midday, including pouring out new, clean straw. By now it was pretty hot. Rhys sniffed and scowled. Of course he did stink like a freshly mucked stable. He turned to leave the yard for the river.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Padec growled. He stumbled into the yard unsteadily.

“I have done as you asked, mucked out the stable real good. Now I’m going to take a bath and wash my clothes so your house doesn’t stink like a cow’s ass. Father,” Rhys growled back.

“Don’t you get smart with me, boy,” Padec threatened, pushing past Rhys. A strong ale cloud surrounded him. Padec stomped into the stable and squinted before returning.

“Are you satisfied?” Rhys asked, hoping against hope for a bit of praise. Padec didn’t disappoint. He grunted, waved his hand dismissively and stomped to the house.

“My pleasure,” Rhys muttered behind his back then left the yard. He pulled a towel from a line next to the house and marched off towards the river.


The water hit him with an icy fist. The sun might have been putting in an extra effort, but the river heralded the chill of winter with a vengeance. Rhys broke the surface and gasped for air. He would need to make this a quick bath if he didn’t want to freeze his balls off. As usual, he had jumped into the water off the village green, upstream from where the lone bridge crossing the river was. People tended to toss all kinds of unpleasant surprises off the old stone arch and he was wise enough to give that place a wide berth. Not so with the riverbank by the green. It had been leveed and the overhanging willow trees made it a good spot for a bit of clandestine bathing. A few dozen yards downstream was a small quay where the riverboats would moor and which served as a favorite laundry spot for the village’s women when none were present. Despite the chill water, Rhys swam, quick, strong strokes which brought him near the quay. This late in the day, it usually was deserted.

Not that day though. Someone sang exuberantly, if extremely off key, in time to a washing board. Intrigued, Rhys paddled closer. At the quay’s edge, back to him, knelt Dara, the beautiful, red-headed innkeep. Today, she had her fiery tresses braided. She wore one of her colorful dresses and scrubbed at one of the inn’s linen sheets, interspersing the verses of “The Ballad of Princess Saharel” with a few choice curses when she encountered an especially stubborn stain. She was barefoot and her dress fluttered in the soft breeze. Dara never outright said how old she was but she had hinted to Rhys that she and Celeste were around the same age. And, like most men in the village, Rhys had a fierce crush on her. It was not only her looks – she could charm even the angriest of Carver’s men with a glance from her emerald eyes and a bit of cleavage – but her caring and carefree spirit. Even when everyone around her was miserable, Dara managed enough heart to make them smile eventually. Like Gran and Ilva, and now Celeste, she had never looked down on him.

Rhys remembered the last Winter Solstice dance, when she had taken him to the dance floor, his spindly chest pressed against the heaving orbs of her bosom, her cheek to his and her hips writhing against him. He never had the guts to ask if she was teasing him when she could have had every other man in the village at that moment.

Dara wrung out the sheet she had been manhandling and leaned over, grabbing another from her basket. Rhys caught a grand look at her pale thigh before her dress settled again over the curve of her behind. He debated if he should swim past nonchalantly and say hello but decided against it. The water was already getting cold and-

Wait. What happened? As his gaze again lovingly caressed the curve of her butt, he noticed the hem of her dress slowly rising. Tiny sparks, visible even in the bright midday sun, seemed to crawl along the fabric. Dara leaned forward, again cursing the bollocks of Prince Zharathal while struggling with an ale stain. There was no mistaking it. The dress slowly rose, seemingly in time with the heat crawling up Rhys’ chest, neck and face. It had by now exposed most of Dara’s thighs and Rhys could marvel at her creamy buttocks. She settled onto her calves again, wringing the sheet, but the fabric stayed where it was, like a small tent held up by invisible posts. Dara again leaned forward, soaking the sheet anew and the dress rose even higher, fully exposing the twin orbs of her butt and the puffy lips between her thighs. Rhys had to remind himself to shut his gaping mouth. His face was fully flushed and seemed to burn hotter than the autumn sun.

She was completely bare! Not like Missy and Lissy, with their fuzzy bushes he had seen a couple times when they had pranced through the house naked. Not a single red hair spoiled the look of pale skin. Watching her naked backside move and sway in time to her butchered song was one of the most mesmerizing views he had ever seen.

The song stopped in mid-curse and Dara’s hand came around, touching the exposed skin of her behind. Rhys nearly fainted and he dove under the water. When he broke the surface again, a few dozen feet closer to the quay, the dress had returned to its initial state, draped around her shapely legs.

“Hey, Rhys! How long have you been here?” Dara asked, waving.

“I- uh ... just happened to drift by,” he said, praying to Mercy his face wouldn’t betray him. A hard shiver ran through him.

“Get out of the water before you catch yet another cold,” she suggested.

“Yeah, I- ... I probably should.”

“Daffyd said you came by earlier. Did you want to see me?”

“Of course!” Rhys smoothly lied. “I needed some wood and found the boards you brought to the Tithing yesterday. Daffyd let me have them.”

“The way I see it,” Dara said, drawing out the words, “you’re having quite a log there yourself. Have you spied on me?”

“Me? Never!”

“Come closer. I need to tell you something spooky.”

Obediently, he paddled closer, leaning on the warm stones of the quay like an especially emaciated merman. “What?”

“You won’t believe it but I’m sure that old herald of Carver’s, he must have made my dress fly!” Dara whispered. “One moment I’m here, doing the bloody laundry after the mess these pigs made and the next, there’s quite a draft around my pussy. I’m certain that old fart magicked up my dress!”

“You sure it was him?” Rhys asked innocently. “He’s probably up in the castle.” And there’s no telling what they’re doing to Mirrin right now, he thought darkly.

“Prob’ly starin’ into his crystal ball and going ‘alakazam,’ peeking at my lady bits. Next time he shows his face, I’m going to give him what for,” she promised, balling her fist.

“Especially after what he had done to Old Man Harrol,” Rhys grumbled.

“That too. I’ll probably spike his wine the next time he comes round, make him shit his brains out.” They shared a laugh at that.

“Speaking of Harrol,” Rhys said. “Some of Carver’s men raided his place around sunrise but they missed the shack between the trees. If no one else got there already, you might find a dozen kegs of Moonshine there.”

Her eyes lit up. “You’re a peach, Rhys.” She reached down, dragged him from the water until their faces were level and planted a big, hungry kiss on his lips. “Tell you what,” she whispered suggestively, “why don’t I show you a bit of moonlight myself? When we’re done at the inn later, come around and toss a pebble at my window. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Are- are you serious?”

“Yes, I very well am. You are one of a very few lads in the village who is good for more than a short toss in the hay and a few choice grunts afterwards. You know words.” She released her hug and Rhys slid back into the water.

“That’s Gran’s fault.”

“She raised you right, unlike that no-good slob of a father you have.” Dara tossed the last sheet back into her basket. “Anyway, it’s time for the toss in the hay, hm?” She stood up and raised her dress, exposing her hairless nethers. “Since I had to show this off involuntary-like, you can have a look.” She spread her thighs and caressed herself invitingly. “I’ll see you later then, handsome!”

She turned around and strutted up the quay, humming to herself. Rhys waited until she was out of sight and the chill became utterly unbearable before he crawled from the water, one hand cupping his hurting erection, and dashed back up the riverbank, to where he had hidden his clothes. There was nothing better to ease his thumping heart than having to wash shit-stained clothing. The thought of naked Dara, waiting in her small room atop the inn, nearly made him forget how cold he actually was.


Rhys loitered around the village until dusk, when he knew dinner would be served. By now his clothes had dried and the last whiffs of manure stench had dissipated. When he closed the door behind him, the family – minus Mirrin, who still was at Carver’s castle – sat around the table. The mouth-watering aroma of roasted meat and spiced vegetables hung in the air. Even Gran happily nibbled on a piece of chicken breast.

“What is this? No cabbage soup? Did one of the chickens die?” Rhys asked, taking his place near Gran.

“Shut up and eat,” Padec snarled, tearing a drumstick off. He tossed it onto Rhys’ plate.

“Where does the meat come from?” Rhys asked.

Lissy, sitting on his other side, closed her hand over his. “One of Carver’s men came around and brought a pack of food,” she muttered, barely audible over the eating noises of the others.

Disgusted, Rhys shoved the plate away. “That’s why no one complains, huh? Food in exchange for whatever services Mirrin can provide?”

“I said shut up and eat,” Padec growled, pounding the table.

“No thanks. I’d rather go hungry,” Rhys snarled, leaving the table.

“You get your scrawny ass back this instant and eat,” his father roared.

“Let him,” Delf snickered, snatching the drumstick. “If he don’t want it, I will.”

Rhys slammed the door to the sleeping chamber behind his back, fighting to keep his bile down. Why had he not seen these things before? Had some cruel deity finally opened his eyes to all the madness in the world?

He slumped onto his pallet. Not even the thought of visiting Dara later that night was enough to distract him. Besides, it would be hours before the inn would wind down enough. He balled his fists. He had never been this angry before, but there was no way to relieve the anger. He wished he could storm Carver’s castle-

Wishes. Wishes will solve nothing, Rhys chided himself. But by Desire’s shriveled tits, what could he do? Nothing. He was a scrawny, useless farm boy, his father never ceased to remind him of that-

There was a rattling coming from the shoemaker’s box next to Delf’s bed. And another noise, a clicking from under Gorf’s.

Rhys looked up. Around the room, several pebbles were jumping across the floor. The rattling in Delf’s box – was that the long nails he used? Rhys rose, slowly crossing the room. Like tiny ducklings, the pebbles lined up behind him. He carefully reached out and flipped open the box. Inside, the tools shook. The nails rolled from side to side frantically, small arcs of lightning flashing between them.

From the main room, he could hear Padec yell then another thump on the table, followed by the sound of metal clattering off the floor. Rhys jerked upright, quickly closing the lid. The pebbles had stopped moving.

“You will do no such thing!” Padec roared. “He deserves it, for being such a bone-headed, useless runt! Let him starve, see if I care!”

Someone seemed to answer him but the voice was too soft, too muffled by the thick stone walls.

Rhys marched back to his corner, plucking up a pebble as he went.

That was the third time that day strange things had happened around him. First the pitchfork, then – and he smiled at that – Dara’s dress and now...

He looked at the pebble. It didn’t move anymore.

Maybe you have our family’s witch blood, Gran had said.

“Nonsense.” Rhys muttered to himself. It didn’t show up before. Why should it now?

Another look at the pebble. Nonsense. Pebbles don’t move on their own.

But what if?

What if all it took was to imagine the pebble moving?

The argument outside faded into the background. There was only the pebble on his palm. Someone must have brought it in from the river, maybe wedged under a shoe. It was almost triangular, with edges rounded by the river’s eternal flow. In the dim light of the singular oil lamp, sputtering on Rowlf’s nightstand, Rhys could see metallic flecks embedded in the stone. It felt good in his hand. Solid. Unlike the world around him which seemed to teeter ever closer to complete madness. Not that it had felt much better before but before the Tithing, before Mirrin had been dragged off to entertain Carver’s disgusting commander, it was only the daily abuse his father and brothers heaped upon him, interspersed by moments of joy when Gran was involved. Or Celeste. Or Ilva before her. Or Dara.

Maybe all it takes is a change of view, Rhys thought. ‘Stones can’t fly’ may not be the only truth.

He stared at the pebble until his head hurt. And suddenly, the sensation of movement. The triangular stone twitched. Rhys clamped his free hand around his wrist, to keep his hand from shaking. But his hand holding the stone didn’t shake. It was as steady as the table outside. The table heaped with food which was meant to ease the family’s conscience while one of them was forced to entertain Carver’s men. Rhys gnashed his teeth until his jaws creaked. The pebble rotated on one of its points, stable like a spinning top. And slowly it rose, surrounded by a faint glow, an azure glimmer like frozen lightning.

Someone moved the pull sling on the door, trying to move the warped boards. Rhys slapped his free hand over the pebble, stopping its ascent. A lance of pain exploded behind his eyes.

“Rhys. Help me get this door open, please.” It was Gran’s voice. He got to his feet and gently pulled the door open. Gran shuffled into the room. Rhys saw the angry faces of his father and Delf stare after her. The unmistakable aroma of cabbage soup tickled his nose.

“Take this off me please,” Gran said, pushing a wooden bowl, a slice of fresh bread and a spoon into his hands. Rhys took the items and the old woman used both hands to push the door shut behind her. Then she took him by the elbow and walked until her knee bumped into Ulf’s bed.

“Sit and eat.”

“What are you doing, Gran?”

“Since you rejected Carver’s offerings, I thought I’d do what every caring mother would do. I cooked your favorite food,” she said, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

Rhys snorted. “I hate cabbage soup.”

“But it’s better than guilt meat, isn’t it?” Gran asked brightly.

“Much better.” Rhys picked up his spoon and ate. Compared to the slop he usually got, the soup was a marked improvement. It was much spicier. Small bits of sausage swam in it. “Actually, much, much better. This isn’t Ma’s.”

“She never got my recipe right, poor thing,” Gran chuckled. “And I happened to have some pepper on me. You know, for my my nose?”

Despite himself, he chuckled. “Pa wasn’t happy.”

“Fuck him. What could he do? Hit an old woman for his own guilt and cowardice?”

Rhys was not quite sure if the tears in his eyes came from the pepper or the sudden rush of love for the old woman. He hugged her close with his spoon arm.

“Eat up before it gets cold. Cabbage soup is vile when it gets cold. Even mine.”

“I know,” Rhys said between spoons. Eventually, the bowl was empty. He looked up. “Where are the others? By now, Delf and the others should be here.”

“They probably think Gran is tucking you in and don’t want none to do with it,” Gran said, grinning.

“Like you used to do when I was little, eh?”

“Yah, just like that. Do you want to be tucked in?”

“Gran, I barely have a blanket left to be tucked into,” Rhys snapped

“Now, there’s no need to get angry with Gran,” she said.

“I’m not angry at you. How could I ever be?” He sighed. “I feel so helpless, Gran. Everything around us goes to shit and I can’t do anything.”

“No? And what about that witch blood?”

Rhys bit his tongue. “I don’t-”

Gran placed her fingers on his lip. “Rhys. You have never lied to me. Don’t start now.”

“How-?”

She sighed. “I may be old but I can remember very well how untamed, angry magic feels. It rattles every knife, every spoon on the table, charges the air and seeks desperately for a release,” she whispered, with a far-away look on her face. “Ursa was a very angry girl. Today I heard the spoons rattle. Twice.” She sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her frayed sleeve. “You are very much alike. So strong. So furious.”

“Strong? I can hardly make a pebble fly,” Rhys whispered, afraid that someone might hear him. “It would fly better if I threw-”

“Show me,” Gran pleaded.

“I don’t know if it will work,” Rhys hissed.

“With that attitude it won’t,” Gran snarled. “Show. Me.”

Rhys placed the pebble on her outstretched palm. Move! The thought was harsh, a painful lash through his skull. This time, the pebble obeyed much sooner. No long wind-up time. It spun then rose. Gran raised her hand and turned the palm downwards. Rhys willed the stone upwards. With a triumphant grin, the old woman snatched the stone as it touched her skin and shook her fist.

“Rhys,” she croaked, her own voice suddenly choked off by tears. “Rhys. You have to promise me – you will leave as soon as possible. Go away from here and learn how to use your gift. Go tonight.”

“Gran, I-”

“Listen!” She grabbed the front of his shirt. Rhys recoiled, surprised at the old woman’s outburst. “Don’t make the same mistake Ursa made. Don’t stick around for foolish loyalty to your family,” she hissed.

Rhys snorted in disgust. “What family? I only have you and Mirrin.”

“And the best thing you can do to protect us is to go away and become a proper magic user.”

“I-...”

“What is holding you?”

Rhys hung his head. “Dara wants to see me tonight.”

Gran sighed. “I wish you’d forget that harlot. But who am I to stand between a man and a wet pussy.” She chuckled. “Fine. Go tomorrow then. Don’t tarry. See Celeste. Ask her for a confession. She will have no choice but to help. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise I will go see Celeste first thing tomorrow and ask for a confession.”

Gran sighed and crumpled against his chest like a sack of wet rags. Rhys nearly fainted. “No. No. Nonono. Gran?” He ruffled her silver hair. “Gran!”

She sighed. “I’m tired, Rhys. Not quite dead yet. Someone has to wait until Mirrin comes home. Would you carry me into my room?”

“Of course.”

She was much lighter than he had anticipated, barely more than skin and bones herself. Smiling serenely, she held on to Rhys’ neck as he shuffled up the stairs to the former hay loft. The eyes of the whole family were on them. Rhys suddenly understood what it meant to be the center of attention. He shuddered.

“Now, that was quite something, wasn’t it, Rhys?” Gran loudly crawed. “No one can tuck you in like old Gran can.” She cackled, which turned into a helpless cough. Her elbow nudged him.

Halfway up the stairs, the family staring at him like a particularly nasty rat, Rhys stopped. All his life, he had fought for their approval, only to be treated like a particularly diseased rat which was not bothersome enough to outright kill. No matter what he did, he would never be like his brothers. A perverse delight took hold of him, now that he fully understood the futility of his struggles to that point. Grinning grimly, he pulled Gran closer, cradling her like a bride as he resumed ascending the stairs.

“Yes, your hands were a wonderful distraction from that awful mood,” he proclaimed, shaking his behind. Missy gasped and Delf made a disgusted sound, as if he would puke any moment. On the landing, Rhys bent down and placed a loving kiss onto Gran’s lips.

“That’s me boy,” Gran crooned, caressing his hair. He opened the door to her room. Behind him, the silence was deafening.


Rhys had sat at Gran’s bed until she had finally fallen asleep then climbed out through the window. The large beam protruding out from the wall was still there. It creaked threateningly but Rhys had clambered down the wall before it could give.

Despite his earlier bravado, he didn’t want to chance another encounter with his father. The old man was itching to administer another beating, especially since Gran had defied him in front of the whole family. At least under his own roof, Padec was a very proud and petty man. Rhys heard his name being called inside the house, loud enough to even wake the dead. He dashed from the yard, into the night. By the time Padec would notice he had vanished, he’d be at the inn.

There still was light at the inn when he arrived. The door was open and he could hear voices. Celeste left the inn and walked back to the small shrine of Mercy. Daffyd’s huge shadow filled the door frame. He looked around then ducked back inside and barred the door.

Rhys moved around the building, into the flagstone yard. There were only three buildings made wholly from masoned stone – the watch tower at the northern end of the village, the shrine and the inn. It was by far the largest building too, with two stories and a spacious attic. It could easily house a dozen guests, with their horses and belongings, but in recent years only the riverboaters and desperate traders wound up here. Even they stayed only a night at most, hoping to be long gone before Carver’s men would inevitably demand trade tax or road tolls or whatever they could imagine to wring a sack of coppers from the hapless travelers. The stables were dark and empty since the villagers came by foot. On the second floor, he saw light through shutters left ajar.

His heart beat in his throat. Hopefully that’s Dara’s room. Otherwise things will be very awkward soon. He picked a pebble off the floor and chucked it against the shutter. A moment later, the window opened. Holding a small lamp in her hand, Dara leaned over the sill. She beamed at Rhys.

“Catch!” she hissed. Something small, catching a glint of the flame as it tumbled down, clicked onto the cobbles.

Rhys picked up the item. It was a slender, sturdy key. He looked up at Dara and waved it.

“The back door, you dunce,” she hinted. “Up the small stairs, first door. And please lock up behind you.”

He shook his head. The back door lock was well-maintained and moved with nary a sound. Hoping he would not run into Daffyd, Rhys locked the door and snuck up the dark stairs, slipping into the first door he came across.

Warm radiance engulfed him. He blinked until his eyes had adjusted to the light. Dara sat on the edge of her bed, wearing a white, sheer gown. Her hair was an unbound cascade of copper, going all the way down to her behind. On the windowsill was the small lantern, snuffed out, but several oil lamps bathed the room in golden light and comfortable heat. The faint smell of herbal soap filled the room and an empty bathtub had been pushed against the wall. One wall nearly disappeared behind a monstrous wardrobe. Rhys flicked her the key.

“Thank you,” she said, dropping it into the drawer of her nightstand.

“What would have happened if I had run into Daffyd?” he asked.

“He would have courteously guided you up here of course,” Dara said, a friendly smile on her lips. “My brother and I have no secrets. And we’re both in your debt. When we arrived, no one had plundered Harrol’s shed yet. The house was a scorched crater though. Daffyd is pleased as punch with our new supply of Harrol’s Best.”

“I arrived just when Daffyd closed up behind Celeste.”

“And had you arrived half an hour earlier, you could’ve seen both of us naked,” Dara purred. “I helped her shave.”

Rhys blushed furiously.

Dara was on him in a flash, digging her fingers into his threadbare shirt. “So, you have seen me lady bits today, huh?”

“That was ... kind of unavoidable-” Rhys began. Dara interrupted him with a kiss. She tasted of fresh apples, but there was another note as her tongue slipped between his lips, something musky. Their tongues fought for a moment, then Rhys managed to extricate himself. “I’m sorry.”

Dara laughed. “Don’t be. I’ve told you often enough – I’ll gladly show you if you ask nicely. You never asked. Speaking of which, how ‘bout... ?” She tugged at his sleeve suggestively. “Shy, all of a sudden? With all these women around you, you should be used to tits and pussy by now.”

Rhys blushed. “That’s different. None of them wanted to toss me in the hay.”

Dara laughed. “True, that would have been awkward. Well, let me start then.”

She took a step back and slowly slid the gown off, revealing the pale skin of her shoulders, then her breasts came free. They were two generous, freckled handfuls, with small pink nipples which hardened when the air caressed them. Dara crossed her hands demurely in front of her navel, holding the dress. She shot Rhys a feisty grin. “Your turn.”

He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. “Not nearly as graceful as you, I’m afraid,” he said.

“If I wanted grace, I would have asked a dancer,” Dara snorted, closing the distance. She laid her hands on Rhys’ naked shoulders. Her gown, now without support, slid down her long legs and rustled to the floor. She shook it off her foot and stopped, her nipples gently grazing his skin. Now, face to face, Rhys realized he was easily as tall as she was. Dara pursed her lips. “Your. Turn,” she breathed between kisses.

His sack-linen pants were only held in place by string, the button had disappeared a year ago when he and Ulf had fought in the field over some nonsense. He fumbled around, trying to undo the knot which had inexplicably formed when he was sure he had properly looped it before. Dara’s hands joined his, her long nails making short work of the pesky obstacle. She pulled him into a tight embrace, her hands on his butt. Rhys tensed up. Not because she pressed her soft, curvy body against him. She had done that before, when they were younger. Not because his throbbing hardness was nestled between them. That felt wonderful and he wondered how it would feel, nestled elsewhere.

Rhys tensed up because she caressed the scars on the tough, tanned hide of his behind. Years of abuse, often with a rough belt, had left them there, and despite all of Ilva’s healing arts, some of them had healed badly, leaving rough ridges and angry red streaks forever etched into him.

Their eyes met. All Rhys could see in hers was unbound sympathy, not pity. He closed his arms around her waist, his fingers caressing up her unblemished skin. How different her skin was to his. Smooth, soft, supple. Her lips found his ear and his neck, breathing hot little kisses on the skin.

“I admire your restraint,” she whispered. “If it had been me, I’d have killed that bastard years ago.”

“Let’s not talk about him, please,” Rhys groaned. He did not want to think about home, about all the pain Padec had caused him. It was almost enough to make his rod deflate. Rhys forced all thoughts about the farm from his mind, instead focusing his attention on the warm body in his embrace. He moved his hand, leaving goosebumps under his fingertips as his fingers caressed her flank, then up and inwards, over the flesh of her breasts, until his finger circled her nipple. Dara gasped.

“You’re sure I’m yer first?” she muttered. “If so, you’re a ruddy natural.” Her hand closed around his cock, squeezing fondly.

“I only did what I like on myself,” Rhys murmured, his hand on Dara’s back sliding downwards, cupping one of her cheeks and kneading it.

Again they kissed, this time much less gently. Dara growled in the back of her throat. Rhys pulled back his head and raised an eyebrow.

Dara grinned and stroked him slowly. “Tell that to all the other blokes out there. Their idea of romance is a pint of ale and a quick fuck in the stables. For anything gentler, I had to ask Celeste. Until tonight.” She moved, slowly pulling him towards the bed. “Oh, your face.”

“I’ve never seen two women,” Rhys said. “Only in the book...”

Dara slid onto the bed, beaming. “Stick around me long enough and you might. But tonight you’re all mine.”

He slithered into bed next to her. Dara snaked an arm past him, to caress his back and spine. “Still afraid?”

“I’ve stopped being afraid some hours ago,” Rhys grumbled. Her body was next to his, their legs and hips touching. Dara was almost flat on her back, one foot pulled up against her butt while Rhys was on his side. The oil lamps panted pools of golden light onto her skin and hair, a glorious image rivaling even the icon of Mercy. His hand touched her hip then caressed upward, aiming for her breasts again.

“You’re such a knight. Let me show you something,” Dara suggested, her lips a lascivious smile. She pulled his face down until his lips touched her breast. “You can kiss anywhere, not just the mouth,” Dara purred, tousling his hair. “And since your hand is no longer occupied caressing my titties...” She closed her fingers around his and moved them. Down, past her navel they went, past the barely noticeable stubble on her mound, until they brushed along her folds. She was hot and wet, Rhys noted without using his eyes. His mouth had found her nipple and he gently sucked. Dara cooed encouragingly, her free hand on his back. Rhys tried to stop flinching whenever her fingertips bumped off one of his ribs, a scar or the knobs of his spine. Dara writhed against him, her hot body a delicious, unfamiliar sensation against his sensitive rod.

“You think you can do without me?” Dara whispered, releasing Rhys’ fingers. Two of which were nestled between her nether lips, the fingertips gently caressing a throbbing, hot nub.

Rhys stopped laving her breast with his tongue and looked at her quizzically. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Me? No. My hand. Oh yes.” She closed her fingers around him again. “Let me play with your lance, oh mighty knight Rhys.” Dara stroked him. Her cheeks were flushed. Rhys kissed the valley between her breasts, making his way to the so far neglected one. Her hand on him was wonderful, so much gentler, yet knowing full well what she wanted. He had fantasized about her, how her body would feel, how her hands would caress him, but those dreams were only hazy guesswork, nowhere near the blissful real thing. He rolled his pelvis against her touch, fucking her fingers. His own were caressing, exploring the so far unknown space between her nether lips. He was doing something right, going by the small little gasps she made whenever he touched, probed. Rhys stopped kissing her breast.

“You said I could kiss everywhere?” he asked, the fires of discovery alight in his eyes.

“I love the way you think, my knight,” she breathed. Dara gave his lance one last tug before pushing him onto his back. She raised herself on hands and knees and made a complicated turn, crawling atop him, her shaved mound now right below his chin. He could feel her hot breath on his crotch, a heartbeat before she closed her lips around him. Rhys tossed his head back, groaning. His whole body tensed up, urging him to shoot his cream deep into her mouth. He didn’t want the heavenly sensations to stop that soon though. He took a deep breath, imagining the ugliest thing he could – mucking out the stables. The incredible need for release lessened somewhat and he grinned, thankful for the stay of execution. Especially since he was closer to Dara’s nethers than ever before.

Rhys pulled her cushion closer to prop up his head and began to explore her privates with his mouth and nose. She did smell musky but far from unpleasant, especially when the occasional whiff of herbal soap mixed in with her aroma. He put out his tongue and took a tentative lick, aiming right for the hot nub he had felt with his fingertips before. Dara’s reaction was a long, drawn out moan around his rod, accompanied by a wild fluttering sensation. He looked along his body and could see her head slowly bob, his lance disappearing between her lips, each time causing waves of heat to course through his whole body. Encouraged, he licked again, slow, exploratory strokes, first along the lips, then into the folds proper. Each incursion was met with new moans and sighs and her sex pressing against his face, especially when he sucked on her nub. Rhys planted both hands on her behind to keep her from smothering him, eagerly lapping at her and circling that nub. Suddenly, Dara let his lance spring free, moaning like never before and pressed herself against his face hard, her hand coming around to keep his head in place as she writhed and thrashed against him.

Before Rhys could ask if he had done something wrong, she lowered her head again, engulfing him almost to the root, her hand caressing and rolling his balls in their fleshy prison. Now it was Rhys who ground himself against her, trying to fuck her hot, sucking mouth. She made encouraging noises, hot slurps and gurgles, and before he knew it he erupted. Shocked at the sudden release, he tried to withdraw from Dara’s mouth but she would have nothing of it, lovingly sucking and slurping until she finally was sated.

She crawled around on the bed until her head was right side up again and she melted against him, grinning from ear to ear. She gulped once then kissed him full on the lips. It was a shock of salt and musk.

Rhys recoiled, more in surprise than disgust. “What the-”

Dara grinned, her hand already crawling back down his body, where her questing fingertips found him still hard as a pipe. “It never hurts for a man to taste his seed once in a while,” she said, a little out of breath. “If you get used to the taste, you might find surprising opportunities.”

“If you say so,” he mumbled. A memory stirred. “While on the subject of taste. Not to be rude but you tasted like pussy earlier.”

“Like I said ... I helped Celeste shave. And one important part is making sure we don’t miss any hair. The tongue is an amazing tool in this regard.” She grinned fiendishly. Her hand closed around Rhys’ cock and squeezed again. “You like the idea, hm? Me and Celeste, naked, on this bed, licking each other.” Her hand caressed along the shaft, teasing him.

“Should I feel bad, after-”

“Heavens no!” Dara smiled benevolently. “You’d have to be dead not to drool at the idea of two willing women yearning for such a stout prick.” She straddled his lap. “But since I can’t get her over without yelling like a banshee, you’ll have to make do with this soppy hole here.” The panting redhead rubbed his tip against her puffy lips. They were soft and hot and wet. She rolled her hips, teasing him with the slightest hint of his tip grazing her velvety tunnel.

“I want to fuck you, Rhys. Do you want me to?” Dara asked, her voice a lusty rasp.

“Hell yes,” he growled, his hands on her ass. He pulled her closer. She reached between them, angled up his cock and lowered herself. With nary a trace of resistance, she impaled herself on him before lowering herself onto his chest, her breasts soft mounds against his ribs.

“You know, we should have done that much, much earlier,” she panted. “I never knew how good you would feel inside me. Holding me.” Dara kissed him. He pulled her closer, his tongue darting into her mouth. She moaned around it, her hips slowly rising and falling.

Rhys suddenly found it hard to breathe. Dara didn’t choke him but the realization that he might not see her again for a very long time after this night took his breath away. His resolve began to crumble. Now he had found someone who was willing to accept him as he was, with all his baggage, all the damage, and he would spit in her face and leave her? How could he even do this to her, pretending he cared for her, maybe loved her even when he would be gone shortly? Hot, stinging tears trickled down his cheeks and the rosy haze he had reveled in evaporated in an instant. He felt himself going limp.

Dara stopped moving and looked at him, terrified.

“Hey, Rhys ... Speak to me. Are you all right?” She held him in a loose embrace, a look of surprise, of alarm on her expressive features.

“I- I don’t think I can do this,” Rhys stammered. His flaccid rod slithered from her and he scrabbled backwards, out of her embrace.

She looked at him, puzzled, then understanding dawned. “Hey ... it happens to every lad, especially if it’s their first time.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Rhys moaned. “I’ll probably never see you again, Dara. I can’t stay here and ... and...”

Dara shook her head, a sad little smile playing around her lips. She pulled Rhys against her breasts. “Why don’t you begin again, hm? Why are you leaving? Where to? I promise, I won’t tell any one. Not even Celeste.”

“I would love to tell you,” Rhys began, gently slipping from her embrace. He hated himself but he knew the less people knew about the witch blood, the better. “I really, really do. But it’s better if you don’t know.”

Dara lanced a stern finger at him. “If I ever find out you joined Carver’s ranks, I will personally bite off your testicles and spit them into the fire then fuck your ass with the biggest, glowing poker I can find. I am not joking, Rhys.”

A weak chuckle managed to get past the tears. “I promise. I am not going to join Carver. Quite the opposite in fact.”

“There is no opposite to...” Dara began then she closed her mouth. She took a few deep breaths, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I can’t sit around here and watch Carver slowly bleed the village dry. Since everyone else is too damn afraid, I will go. And I will find something to kick this blighter’s ass with.”

Dara giggled weakly. “Spoken like a true knight. And you are mistaken. I know at least one other person who thinks like you do.”

“Who?”

“Celeste. She helps in every way she can. Promise me you will see her before you leave.”

Despite himself, Rhys chuckled. “You’re the second woman today who told me I should see our beautiful cleric.”

“Whoever said that was very wise. When will you be leaving?”

“If it were for Gran, I would be long gone already,” he admitted.

“Believe me, you made the right choice,” Dara said, pulling him against her body. “Here’s the deal. You stay for the night. If the fancy catches us, we try again and if not, hey, at least I can offer you the trader’s breakfast with all the bells and whistles. Don’t want my knight to limp out of here on an empty stomach.”


Dara stirred in his arms and smoothed her butt against his rod. He was deathly tired, but sleep would not come. Too many unfamiliar sensations. The warm body in his arms, her soft breathing and little sighs, such a marked contrast to the unbridled snoring his brothers put up each and every night. Then there was the bed itself, the clean linen over the straw mattress, such a far cry from the smelly pallet he had. Rhys snuggled closer to her. How easy it all was all of a sudden. Two days ago he blushed like a little girl at the sight of Celeste’s chastely clothed bosom, now he gently caressed Dara’s bare breast, her nipple a soft poke in his palm while his lance rested in the cleft of her butt.

“Can’t sleep?” Dara whispered.

“Not really. Sorry if I woke you.”

Her cheeks squeezed his rod. “Don’t be. Being caressed awake is nice.”

“Much better than a shoe to the head, yeah.” Rhys kissed her neck. “Having you in my arms isn’t half-bad either.”

“That’s obvious in how you try to poke me with your lance, laddie.”

Rhys froze. She chuckled, raised a leg and reached below and behind her. “Try here,” Dara suggested, resting his tip between her lips. He pushed, sliding his length against her. “My, still so much energy. It must be heaven being a young stud.”

He snorted then nibbled on her ear like she had done earlier. “Stud, right. I’m more like a starving foal.” He inhaled sharply as her fingers joined his rod. She stroked and fondled him, pressing his throbbing flesh against her damp lips in time to the roll of her butt.

“Stop being so hard on yourself,” Dara ordered. She angled his tip and let go, just as he pushed. They sighed in unison as he slid into her. “All you need is some decent food and a long time away from that horrible father of yours,” she added, the last few words a mournful choke.

Rhys froze.

“Don’t stop,” Dara whispered, pressing her face into the cushion so he wouldn’t see her tears. “Please, don’t stop.” She moved his hand until it rested on the curve of her butt. The other was still curled under her armpit, his fingers on her breast. “I’m fine, honest.”

“If you say so,” he replied, raining gentle kisses onto her cheek, ear and hair. He moved again, pushing his length into her. It felt so right, as if he’d done that all his life. Dara gasped and moaned, especially when he picked up speed. She curled her arm up and pressed his face into the soft of her neck as he ploughed deep into her. Gone seemed the awkward lad of just elbows and knees. His panting became uncoordinated, frantic and she knew he’d soon be done. Dara slid one hand down her body and moved her leg, adding her knowing fingers to the blistering stabs of his cock. She even had stopped crying, her breath taken away by his fervor. That was no helpless rabbit thrashing against her, this was a hungry, starving wolf pounding her for all he was worth. She felt an odd rush of satisfaction, knowing that it was her who had given him this important first ride. He bucked against her, gasping helplessly and then there was the hot rush of his seed pouring into her. Dara’s fingers dove between her folds, caressing her love button and pushing her over the edge as well.

Outside, the first cockerel began to screech. Rhys groaned, his delicious rod still deep within her.

“Oh say it ain’t so,” Dara laughed. “You’d like another go?”

He nearly crushed her chest with a fierce hug. His rod in her caused delicious friction. A part of her loathed to let it end right now. She knew full well how he would feel, drawn towards her, his earnest intentions wavering in the heat of her pussy. Fighting down the lump in her throat, Dara reached between them and pulled him free. A thick trickle of their combined juices followed, soiling the sheets.

“As much as I’d love to,” she purred, rolling in his embrace and giving his lance a squelching tug, “the sheets are spoiled and Daffyd would chew my ear off if I didn’t be in the taproom, starting the fire and all that. Besides, I owe you that breakfast.” She planted a kiss, much hungrier than she herself would have expected, onto his lips. Grinning mischievously, she lapped down his chest, his stomach, until she could wrap her lips around his hardness. She slurped and licked, reveling in their combined taste.

“What are you doing?” Rhys moaned, gently fucking her mouth.

Dara licked up his shaft and swirled her tongue around his tip. “Leaving ye something to remember me by,” she purred then resumed her licking. “And I want to make sure ye’re calm and collected when ye see Celeste. We can’t have her distracted by yer prick, laddie.” She added her second hand, playing with his balls and teasing the cleft of his butt with her thumb. His ass jerked off the bed, driving his lance deep into her mouth and she purred around him, sucking until he shot another mouthful of cream. He slumped onto the covers, finally deflating. She breathed a kiss onto his stomach. “Well then. Up and at ‘em, Rhys. There’s water in the pitcher over there. Since you’re my guest, you can have the first go. And be thorough. Don’t want you to arrive at Celeste’s stinking like my pussy now, do we?” She slid from the bed and padded, gloriously naked, to the large wardrobe. There was a groan and the shuffling of feet then the sound of water being poured into a wash bowl.

“You even have soap,” Rhys muttered.

“Well, in my line of work I can’t afford to reek of piss and ass,” Dara said airily, opening the wardrobe. Inside were not only her handful of dresses, sheets and towels but a collection of pants, shirts and shoes several lovers had lost in the inn over the years. She had kept them, in part as morbid souvenirs, in part maybe hoping one of them would return and claim their belongings. So far, none had. She looked over her shoulder at Rhys, who stood in a small puddle of water, cleaning himself diligently. Tall and lanky. She dug around in the assorted pants and found a pair, made of suede, which once belonged to an elven minstrel. He had about the same waist as Rhys and she grinned, thinking back fondly to the day he had fucked her in the attic in positions she had never thought possible. His shirt was too moth-eaten to be any use though so she chucked it aside, to be burned later. A white ruffled shirt came next. It had belonged to a riverboater’s daughter. She had been tall and blonde and strong and only wore men’s clothes. It would probably be a bit too wide at the shoulders just yet but if he ate properly, Rhys would nicely fill it out one day. The minstrel’s boots were in good shape, a bit worn but still leaps and bounds better than the horrible pieces of wood Rhys clomped around in. Plus, the boot dagger was still there, the slender elven blade sharp as a razor after all these years. She plucked a simple, water-proof cloak from a shelf and wrapped the other clothes in it.

“I’m done,” he said. Dara grabbed a towel and tossed it his way then she brought her gifts and laid them out on the chair next to the wash table. Rhys’ eyes went wide. “For me?”

“Of course. Unless you’d rather strut around the world in your ghost of an outfit.”

“But ... I can’t-”

Dara put her hands on her hips and impaled him with her gaze. “Rhys. Do you really want to insult me by offering payment?”

He paled. “I- ... I’m sorry...”

“I know you mean well. I also know you’re as rich as Carver is a moronic piece of trash. These are gifts freely given, for a man I like very much. You owe me nothing.”

“No? After-”

She growled threateningly. “If you want to play knight so badly, how about this? When you come back, do so at the head of a small army. Bring enough might to crush Carver and all his blasted cronies.”

He nodded sternly. “I will. Once I come back, Carver’s days will be numbered. Oh naked lady of my heart.”

“Great,” she snorted. “I hope you left me some water.”


Down in the taproom, Daffyd was already busy pulling stools off tables. Behind the old bar, seemingly hewn from a massive block of elderwood, a fire burned in the hearth. A second, much larger fire had been kindled in the fireplace where Daffyd and Dara used to roast whole oxen when there were some to spare. Now it was more a source of light and heat. The big bearded man looked up when Rhys came down the stairs.

“Mornin’. Never thought to see you crawl down here.”

“I’m not sure if you’re complimenting or insulting me,” Rhys said.

“Jus’ color me surprised is all,” Daffyd rumbled. “I always thought you’re too chicken to try anything with Dara, even when she practically slapped ye with her tits last winter.”

“We danced,” Rhys corrected him, taking a seat at the bar. “I just had a bit too much mead.”

“And nearly drowned in her blouse.” Daffyd plonked down the last two stools and joined him at the counter. He glanced Rhys up and down, lingering on the boot dagger. “Ye look like a proper rascal now, swagger and all.”

“Dara said ‘thank you’ for the Moonshine.”

“I bet,” Daffyd said, guffawing. He made a lewd gesture. “What’ll it be?”

“A trader’s breakfast with everything,” Dara said behind them. She looked especially radiant in the yellow dress she wore this morning. “He’s way too spindly all over.” Humming, she hugged Rhys from behind, smooched a kiss onto his cheek and slid past him, behind the counter. She snatched an apron off a peg and put it on.

“Someone looks happy,” Daffyd noted. “Tea? Or something heartier?”

“Tea would be fine, thanks.”

Next to her brother, Dara went to work, preparing a large iron pan. Even before his tea had fully steeped, he looked at a plate heaped high with fried taters, scrambled egg, onion and bacon, along with two slices of bread and cheese. Dara made a little curtsey as she served the plate, almost exposing her nethers again. “Your breakfast, my knight.”

“Thank you, oh apple of my eye,” Rhys replied, trying to keep a straight face. He picked up a fork and dug in. “Although I’m not sure if I’ll be able to fit this all into me. That’s enough for a whole patrol!”

The door to the taproom opened. Cold and wet air rushed in, followed by a trio of black-cloaked riders. They wore boxy quivers over their shoulders and had short recurve bows clipped next to them.

“Breakfast for three, a pitcher of ale, good stuff mind ya, and enough bread to go around,” the leader snarled without even bothering to look at the three people at the bar. He and his companions settled around a table near the large fireplace. Their cloaks were mud-spattered, their boots crusted over and their long faces showed an unhealthy combination of irritation and fatigue. They huddled together, murmuring.

Dara pulled a pitcher from a shelf and quietly left for the cellar, to draw fresh ale while Daffyd went to work, chopping onions and potatoes. “I hope ye brought some coin this time,” he said, loud enough to cut into the black riders’ mutterings.

One of them grunted then stood up and crossed the taproom, his spurs clinking ominously as he walked. He leaned across the counter next to Rhys. The man reeked of sweat and horse and metal, his body under the cloak was clad in chain armor. With a barely noticeable flick of the wrist, he produced a dagger and stuck it effortlessly into the thick counter top.

“The land outside of Lord Carver’s control is dangerous. On our way here, we had to kill a band of elven spies who tried to ambush us. We also set fire to an orc encampment less than twelve miles from here. If we hadn’t done so, they might have snuck into this peaceful little village and killed the men and raped the women and children.”

Rhys stopped chewing, his gaze lingering on the black one’s back. Daffyd shook his head ‘hell no.’

“Anyway,” the man went on, “what I’m trying to say here is, we’re diligently doing our public duty. We make sure you farmers and innkeeps can live peaceful lives, without having to worry about all the nasties which thirst for your blood and soft tissue. So offering us food and drink and maybe a bit of entertainment isn’t that much to ask now, is it?”

Daffyd leaned in, his shoulders almost twice the width of the black rider’s. “Funny though. Ever since Carver took over, barely anyone comes through here anymore. Somehow, most traders and travelers give this place a pretty wide berth. Can ye tell me why, good ser? And, ye see, without paying customers, we don’t have the money to buy food, since somehow since Lord Carver took over, the farmers have barely anything left to sell and I need to make monthly trips to Lordehome and hope there’s something left at the market I can afford. Ye see me problem? No coins, no food. No food, no customers. No coins. Get me?” He returned to the pan and tossed the ingredients in.

In the corner, another rider laughed. “I think he got you beat, Tark. Pay the man already. The elves had enough silver to spare.” More laughter.

Dara returned and plonked the pitcher onto the counter. “The good stuff. Enjoy yerselves.”

To Rhys her face clearly said ‘choke on it, ye fools,’ but he kept his head down. The last thing he needed right now was a spat with Carver’s goons. His platter was empty and he longed to say good-bye to Dara but it was obvious she wouldn’t be able to slip away anytime soon, not with the riders calling for more spices and other, petty demands.

Next they want her to drop her skirts and dance on the tables, Rhys thought darkly. He rose and crossed the taproom.

Dara bumped into him on her way to the bar. “Good-” Rhys began. Dara simply hugged him and pressed a kiss to his lips, accompanied by the cat calls of the riders.

“Take care and until next time,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. She opened the front door and ushered him out.

Outside, the weather was dreadful. Thick clouds hung low enough that it seemed to Rhys he could pluck one out of the sky if he stretched out his arm enough. A light drizzle pattered onto the leaves and his head. He pulled the hood of the cloak up and headed for the village green. For the shrine. The boots felt alien on his feet. He didn’t have to limp and, despite their thin soles, his feet were not wet the moment he left the inn’s yard.

The shrine came into view. Rhys weighed his options. He had said good-bye to Dara, kind of. He didn’t have many things to his name except the new, unfamiliar clothes on his back. There was nothing left at Padec’s farm to return to.

Except Gran.

Rhys cursed. He hadn’t said a proper good-bye to Gran. After the scare she gave him last night, what would happen if he just left and she died? He could never forgive himself if that happened. Besides, it was still just around dawn. Celeste could wait an hour or so. He didn’t intend to stay long. On his way to the farm, one of Carver’s men, leading a second, riderless horse, passed him. He had to jump out of the way of the galloping horses to avoid the hooves on the narrow dirt path. His cloak caught most of the mud.

Two horses? The puzzle pieces settled. A black rider coming from Padec’s farm could mean any number of things, most pretty grim. But he would only drag a second horse with him if-

Mirrin!

Rhys practically ran the last dozen or so yards. Padec was outside, his battered leather coat already soaked, wrestling the ox before the plough. Unless a natural disaster of cataclysmic proportions happened outside, Padec, despite all his flaws, tended to his farm with almost obsessive pedantry. Light rain, in his book, meant the perfect weather for a good ploughing.

He looked up from the harness he was struggling with and froze. It took him a few seconds to recognize the hooded stranger walking briskly across the yard.

“Rhys?” As certainty grew, his voice took on its customary, angry snarl. “Where have you been?”

“None of your business,” Rhys snapped, breezing past the dumbfounded man. He pulled open the front door and entered the farmhouse. The chorus of three weeping women greeted him. Huddled together in their usual corner, his mother, Missy and Lissy, sobbed incoherently. He could hear an occasional “Oh Mirrin, my Mirrin.” He let the door fall shut behind him. They looked up, surprise and confusion etched on their tired, wrung-out faces.

“Mirrin is back,” Rhys said. “Where is she?”

Lissy pointed at Gran’s door. Rhys made his way across the room. Behind him, the door flew open again.

“Now you just wait one bloody minute,” Padec roared. “Where the fuck have you been last night?”

Rhys stopped, a foot on the stairs. He slowly exhaled then turned to face his father. “Your youngest daughter has just been dumped back into your lap after she has spent two nights in Carver’s castle.” His voice was a dangerous purr. Everyone in the room shrunk back from him, even Padec. “Instead of looking after her, to find out what Carver’s men have done to her, all you think about is where I had been last night?”

“As long as you shit in my yard, you have to do what the fuck I say!” Padec screamed. “You can count yourself lucky I don’t tan your hide for the shit you pulled last night with Gran!”

Rhys slowly exhaled. He balled his fists. The anger was back. Suddenly, all the joy, the respite Dara had afforded him, was gone. But this time, he would not be beaten senseless. This time he would not wake up with his back and butt ripped to shreds by Padec’s old belt. He balled his fists and looked Padec right in the eye. Around the room, plates, forks, ladles, pots, glasses, vases and even the fabled elven-made beer pitcher began to rattle. Sparks of unbridled energy arced from item to item, over Lissy’s unkempt hair, off a streak of tears on Mara’s cheeks. The smell of an incoming thunderstorm filled the room.

Padec opened and closed his mouth, his face turned beet-red as he witnessed the chaos around him.

“You will never again raise your hand against me. Or anyone else in this family,” Rhys said. In the rickety cupboard, a plate exploded, the bright tinkle an exclamation point to his words. “Now I will have a look at Mirrin, see if there’s anything I can do for her. Something none of her so-called family seem to have any interest in. And when I’m done with that, I will leave.”

“Ye bloody what?” Padec screeched, at the edge of hysteria.

Rhys ascended the stairs, slowly, step by measured step. He felt like his shoulders would buckle under an immense weight any moment but there was something else, the unbridled energy coursing through, around him.

“I will go away, father. As you can see, I seem to have inherited Auntie Ursa’s witch blood. And you certainly don’t want to suffer a witch under your roof, now do you, father? So I’ll spare you all the heartache, the fear of being caught with a witch under your precious roof and go away.”

“But-,” Padec stammered. “Ye can’t!”

At the top of the stairs, Rhys stopped and turned to face his father again. “I can’t?”

“Damn fucking right ye are. Ye can’t just up and leave!”

Rhys, hand on the knob to Gran’s room, stopped and cocked his head. The turmoil around the room subsided. Almost in his usual, soft-spoken tone he said, “The way I see it, there is no place for me on this farm. I’m too scrawny. The only thing I’m good for is feeding the chickens, mucking the stable and being everyone’s whipping boy.”

“You should bloody well mind-” Padec began. A cup, left on the table after breakfast, detonated, sending clay shards everywhere. He swallowed the rest of his tirade.

“Mind my place, yes?” Rhys continued for him. “For the last eighteen years, you have treated me worse than the soil under your feet. And now when I finally understand who I am, you don’t want me to leave? Forget it.”

He pulled open the door. Padec screamed and hollered, even bounding up the stairs after him. Rhys stopped him with the door to his face, the sound of wood on wood ending the last hints of rattling crockery.

“Gran, I’m back,” Rhys said, turning around. He froze. On Gran’s rocking chair, protectively cupping her mound, sat Mirrin, rocking gently. Her eyes were open, but Rhys hardly recognized them. Gone was the luster in her eyes, those sparkling blues which had calmed him when the whole world was coming down on him. Her face was an expressionless mask, so similar to Mara’s, Missy’s and Lissy’s.

He went to his knees in front of her and took her hand. She jerked it away and pulled up her knees.

“Mirrin ... It’s me, Rhys,” he whispered. His heart broke. “What have they done to you?”

“What they do to most of the cute girls in the village,” Gran rasped from the bed. She sat at the edge of her mattress. Around her on the floor, several pots and vials had been set, including the pain-numbing salve she had used on him. A ball of rags lay between her feet. Most of them were red and brown and horrible. Coughing, Gran slowly rose and made her way to Rhys, flopping down onto the floor.

“I told you to leave,” she whispered. “Why did you come back, you foolish boy?”

“Gran, I ... I couldn’t just leave without saying good-bye. And now I am glad I did.” The anger flared within him. Downstairs, something shattered, causing someone to scream. “Not like I needed another reason to long for Carver’s undoing but this is the final straw.” He looked at Mirrin. “He will pay for what he had done to her. And I want to make sure no one else has to suffer like she had.”

“Revenge isn’t the noblest of reasons but it will do,” Gran said. “I see your night with Dara was well spent.” She sniffled then dug around on the floor until her fingers found the loose floor board.

“Gran. Now is not the time.”

“Shut up and help me instead,” she said mildly, tugging at the board. “I will soon need more spirits to treat her wounds.” With Rhys’ help, she removed the floor board. A phial of strong-smelling schnapps came out. When he tried to replace the board, she stopped him and pulled up the book. “Take it.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Rhys. There is no one under this roof who could read it to me once you’re gone. And I sure as all hell don’t want my son-in-law to find and sell it for some of his stupid nonsense. One ‘elven made’ pitcher is damn well enough.”

“Gran, I-”

“Now, don’t go all soft on me. The book will remind you of the good moments under this roof. And it might serve you after all. If I remember right, the pictures are rather ... instructional. Put that knowledge to good use.”

Rhys shook his head and took the book. He again looked up at Mirrin but she simply sat there, whimpering softly.

“I will miss you two,” Rhys said, hugging Gran. He reached out but Mirrin shied away from his hand, her eyes wide in terror.

“Go already,” Gran quipped. “I’ll look after the little one, for as long as it takes. Come back in one piece and make sure Carver pays for all of this.”

“Oh, I will.” Rhys muttered, clutching the book to his chest. He rose and turned to open the door.

A vicious jab of pain wracked his body. Not just a blinding headache like before. No, this time, it shot down his spine like an angry god’s lightning bolt, turning his knees to jelly. Rhys crumpled against the door, an agonized moan tearing from his chest.

Kneeling in front of the door, his head against the rough, splintered wood, he tried to force air into his screaming lungs. Gran hobbled across the room and knelt down next to him. She produced a vial of her spirits, uncorked it with her teeth and forced Rhys to take a gulp. Suddenly, the pain wracking his body, his limbs, wasn’t that bad compared to the ball of liquid fire exploding in his stomach. He coughed, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Better?” Gran asked, patting his back.

“No,” he wheezed. “What is happening to me?”

“The witch blood must be taking its toll. On bad days, Ursa couldn’t even get out of bed. It only got better when she stopped using it.”

“You could have warned me,” he groaned, pulling himself back to his feet.

“I’m an old woman. I forget things,” she said brightly. “Now that you know, you will be more responsible using it.”

“You have no idea how much it hurts,” he grumbled, pulling Gran into one last hug. “Goodbye Gran. Mirrin.”

Rhys reclaimed the book and opened the door. Whispers from below stopped as he came down the stairs and limped through the kitchen. He looked from one terrified face to the next. His mother, Mara. Utterly powerless, so unlike Gran. In all those years, she not once had raised her voice to protect him, never intervened when Padec tore into him. His sisters, Missy and Lissy. They were around the same age as Dara, but looked twice that, their large, fearful eyes devoid of any spark of life, their whole being bereft of any independent thought. And then there was Padec, his father, turning a large shard of pottery this way and that. Until now, Rhys had never noticed how small the old man looked, how tired, eaten alive by his own shortcomings.

And I was deathly afraid of him, all my life. But ... why?

No one said a word. Not even as he opened the door and walked over the threshold.

Rhys trudged across the yard, each step less painful than the last. The rain had stopped and a few scattered rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, turning each puddle into a brilliant mirror. He turned onto the muddy trail leading back to the village and he did not look back.

... to be continued in chapter II: The Shrine

I hope you enjoyed this twisted little fantasy of mine. If you did, please let me know. Your feedback means the world to me.

© 2019 Blind_Justice

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